The Luzern Photograph Read online

  Listening to her description, I realize it could be perfect. The clincher: a large first-floor ballroom.

  ‘Would you really let me use it?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course!’ Grace says. ‘That’s why I called.’

  After I describe my project, she tells me she’s particularly taken with the ending: Mrs Z breaking down.

  ‘I know just those kind of women,’ Grace says. ‘We have a box at the opera, so we see them all the time, people who get their pictures in The Nob Hill Gazette and their names on the Chronicle society page.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s the type. Do you suppose they cry much?’

  ‘Not nearly as much as they should.’ She pauses. ‘I may be able to scrounge some audience members for you from the same social set. They probably won’t get it’s about them. They look down on Silas and me as parvenus, but they’ll come if I invite them, pay admission too. They want us to serve on their boards.’ She giggles. ‘They may not think much of our social credentials, but they like our money just fine.’

  We make a date for lunch to catch up, and so I can check out her house.

  Tonight Josh Garske shows up with tools and welding equipment to fix my cell door. He’s wearing the same tight black-wool knit watch cap. I greet him warmly. His responses are monosyllabic. He gives the loft a quick once-over, but when his eyes fall on my inkblots he walks up to them and studies them a while. Then, having taken them in, he nods, moves to the grill, drops to his knees, and sets to work repairing the broken hinge.

  I study him. ‘I understand you built the cell.’ He nods. ‘Clarence told me.’

  ‘Sure, Clarence – he’s got his nose in everybody’s business.’

  ‘He seems nice.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he be?’

  ‘No reason I guess.’ I watch him a while, then ask how he thinks the hinge got broken.

  ‘Way I hear it, it happened at Chantal’s tag sale. One of her friends wanted this door to convert a closet into a cell. They tried using a car jack to pry it off. When that didn’t work, they left it busted.’

  ‘You weren’t here?’

  ‘I was in LA visiting my kids. When I got back, Chantal was gone.’

  ‘What’s she like, Josh?’ He turns to me, quizzical. ‘I figured since you built this for her, you got to know her pretty well.’

  ‘She isn’t the sort of person you get to know well. It’s hard to figure her out.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Curious, aren’t you?’ I nod. ‘Well, for one thing, that name, Chantal Desforges – it’s probably made up. So what’s her real name?’ He shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea, and I doubt any of her friends do either.’

  ‘That’s weird.’

  ‘She is weird. Had to be considering the stuff she did in here.’ He snickers. ‘She told me she enjoyed it.’

  Ever since I moved in, I’ve caught myself wondering about what went on in the loft. I’ve imagined many things: moans of ecstasy and screams of pain rebounding off the walls; the bite of Chantal’s stiletto heels as she paced the floor; the whimpers of her naked slaves as they groveled at her feet; coils of rope and an array of canes and whips laid out neatly/threateningly on a table; the clink of handcuffs; aromas of leather and sweat. There’s something repugnant about these imaginings, and, I find, enticing. I like to play around with deviance. My Weimar piece, in which I tell a convoluted story of prostitute murders interspersed with songs from the Weimar era, made my name as a performance artist. It’s this same attraction to perversity and decadence that was behind my decision to keep Chantal’s cell and X-frame in the loft.

  ‘I wouldn’t think a woman would become a dominatrix unless she enjoyed it.’

  Josh finishes his weld and turns off his blowtorch. He faces me.

  ‘According to Chantal, some enjoy it, some don’t. And some go into it just for the money.’ He pauses. ‘Want to know what she’s like? She’s beautiful, educated, well spoken. She chose professional dominance, refers to herself as a sex worker who doesn’t engage in sex. Don’t know what she’s doing now, but whatever it is I’m sure she’s doing fine. Selling off all her stuff, then running off – seems like she decided to shake up her life.’

  As I have recently shaken up mine.

  ‘It’s fixed,’ Josh tells me, standing, then swinging the cell door back and forth to show me he has it working. ‘Try it.’

  I move to the grill, swing the door.

  ‘Heavy,’ I tell him.

