‘Fifty dollars,’ I tell her.
‘How ’bout two-fifty? The people I have in mind regularly pay that for an opera seat. The more they pay for something the more they value it.’
Two hundred fifty dollars! Way too much for my regular fans. But then I think: Why not? This will be a one-off, a one-time performance in this ballroom. Plus it would be terrific to have an audience filled out with Mrs Z’s real-life peers.
I turn to Grace. ‘Sure, let’s go for two-fifty.’
She’s delighted. ‘I’ll cover everything – invitations, valet parking, champagne, and waiters. I want to turn this into an occasion. I think we should schedule it for a Thursday evening – you know, traditional maid’s night out.’
‘Maybe you should think about this, Grace,’ I warn her. ‘I wouldn’t want this to hurt your social life.’
‘Way I see it, it’ll cut one of two ways. These folks’ll never speak to me again and Silas and I’ll be blackballed from here to Nob Hill … or we’ll be the toast of San Francisco, that “clever young couple with the big house and the great FY attitude, just the kind we need to put on our stodgy old boards”. Believe me, Tess, I’ll be happy whichever way it cuts. Pariah or society’s darling – it’s all the same to me.’
Entering the Buckley, I observe Clarence talking with two men in the lobby. The men appear very serious and there’s a solemnity about Clarence that doesn’t match his normally cheerful manner. I wonder if these men are officials, maybe building inspectors warning him about a violation. I’m still waiting for the eccentric elevator when they leave. Turning I see Clarence standing in the center of the lobby looking stunned.
‘Something wrong?’
He peers at me as if lost in thought.
‘Hi, Tess. Didn’t see you come in.’
‘You look upset.’
‘The guys just left – they’re detectives. They were asking about Chantal, said she was murdered.’
I bring my hand to my mouth.
‘Seems three weeks ago they found her body in the trunk of a stolen car parked at Oakland Airport. She was naked and badly decayed. They couldn’t ID her until yesterday when someone spotted a wrecked motorcycle submerged near the port. They pulled it out and found Chantal’s license hidden inside. They matched her license photo to their victim. That’s how they got this address.’ Clarence shakes his head. ‘They asked me lots of questions about what she did, who were her friends, stuff like that. When I told them she was a dominatrix they wanted to know who her clients were. Fuck! I didn’t know her clients! People come and go here all the time. We don’t have camera surveillance. I try to stay out of my tenants’ business.’
Deeply shaken, I go to him. Our eyes meet and we embrace. ‘Oh my God, this is awful. Turns out I met her at my martial-arts school. Didn’t really get to know her but liked her a lot. I just can’t believe … I mean Josh and I were talking about her just the other day. He showed me his portrait of her. She looks so alive in it, like she’s ready to step out of the canvas.’
‘Those cops think it may have been a client. Someone who sessioned with her. That’s what they were asking about.’
‘Do you think?’ He shakes his head, shrugs. ‘Is there anything I can do, Clarence?’
‘Nothing anyone can do. She left five weeks ago. Haven’t seen or heard from her since. She was always nice with me, always smiled, said “Hi, good morning.” Jesus! Who could have done this? How did it happen? Why?’
As he wails on I see tears in his eyes then feel them forming in mine. I knew her enough to have a feeling about her, that she was a decent person. Marie, the dark-haired girl from kickboxing class; Chantal, Josh’s Queen of Swords; Chantal Desforges, dominatrix, who lived where I now live, called it her aerie, her Eagle’s Nest, who spoke so casually to me about pain, and, evidently, inflicted it on others, who practiced her art such as it was in the very space where I now practice mine …
FIVE
Vienna, Austria. Late February 1913. The streets are icy but the air is clear. Again, the young man is waiting at the same table in the Café Ronacher, eagerly watching the door. When Lou enters, he stands attentively as if prepared to click his heels.
‘Hello again, Frau Salomé! Thank you for coming.’
‘You may call me Frau Lou. Everybody does.’
