The Luzern Photograph

by William Bayer

  When I try to tip him for bringing up the chariot, he politely shakes his head.

  ‘Not necessary. Always a pleasure.’

  Chantal’s chariot looks good in the corner of my loft. Squatting there it reminds me of a big cat poised to leap. It’s perfect for a swords-and-sandals epic, the front elaborately carved, the letters SPQR set beneath an imperial eagle. It’s the kind of superb prop movie-studio craftsmen made in the heyday of Hollywood.

  I wonder why Chantal bought it. Did she see herself as a Roman empress, legion commander, gladiator? Did she pose in it, as she had for Josh, to impress her clients by her militancy? Did she ever actually hitch a client to the front extension, as Clarence says, then have him play beast of burden as he pulled her around the loft?

  I keep hoping I’ll run into Josh. I want to sit down with him, find out why he didn’t tell me he ID’d Chantal’s body, ask him too about her denazification scenes. Since it’s a week since I’ve seen him I think maybe he’s avoiding me.

  Jerry calls. He’s read through Gräfin Eva’s letters to Chantal.

  ‘They’re love letters,’ he tells me. ‘This Eva seems to have been very much in love with Chantal. She writes that she misses her terribly, urges her to come back to Vienna so they can take up where they left off. In one letter she describes coming to Oakland to see her, and what fun they had, “just like old times”. “I understand you have a new life there,” she writes. “You’re young, I’m old. You don’t think it could work for us again. But I will always be here for you. You will always have a place in my heart.” She addresses Chantal as “Liebste Schatz Liebling”, which roughly translates as “dearest sweetheart darling”. The letters are filled with sweet nothings and the kind of shorthand people use when they have a shared past.’

  ‘Thanks for reading them for me. You’re on my list for Recital. You’ll get an invitation soon as we set a date. I can put you down for two if you want.’

  ‘One seat’ll be fine. I wouldn’t want to throw you off by bringing a date,’ he says.

  So Chantal was bisexual or lesbian … something no one who knew her bothered to tell me. I’m not surprised. She was a complicated woman. But I’d have thought it worth a mention.

  Luis comes over twice so we can rehearse playing out our secret relationship. His tenderness tells me he understands Mrs Z’s crisis.

  ‘She has given me a great gift,’ he says. ‘Sure, there’ll be an audience out there, but it is only for her ears that I’ll play.’

  I start reading one of Chantal’s psycho-biographies of Lou Andreas-Salomé, referred to in most books as Frau Lou or just plain Lou. I pick the one that shows the most wear and bears the most marginalia. In it I read about how, just after Lou died, the Gestapo came to her house and carted off all her books.

  In the margin I find this enigmatic note scribbled by Chantal: What were they looking for? Letters from Nietzsche? Rilke? Freud? Books inscribed by her author friends? Books by Jewish authors to be burned? Or something else that no one except E and I know anything about?!

  I find extensive underlining in the chapter concerning the year Lou spent studying with Freud. Clearly Chantal was fascinated by that. When the author quotes from Lou’s journal that she was staying at the Hotel Zita, Chantal writes in the margin ‘Room 28’. And then scrawls the hotel address: ‘Pelikangasse 14’.

  I put the biography down, pick up the English translation of The Freud Journal of Lou Andreas-Salomé. In the third entry, dated October 26, 1912, Lou writes of having arrived in Vienna the day before accompanied by a certain Ellen Delp, described in an editor’s footnote as a young actress she met in Berlin through the famous director Max Reinhardt. In this same paragraph Lou describes taking up residence in the Hotel Zita ‘only a few steps from the Alte Elster restaurant where the Freud group gathers after lectures’.

  On a hunch I retrieve the folded-up map of Vienna I found in the Baedeker Guide. Chantal drew a little black square to mark the hotel at Pelikangasse 14. In the margin she’s written ‘Zita (building now destroyed)’. A red highlighted line shows the route from that address to another not far away. Beside it Chantal has written ‘Freud’s house, Berggasse 19’.

  The highlighting on the map now makes sense. It seems that Chantal, obsessed by Lou Salomé, traced routes taken by Lou to various locations in Vienna. I learn from the Freud Journal that Lou visited Freud at his home several times, usually late at night.