  ‘Solid steel.’ He turns the key. I hear the bolt click into place. ‘Put some guy in there and lock the door – he’ll be your prisoner till you set him loose.’

  When I hand him a check, he reads my name aloud.

  ‘Tess Berenson,’ he says. ‘I’d like to catch one of your performances.’

  At the loft door, he pauses. ‘I wouldn’t fool around too much with that cell unless you know what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with. Getting locked up tends to make people nervous. But if you’re into games like that … well, enjoy!’

  He says it like a waiter setting down platters of food, shows me a little smirk, then turns to the elevator.

  Dr Maude is attentive as I recount my breakup scene with Jerry.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ she says when I’m finished. ‘I think a year ago you’d have blown up at him. You certainly had cause. I’m impressed by the mature way you handled yourself.’

  I tell Dr Maude I don’t feel the Jerry business really is out of the way. On the contrary, the initial elation I felt has given way the last few days to depression. The breakup now feels like a personal failure, as much my fault as his.

  ‘What’s going on with you now, Tess, is you’re mourning the relationship. In time you’ll come to see it more clearly, and then maybe the two of you can give up your anger and become friends. Meantime, you’re doing the right thing throwing yourself into work.’

  Dr Maude listens carefully as I describe Recital.

  ‘Sounds good,’ she says when I’m finished. ‘Serious and satirical. But I think you need to take care not to make Mrs Z too mean. Make her three-dimensional. When she breaks down, your audience should feel pity for her, not just contempt for her narcissism and delusional world view. If you do that, you’ll really have something, a portrait of a lady in distress with the potential to evoke pity and terror.’

  THREE

  Vienna, Austria. January 1913. A snowy day. The scene: Café Ronacher, one of the famous gemütlichkeit Viennese coffeehouses of the era much favored by members of Freud’s circle.

  Mid-afternoon, an off-hour. Most of the small marble tables are empty. The vaulted ceiling supports a dusty crystal chandelier. The air carries the mixed aromas of coffee, chocolate, and cigar smoke. Newspapers attached to sticks are neatly aligned on a rack. A battered billiards table fills an alcove. A black and white cat roams the room foraging for scraps.

  The intense young man from Lou Salomé’s encounter on the Franzenring sits at a table dabbing with a brush at a small piece of cardboard. A portfolio of his watercolors is set against his chair out of sight. He wears the same shabby suit, necktie, and rotting pair of shoes. Whenever he hears the door open, he looks up to see who has entered. Each time, disappointed, he returns to his painting.

  Finally Lou shows up. She wears the same heavy Russian fur jacket. As soon as the young man spots her, he covers up his watercolor, rises attentively, then fastens his eyes upon her in a manner she finds disquieting.

  He greets her. ‘Hello, Frau Salomé. Thank you very much for coming. I am so grateful. And a little surprised, I admit.’

  She eyes him warily. ‘You didn’t think I’d show up?’

  ‘No! I mean – of course I knew you would. It’s just …’

  ‘You sent me a well-mannered note along with a sincere apology. So here I am. Isn’t it better to behave with good manners than to stalk a middle-aged married lady on the street?’

  ‘Again I’m so sorry about that. I … I don’t know if I
can explain it.’

  She waves her hand to indicate he needn’t bother, then summons the waiter and orders a Viennese coffee. The waiter, who wears a formal black cut-away, bows to her, recognizing her as a regular.

  She turns back to the young man. ‘Now tell me – what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’d hoped we might chat a bit.’

  ‘You have a topic in mind?’

  ‘Many. So many.’

  ‘You asked for this meeting, so you must state your purpose. Or, as they say in certain circles, place your cards on the table.’

  ‘My cards?’ He looks down at his watercolor, then at the portfolio resting by his feet. He’s tempted to open it and show her its contents. He takes hold of it, places it on the table so she can see it, then decides to talk with her a while before revealing his artwork.