‘I’m so grateful.’
Lou sits down. ‘You said that last time. I’d appreciate it if you weren’t so obsequious.’ The young man accepts her criticism with a nod. ‘I received your letter and was pleased to learn you took my advice and visited several galleries.’
‘Certainly, I obeyed.’
‘Why put it that way? I simply made a suggestion.’
‘You presented it as a condition. It was either obey or be denied another meeting.’
‘Yes, yes – I’d forgotten how tiresome you can be. So … what did you think of it?’
‘The art?’
‘Please don’t act stupid.’
‘My true opinion?’
‘Nothing less.’
He meets her eyes then smiles slightly as he readies himself to meet her challenge. He has decided that on the issue of art he will stand up to her, not with the ferocity he often employs while proclaiming an opinion, but just enough to show her he has some spine.
‘In truth,’ he tells her, ‘I didn’t like what I saw. In fact, I was repulsed by it.’
‘I find that comment entertaining. What repulsed you?’
‘The decadence. The impropriety. The sensualization of everything. Above all, the sheer ugliness of the painting. Particularly Kokoschka’s. The man has no conception of what art should be about.’
‘And that would be—?’
‘Well … I mean …’ He starts to stutter. ‘I d-don’t understand your question. Why would you ask me, an artist, such a thing?’
‘I believe it’s clarifying to get down to fundamentals. What is art? What should be its purpose? How may we differentiate among works and the artists who create them? You’re fond of Wagner?’
‘I revere him!’
‘Surely you’ve asked yourself why you feel this way?’
‘I feel a transcendence when I hear his music. But I don’t see the connection. Are you comparing Kokoschka to Wagner?’
Lou shakes her head. ‘Of course not. But there’s something special in his work. Like all important artists he expresses himself in a unique way. Just as Wagner’s music doesn’t sound like the music of any other composer, so Kokoschka’s paintings don’t resemble those of any other artist. The same for the paintings of Schiele and Klimt.’
‘At least they can draw! Though I detest what they depict.’
‘Can’t you explain yourself without using words like “detest” and “repulsed”?’
‘Perhaps I don’t express myself well. I found their work decadent. Even when they try to pretty things up, their pictures are ugly because of the subject matter. Writhing nude bodies! Twisted limbs! I did as you asked. I went to their exhibitions. Then afterwards I went to the Imperial Art-History Museum to calm myself and cleanse my eyes. By comparison what I saw at those “progressive” galleries was garbage.’
‘You certainly have strong opinions. As do I. I looked at your watercolors and what I saw was an artist depicting the surface of things. Churches, houses, pavements. All of which have been depicted many times. There’s no harm in painting what you see, but there is far more than the surface of things to be explored. Artists are doing that now. Photography has forced them to look behind surfaces. This, I believe, is what the important art of the twentieth century will be about. Artists will show us new ways of seeing the world filtered through the prisms of their unconscious minds. The subject I’m studying, psychoanalysis, is an attempt to look deeper, to understand and reveal the drives that make us who we are, the meanings behind the fantasies we harbor, the conflicts that rage within us … and which, sometimes, we enact to our detriment. This is what I believe the great artists of our time are e
xploring too.’
The young man smiles broadly.
‘You’re enjoying our discussion?’
‘Very much! I love to discuss ideas.’
‘As do I!’
‘So may I suggest that though we disagree about the value of the work of particular artists, we at least have this in common?’
Lou makes a face to suggest she doesn’t think they have much in common at all.
‘You knew Nietzsche,’ the young man states. Lou, apprehensive, nods slightly, wondering why he’s brought this up and where he intends to go with it. ‘No offense, but everyone knows you knew him. And there’s the photograph.’
Lou recoils. ‘Please, let’s not discuss that! I’ve heard more than enough about it the past thirty years. What it means. How scandalous it is. Especially in view of some things Fritz later wrote: “When you go to a woman, do not forget the whip.”’ She exhales with disgust.
