A stranger walking along the main canal astride the buildings of Brudeau is apt to confuse the courthouse for the market, or the exchange for the smithy. Each building’s gesture is so grand that, at any given turn, one is led to believe he or she to be at the center of Brudeau. The broad squares and obelisks repeat such that men of meager feats jokingly say they warrant arches and busts erected along the main square. But their words do not fall far from truth, and the associations of dentists and barbers have houses as grand and pompous as the merchants’ guild or the bishops.
In Brudeau, the spires and busts and towers and capitals do not anchor the city as elsewhere. They are monuments of disorientation, markings of falsehood and pride. The city sprawls like an unknowable cemetery and the size of its headstones do not always bear the greatness of its men, only of their egos’ want of marble and mass.