  What to make of Chantal’s fascination with this extraordinary woman, a line of whose poetry is inscribed over the arched entrance to my loft? What was it about Lou Salomé that so greatly interested Chantal to the extent she marked places she stayed and visited over a hundred years ago and routes she may have followed in between?

  When I’m not working on Recital, rehearsing my remarks, playing back the videos and subjecting them to self-critiques, I feast my eyes on the ‘infamous photograph’ that so intrigued Chantal. The more I look at it the more I see.

  It strikes me that the expressions on the faces of the three ‘actors’ (for they were performing for the camera if I’m to believe Lou’s account) belie the passions that roiled beneath. Paul Rée appears composed, even bored. According to Lou he hated being photographed. The great Friedrich Nietzsche, on the other hand, looks to be in distress, perhaps even a bit crazed. Yet, according to Lou, it was he who set up this tableau vivant, choosing the props and positioning the players. And Lou herself, wearing a mischievous half-grin, appears oblivious to the underlying dynamics.

  I understand from studying the photograph, and from Chantal’s notes surrounding it, that it’s regarded as a crystallization of the network of relationships between these three exceptionally brilliant people, and a foreshadowing of the embroilments and betrayals that will soon reduce their communal dream to ash. Reading about the moment and its aftermath in a half-dozen books in Chantal’s library, I gain a kaleidoscopic view of the story behind this striking image and the emotional undercurrents that converged within it.

  Lou meets Rée who, much taken with her, introduces her to Nietzsche, his best friend at the time. They both fall hard for the twenty-year-old young woman, so handsome of feature, so brilliant of mind. Both propose marriage to her. She proposes instead that they live together as a triad in chaste intellectual companionship. The photo is Nietzsche’s idea, a memento, he tells the other two, to celebrate their pact of chastity and study.

  But within weeks the whole thing falls apart. After Nietzsche is eased out of the triad, he nearly goes mad with envy and despair. Rée and Nietzsche, formerly best friends, will never speak again. Lou and Rée will go on to live together in Berlin for several years in what was probably a chaste ménage-à-deux. Then the scholar Dr Friedrich Carl Andreas will come along, court Lou, win her away from Rée, and marry her, after which the two of them will live in a deeply loving yet sexless marriage until Andreas’s death.

  Rée, after his dismissal, will devote the rest of his life to the practice of medicine. Nietzsche, on the other hand, fueled by Lou’s rejection, will go on to write Thus Spake Zarathustra. Perhaps pushed on by Elizabeth Förster-Nietzsche, his controlling sister who carried on a decades-long verbal war against Lou, he too will later turn against the former object of his passion, writing to her: ‘You have the predatory pleasure lust of a cat … a brain with only a rudiment of soul!’

  In 1889 Nietzsche will suffer a complete mental collapse. In 1900 he will die in Weimar, finally recognized as one of the great poet-thinkers of his time. Lou, in turn, although married to Andreas, will engage in a long affair with Rainer Maria Rilke, and, at the age of fifty-one, will go to Vienna to study psychoanalysis with Freud.

  For all the sexual energy implicit in the Luzern photograph, it would seem (though none of the biographers are certain) that renunciation of sex by the men may have been the divisive issue. Lou insisted on chaste relationships with two men who burnt with lust for her. She controlled them by refusing all requests for intimacy. Most biographers believe s
he only began to lead a full sex-life years later when she fell in love with Rilke. Others point to a pattern, neurotically repeated throughout her life, of positioning herself in triangular relationships.

  Such a complicated woman! ‘Complex,’ I remember, was the word Josh used to describe Chantal. Was it their shared complexity and deviant sexuality that caused Chantal to so thoroughly identify with Lou?

  I take the problem to Dr Maude along with a copy of the Luzern photograph. She studies it as I explain the background.

  ‘Yes, it’s fascinating,’ she agrees. ‘There’s much to analyze. If we’re to believe the accounts, the entire set up was Nietzsche’s. Yet in the photograph he appears out of it.’

  ‘You see why I’m intrigued?’

  ‘Yes, because Chantal was intrigued. She’s possessed you now, hasn’t she, Tess?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it that way. But, yes, her obsessions have become mine. That’s how I hope to understand her.’