‘This is a personal matter for you – I understand. But, you see, I worship Nietzsche nearly as much as Wagner. I know they had a serious falling out. I read about that in your book about Nietzsche.’ The young man meets her eyes. ‘I borrowed a copy. Since our meeting I’ve read through it twice and I’m sure I shall read it several times more. For though ostensibly about Nietzsche, it tells me a great deal about its author.’
Just as at their last meeting, Lou begins to feel uneasy. This is turning into a one-way street wherein he knows a great deal about me and I know nothing about him.
The young man, oblivious to her unease, continues to declare his hero-worship.
‘Wagner, Nietzsche – for me they were great men, the greatest of the last century.’
‘I would describe Wagner as a great composer and Nietzsche as a great thinker. But I would never call them “great men”. On a human level both were deeply flawed.’
‘I don’t believe geniuses should be judged by ordinary standards. They’re entitled to live as they like, make their own laws.’
Lou finds herself feeling annoyed. One side of her finds the young man repellent, while another side is attracted by his intensity.
‘That’s a view I happen not to share,’ she tells him. ‘You’re even sounding like Nietzsche now. Believe me, at times he could be quite obnoxious.’ She chuckles. ‘You go to a Wagner opera and you think: “Wouldn’t it be wonderful to meet this great composer? Speak with him? See him up close?” And, believe me, because I have known quite a few famous men like that, you are likely to find him uncouth, his breath bad, his table manners atrocious. He’ll interrupt you, and if the conversation veers for an instant from the subject of himself and his achievements, he’ll grow bored and turn away, or throw a tantrum. You have no idea!’
The young man has lowered his eyes. ‘I apologize. I shouldn’t have brought Nietzsche into our discussion. I look up to these men so greatly that I’m indifferent to whatever personal flaws they may have had. You knew Nietzsche well. You suffered him. So of course your personal feelings take precedence over my youthful infatuation.’
‘Please, let us not discuss how I may or may not have suffered another person. As you said earlier, that’s a personal matter. In fact, I met Richard Wagner the final year of his life when I visited Bayreuth for the premiere of Parsifal.’ Lou smiles. ‘You gasp! As well you should! It was amazing to be there and hear that glorious music for the first time. I met both the Wagners at Wahnfried. I can’t claim I spent much time with them, but we did get on. I gained an impression of a self-centered man very much aware of his own genius. So, you see, the characterization “great man” tends to set my teeth on edge. In my younger days I was much impressed by them. Now a good deal less. By the way, there’re quite a few of that species living here now, men whose work and ideas will likely change the way people think. There’s one in particular who impresses me beyond all others.’
The young man nods. ‘You’re speaking of Professor Freud.’
Lou fixes him with her eyes. ‘I told him about you, the stalking. I mentioned it then asked his advice as to whether I should take the time to meet with you.’ She peers even more sharply at him. ‘Are you curious to hear what he said?’
‘Very.’
‘He encouraged me to talk to you. He said it was clear you felt some sort of connection with me, one-sided to be sure, and that it would be helpful for me to explore this since such one-sided connections will arise frequently when I begin to practice psychoanalysis.’
The young man peers back, confused.
Lou continues: ‘It’s what Professor Freud calls “transference” – the relationship that inevitably develops between a psychoanalyst and his patient, a relationship in which the analysand reenacts intimate relationships from his early life. He reminded me that I was far from ready to practice psychoanalysis, but he thought a few meetings with you might be useful if I were to think about them in psychoanalytic terms.’
The young man appears unnerved. ‘I can’t say I follow much of that. Do you view our meetings as some sort of training exercise?’
‘I see you’re offended.’
‘For a moment I thought we were having a conversation about ideas.’