  ‘You probably don’t remember,’ he tells her, ‘but our eyes met briefly at the Westbahnhof. I believe it was the day you arrived. You had lots of luggage. I wanted to offer help carrying your bags but you’d already engaged a porter. I tried to offer you one of my watercolors.’ He taps his portfolio. ‘Your friend, the woman you were traveling with – she stopped for a moment to look at them, but you swept right by.’

  ‘I was distracted.’

  ‘Still, I thought I detected a bit of scorn …’

  ‘Nonsense! I never behave with scorn, certainly not toward a stranger. We were anxious to get to our hotel and unpack.’

  ‘Do you like it there at the Zita?’

  Lou smiles. ‘What an odd question. The hotel’s pleasant and convenient in that it’s close to what brought me here.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business. But since you’ve been following me around, I suspect you already know.’

  ‘You’re studying with the man who writes about sex.’

  Lou laughs. ‘I suppose that’s one way to describe him.’ She exhales. ‘You asked for this meeting, so please say what’s on your mind. I’ll try to help you. If I can’t I’ll tell you that too.’

  He nods. ‘I hoped we might discuss my paintings. Are you willing to look at them?’

  She gestures for him to pass over his portfolio. He hands it to her tentatively. She takes it, looks through it quickly, then hurriedly shuts it and hands it back.

  ‘You want a critique?’

  He nods again, this time eagerly. Sensing his vulnerability, she employs a gentler tone.

  ‘One doesn’t wish to be unkind. But I believe it’s always best to tell the truth.’

  He nods, then steadies himself as if expecting a blow.

  ‘I have to tell you honestly that your paintings don’t speak to me. They’re pretty enough. You make nice pictures of famous buildings on tranquil unpopulated squares and streets. I imagine these sketches might be of interest to tourists. But they don’t tell me anything new about these places, or, more important, about the person who painted them.’ She stares at him. ‘I see you’re distressed. I didn’t intend to hurt your feelings. Clearly you worked hard on these and they’re meaningful to you. If your sketches don’t speak to me, they’re as likely to speak to someone else. Shall we leave it at that?’

  ‘Whew! I’d like to explain what I was trying—’

  ‘Art should speak for itself. I don’t mean to be harsh, but yours is simply not the kind of art I’m able to discuss. I think now I’ve probably said enough.’

  He bows his head. ‘I appreciate your taking the time to look.’

  Lou is relieved. The young man, well-mannered despite his shabby attire, has taken her criticism better than expected. ‘Merely an opinion. I should add that I admire people who make art and have the courage to put it out for judgment.’

  He perks up at the word ‘courage.’ Observing him closely Lou understands that courage is a virtue he values in himself.

  ‘I don’t suppose there’s anything I could do that would make you like them more?’

  She smiles kindly. ‘To interest me you’d have to paint in an entirely different way. I doubt you’d be willing to do that.’

  ‘Can you explain?’

  ‘I can. But first I must ask why my opinion matters to you?’

  ‘It matters a great deal, Frau Salomé. I recognized you right away. The moment I saw you at the station I knew who you were. That’s why I started following you. Not at first. But then at the Imperial Opera House, I caught your eye … or, rather, the eye of your friend. It was the night they performed Parsifal. I was in the standing-room area. You’ll find me there often. The two of you passed by on the way to your seats. I believe the other lady recalled seeing me at the station.’

  ‘She didn’t mention it.’

  Actually there were three of us that night, Lou recalls. Ellen, herself, and the psychiatrist Dr Victor Tausk, another student of Freud, with whom she’s struck up a friendship and with whom she expects soon to begin an affair. She notes that the young man has neglected to mention she was part of a threesome. Did he actually not notice Victor, or is he leaving him out because he thinks he’s of no significance?

  The young man continues describing the encounter. ‘It was very quick. You passed right by. I decided to wait outside after the performance then follow you. I saw you summon a hansom cab and overheard you give an address. That’s how I learned where you were staying.’

  Lou stares at him. ‘I find this upsetting. No one likes being stalked. It makes one wonder what the stalker has in mind.’

  ‘I assure you I would never wish to bother you in any way.’