  ‘But toward what end? Do you see yourself collaborating with this detective you’ve met, helping him solve her murder?’

  ‘I want to help him, but I think the end, as you put it, is to create a performance piece about Chantal and her obsessions.’

  Dr Maude agrees that Chantal’s story, if I do figure it out, could make for a great dramatic piece. But she wants to turn the discussion back to me.

  ‘Remember, Tess, when you brought in those photographs of your dad, how you tried to “read” them for me.’

  It was six months ago. I was thinking a lot about Dad then, had dug up a box of old family pictures and was trying to puzzle them out. I wanted to get a fix on this man who was so elusive, conned everybody including his family, and was so protective of whatever inner life he had that he never showed us his core.

  ‘You’ve become very perceptive about photographs. And I think that’s carried over to this one. But back to your father: do you remember the one that affected you most?’

  How could I forget? It was a snapshot I took of Dad the morning after he came home from prison. He’d served four years for fraud. He arrived at the house after dark, greeted us warmly, wrapped me in his arms then kissed me on my forehead and many times on my hair. The next morning when I entered his room with my camera hoping to surprise him, I caught him sitting hunched over on the side of my parents’ bed. He wore a gray sleeveless undershirt frayed at the neckline and was staring down at the floor as if depressed. I don’t know why I took a picture of him then. I believe I did it without thinking. Even today that photograph brings tears to my eyes on account of the sadness in it, the way it captures him so beaten down.

  Dr Maude nods as I recall the photo and my reaction to it.

  ‘It is a sad picture,’ she says, ‘but maybe not just for the reason you think. It’s possible he woke up just before you came in and was sitting there trying to clear his head. Or he was thinking how good it was to be home again. But for you that image shows him unmasked, unaware he’s seen and thus not wearing his con man’s smile. There’s no bonhomie in it, none of his false charm. It’s a photo of a loser who spent four years in prison. That’s what brings tears to your eyes. When you look at it you feel the old emotion. Such is the power of an image.’

  Dr Maude picks up the Luzern photograph again.

  ‘You’ve told me about all the tortured interpretations of this image, what this scholar and that scholar thinks. Whether it’s about Lou controlling the men, or the men leading her into the future. Whether it was meant as a joke or demonstrates the instability of their triangular relationship, a portent of the mess they’ll soon make of it. And so on. Well, like Lou I’m a Freudian so I’ll give you a Freudian-style interpretation. The three went to the photo studio to have their picture taken in order to celebrate their newly formed chastity/study pact. By allowing themselves to be harnessed in tandem to Lou’s cart the men are saying they’ve placed their libidos in her hands. The silly whip she holds is symbolic: she will enforce her vision of chastity upon them, mobilize their phallic power on behalf of finer, nobler, intellectual goals.’ Dr Maude nods to herself. ‘That’s what I think the picture says.’

  ‘Wow!’ I tell her. ‘That’s brilliant. I never read that anywhere.’

  ‘Maybe I’m right, maybe not. We can argue endlessly over the meaning of an image, but what’s important is its meaning to a particular beholder. Just as that snapshot you took of your dad has a special meaning for you, so the Luzern photograph had a special meaning for Chantal. It doesn’t matter what I or anyone else thinks it means. It’s what it meant to Chantal that should be important to you. If you’re going to create a strong piece about her that’s what you need to figure out.’

  Arriving at San Pablo Martial Arts, I report as instructed to Kurt.

  ‘Skip rope, work the bags, take five, then prepare to spar in the ring. I’m setting you up today with Rosita. She’ll give you a good workout.’ He smiles. ‘What’re you waiting for?’

  ‘I’ve seen Rosita fight. I don’t think I’m ready for her yet.’

  ‘Your instructor says you’re ready, you’re ready.’ His voice turns gentle. ‘You say you want to learn to fight. The only way to learn is to do it. Sparring with Rosita will give you a taste. Then you can decide if you still want to learn, or go back to taking class for cardio.’

  He says I’m ready then I’m ready, I tell myself as I work up a sweat in the gym. I take a five minute rest, then go to the mirror, put in my mouthguard, pick a head guard from the pile, put it on, and approach the ring.