‘What I have presented to you just now is an idea.’ She settles back. ‘You had your own motives for stalking me. You knew who I was, you knew about some people I knew years ago, people you admire, and you hoped you might gain from engaging me in conversation. But life, you see, is a two-way street. Did it occur to you to ask what I might have to gain? Or are you so self-centered as to be indifferent to my side of the equation? Do you see yourself as an attractive man, a man of great charm and poise, who would interest a middle-aged married woman such as myself?’
The young man lowers his eyes. ‘Again I feel put in my place.’
‘You must immediately stop this whipped-dog fawning! It doesn’t become you! I’ve treated you with respect. I’m sitting with you now in a very pleasant coffeehouse, when I could be seeing friends I’ve known for many years. I don’t think you have a right to feel offended, nor do I take your servile attitude as anything but a cover-up for a misguided belief that because you know certain things about my past, there exists some level of intimacy between us. In fact you’re a blank slate to me. Your watercolors, as I’ve said, tell me nothing. This is not an attack on your character. I’ve known many like you. And I admit I have difficulty with such people. Not that I expect people to wear their hearts on their sleeves. That too can be annoying. But it’s the give-and-take in relationships that makes them profitable to both parties. And so I say this to you: if you wish to meet with me again, I would ask that you reveal yourself far more fully than you have. Open yourself up to me, and then, at least from my point of view, another meeting or two may be of value. Otherwise we’re just two people of different ages sitting in a café pretending to have a conversation.’ She rises. ‘Hopefully I’ve given you something to think about. In any case, I must be off. Please order another coffee while I take care of the bill. And please, before contacting me again, think hard about what I’ve said.’
After she’s gone the young man sits at the table, dejected. After a while his expression changes into a smile. He thinks: This famous powerful woman has paid me attention. Next time I shall make sure she understands whom she’s been speaking with!
SIX
Tonight, when Josh finally responds to my message, he tells me the detectives just finished interviewing him.
‘Clarence steered them to me,’ he says. ‘I wish he hadn’t.’
He accepts my invitation to come upstairs. When he arrives I pour him a glass of Cabernet. He slumps down on my couch. I sit close beside him.
‘Those cops,’ he speaks bitterly, ‘they’re just going through the motions. I could see it in their faces. There’re gang killings in Oakland every week. To them Chantal’s just another case, probably one that’ll never get solved.’
‘Clarence says they found her license hidden somewhere in her motorcycle.’
‘Under a rubber
mat at the bottom of her top box. If they hadn’t found it she’d still be a Jane Doe, another body found in the trunk of a stolen car. She loved that bike, a BMW F-800. Cost her a mint. Detectives told me it was totally wrecked.’ He pauses. ‘The young one, Ramos, said something really stupid – “A girl does that kind of work, stuff happens. It’s a risky business she was in.” I felt like slugging the guy.’
‘Good thing you didn’t.’ I gently touch his arm. ‘Did Chantal think she was in a risky business?’
‘Never said so. Told me she liked being a domme because that way she was always in control. Said she could never take a job in the corporate world. The detectives asked about her family. I told them she rarely mentioned them.’
I ask him if he showed them Queen of Swords.
‘Fuck no! After what Ramos said I figured they didn’t have a right to see it!’
‘Did she ever mention a client who scared her?’
‘They asked about that.’ Josh shakes his head. ‘The way she left so suddenly, sold off all her stuff then fled – I believe something must have scared her. Maybe it had something to do with a client. But like I told the detectives, I don’t know anything about the guys she saw or what she did with them.’
I talk through my feelings with Dr Maude.
‘At first I was just intrigued by Chantal. Even more so when I realized I’d met her. Now I feel haunted by her, like our lives are somehow connected.’ I look at her. ‘I was totally wowed by Josh’s Queen of Swords. Despite the power stance, I could feel her vulnerability. Then there’s the whole woman-with-the-whip thing. You saw my Weimar piece, how I slash at my boots with a crop. I was playing off the same archetype.’
Dr Maude studies me. ‘See, what bothers me, Tess, is why you decided to keep the cell and X-frame when the landlord offered to take them out?’
The Luzern Photograph Page 5