  ‘But you see, you have. Which is why I confronted you the other day. Ellen said: “There’s that man who’s been hanging around our hotel.” I didn’t like the sound of that, so I went straight up to you to express my annoyance.’ Lou pauses. ‘I must say, you didn’t make a good first impression.’

  ‘You were right to admonish me. I felt terrible.’

  ‘For being found out?’

  ‘For that, and even more for displeasing you. And yet I thank you for your admonishment. I learned a good lesson.’ He brightens. ‘And so here we are …’

  Again she peers at him. She wonders whether he really thought she and Ellen wouldn’t notice him or whether he hoped they would so they would engage, an engagement he was too shy to initiate.

  ‘Yes,’ she tells him, ‘you achieved your aim. Now please tell me – what’s the point?’

  ‘The p-p-p-point? I wanted to meet you, speak with you, hear your voice.’

  Oh dear, he’s stuttering again. She exhales. ‘I believe you simply wanted my attention. That was your motive, wasn’t it?’

  ‘You’re famous, Frau Salomé. I’ve seen people walk toward you, then turn and stare after you pass. I wager many would like to sit down with you and chat as we are now.’

  She neither acknowledges this, nor laughs it off. She is becoming bored and a bit uneasy. Time, she thinks, to cut the encounter short.

  ‘My time here in Vienna is precious,’ she tells him. ‘I’m very busy. I spend nearly all my hours reading and studying with … the one who writes about sex, as you so amusingly put it. Is that really all you’ve heard about Professor Freud?’

  ‘I’ve heard he entices people to tell him their dreams. Then like a fortune-teller he reads their futures.’

  ‘You don’t have an inkling, do you? That’s fine. Sex is not everybody’s favorite subject.’ She peers at the wall clock. ‘I really must be off. There’s a seminar starting soon.’

  She rises. He rises as well.

  ‘May I accompany you?’

  ‘Certainly not! Stay, have another coffee. I’ll take care of the bill.’

  ‘You’re very kind. I feel badly about not paying, but I’m short of funds these days.’ He looks at her longingly. ‘Will I see you again?’

  She’s amused. ‘You haven’t had enough of me?’

  ‘There are many matters I’d like to discuss.’

  Oh, I’m sure there are. ‘I’d be willing t
o have another coffee with you in six or seven weeks. We can discuss art then, and perhaps other topics. But before we meet I insist you spend some time looking at work by important contemporary artists. I’m thinking particularly of Klimt, Schiele, and Kokoschka. I have one other condition.’ She speaks strictly to him. ‘You are absolutely forbidden to follow me or Ellen again. I’m going to be very angry if I learn you’ve been lingering about with the pathetic beseeching expression you’re wearing now.’

  The young man nods meekly. She notes that he responds well to severity.

  ‘If you meet my two conditions, which I think are reasonable, we shall meet again. You have my permission to wait six weeks, then write a letter reminding me.’

  ‘Thank you very much. I shall meet your conditions just as you’ve set them.’

  ‘So, goodbye then.’

  She shakes his hand, then strides off.

  FOUR

  This morning I find a hand-written note thrust under my door: ‘You asked what Chantal is like. Come by my studio at 4:00 and I’ll show you. J.’

  On my way downstairs at the appointed time I ask myself why I bothered to have Josh fix the cell door. Was it because half-hanging there it made the loft look messy? Or was it a way to get to know him and through him to learn more about Chantal? There’s something mysterious about him and his relationship with Chantal that arouses my curiosity.

  Standing before his door, I can smell the aroma of oil paint. Is Chantal inside waiting to meet me and reveal herself? Or, more likely, has Josh invited me down because he finds me interesting and wants us to be friends?

  It’s clear, soon as I enter, there isn’t anyone else in the studio. I’m confronted by a huge nearly finished canvas in the style of Fernand Léger, not one of his impersonal machine paintings, but a stylized cubistic vision of a woman reflected in a wardrobe mirror.

  ‘Wow!’ I say, taking it in. ‘I had no idea you did work like this.’