  Rosita’s waiting for me. She’s shorter than me and a lot more muscular. Her biceps bulge in her tank top. She has unshaved armpits and the kind of triangular face you often see on Mexicans with lots of Indian blood. She’s also got an attitude on her. Kurt’s whispering to her as I approach. I can’t hear what he’s saying but I figure it’s about me. Listening and nodding, she watches me as I climb into the ring. Her stare says it all: Today you’re going to get it, bitch!

  We circle each other. Her eyes lock into mine. I glance at Kurt. He’s watching us closely. Just then Rosita snaps out a punch. I reel back. She grins. Then she unloads a flurry of elbow strikes and kicks.

  I try my best to block them, but several get through. The ones that land really hurt. I reel back. I feel my skin’s reddening from the blows. Remembering what Chantal told me, that pain is part of the process, I try to ignore it and counterattack. Rosita laughs as I try to fight my way through her blocks. She’s quick, and every time I come close to landing a strike, she snaps out one of her own.

  ‘Get in there, Tess!’ Kurt yells. ‘Kick–punch! Kick–punch! Kick–jab–cross!’

  I try to do what he says but nothing lands. Or if it does, Rosita scornfully laughs it off. She ducks and slips, backs off a couple inches so she’s just out of reach, then puts herself forward as if to taunt me: Come on, bitch! Try again!

  When I do she lands a kick in the center of my stomach. I reel back in pain.

  Kurt yells: ‘OK, girls – that’s it. Break!’

  Rosita immediately drops her fists and steps back. For the first time her smile turns friendly. ‘Nice round,’ she tells me. We bump gloves. Then she shrugs, turns her back, and ducks out of the ring.

  ‘You need blocking practice,’ Kurt tells me. ‘Next time just defend.’

  After I change and shower, I go up to him.

  ‘That was rough. Why’d you put me with her?’

  ‘It’s good to be over-matched. Toughens you up.’

  He stares at me. I stare back. I know your secret, Sensei. You want everyone here to think you’re alpha, but I know you were submissive to Chantal. Maybe you didn’t want that to get out. Maybe …

  ‘Why’d you put me with Marie?’ I ask.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, surprised by my question, ‘that was her idea.’

  ‘Marie asked to spar with me? You’re sure? This was over two months ago?’

  ‘She said she recognized you. She’d seen you in something. Wanted
to get to know you.’ He sniffs. ‘Said you looked hot.’

  ‘Hot! You’re saying she was attracted to me?’

  He shrugs. Clearly he prefers not to talk about her. I decide to mention this to Scarpaci and that maybe he should give Kurt another look.

  ‘You did good today, Tess,’ he says. ‘You didn’t pull back and quit like a lot of them. You took the hits like you didn’t care. You have fighting spirit. I like that in a girl. But you’re going to have to work a lot harder if you want to compete. Next time I’ll run you through a set of blocking drills. If you don’t learn to block and counterpunch you won’t last a round.’ And with that he turns away.

  FIFTEEN

  Unpublished Exchange of Letters Between Lou Andreas-Salomé and Sigmund Freud, December 1935—February 1936

  Loufried, Göttingen

  December 9, 1935

  Dear Professor:

  I am writing you briefly today as I am concerned about a number of matters, first among them my health. Old age, it seems, is rapidly catching up with me. I have recently endured the surgical removal of my left breast, a thoroughly unpleasant operation, which I hope will stop the spread of the cancer.

  I am of course very concerned about your future in Vienna. You know that I like to hold myself aloof from politics, but these days that’s increasingly difficult. We keep hearing rumors of Anschluss. How much longer, I wonder, will our saner countrymen be able to withstand the pressure for annexation building by the day?

  In regard to the ‘young man’ whose drawing we analyzed my last day in Vienna, I marvel daily at the mystery of fate, this great reversal of fortune. Twenty years ago he groveled before me. Now all of Germany grovels before him!

  I recall describing to you his obsession with the operas of Richard Wagner, his love of Wagner’s gesamtkunstwerk. The other evening I went to the cinema to see a movie everyone is speaking of, Triumph of the Will, directed by that pretty actress, Fräulein Leni Riefenstahl. Afterwards, quite shaken by her vision, I understood that our young man is set upon transforming an entire nation into a Wagnerian spectacle. Horrifying thought!