In this regard, do you remember my describing the visit of a rather oily fellow named Fleckstein who claimed he was prepared to offer me an enormous sum in return for the drawing just mentioned? Now I learn that Fleckstein has been making regular inquiries about my health, going so far as to ask the hospital where I had my surgery to keep him closely advised regarding my condition. They are, you see, eagerly awaiting my death, after which I believe they intend to descend upon my little fortress to retrieve that ‘precious’ item! However I do not believe that they will find it. I have secreted it well.
These are difficult times, dear Professor, times that truly try us. I hope you and Anna are well. With all affectionate wishes to you and your family for a fine holiday season.
In deep gratitude,
Lou
Vienna IX, Berggasse 19
January 11, 1936
My Dear Lou,
I have been thinking of you today, and, I admit, worried for you. Anna has spoken to me with great concern about your recent medical issues. We both hope for the very best outcome. This kind of thing happens to us all, an inevitable consequence of age. As you know, my cancer of the jaw has become more serious of late. As my eightieth birthday approaches, I more clearly foresee the end. As you yourself put it so well, we have both long since ‘passed through the portal of old age.’
In regard to Anna, I am concerned about rumors floating about that she was the actual subject of my 1919 paper A Child Is Being Beaten, and of her own first published paper, Beating Fantasies and Daydreams (1922), on which you provided her with such generous assistance as acknowledged in her footnote on the title page. Certain people are saying that both our papers are actually about Anna’s own masochistic dreams cleverly disguised as being those of an unnamed patient.
Of course only you, Anna and I know the full truth of the matter. Meantime these rumors, fanned by cowards who, afraid to attack me directly, choose to get at me by undermining the substantial achievements of my daughter, are a matter, I have told Anna, to be waved aside and ignored. Such attacks are the small price one pays for advancing the study of human psychology. Let me just say that I am immensely proud of Anna’s paper and pleased that it won her membership in the Vienna Psychoanalytic Society.
Yet as I think of these two papers, mine and hers, I am haunted by the sadomasochistic drawing of our young friend, the one he presented to you in a public park on your last day in Vienna, 1913. Listening to his rant on the radio last evening, I could not help but associate that drawing with the way he currently presents himself. It’s as if he has turned his erotic inclinations inside-out, concealing the submissive desires imparted in that image within intoxicating fantasies of domination. Of course such inversions are common and well known to those of us who practice analysis. But I am troubled by the notion that I too cavalierly dismissed the potential for inversion implicit in his drawing, never dreaming, of course, that one of so little account could ever rise to a position where he would have the ability to realize such fantasies on a massive public scale. One hopes that cooler heads will soon prevail and he will be dethroned. The German people are, I hope and must believe, too wise to place their destiny in such unstable hands.
Wishing you the best for 1936. Most faithfully,
Freud
Loufried, Göttingen
February 3, 1936
Dear Professor,
Thank you for your recent letter and your generous financial gift for my seventy-fifth birthday. Your kindness toward me through the decades has been indispensable to my survival. For this I am forever in your debt.
In regard to our young friend, I also listen to him on the radio. It would seem that he has now adapted a compensatory pose – the Great Man puffed up by delusions of grandeur. The excess in his rhetoric, the pontification, the rise and fall that stirs people even as they ignore the content of his speeches, strike me as thoroughly Wagnerian. It’s as if the obsequious and troubled failed artist whom I once knew has been subsumed by an ogre, one who writhes as he speaks, whose voice trembles, and whose hypnotic oratory arouses dark atavistic notions buried deep within the ids of his obedient followers. Listening to him I wonder: What force is pulling the strings of this marionette?
One of my patients (and I have only four now, since, as you know, I have been winding down my practice) reports seeing him in a dream, in which the ferocity he expresses is greatly amplified and his features become transformed into those of a wolf. Such is the power of his Wagnerian rhetoric.
I don’t believe I mentioned to you that at one of our meetings he told me he found the paintings of his contemporary, Egon Schiele, frightening and nightmarish on account of the contortions of the under-nourished bodies of Schiele’s subjects. Now watching him in newsreels I’m struck by his contortions. It’s as if he has internalized some of the poses of Schiele’s personae. He also, as best I recall, wondered whether those drawings might be prophetic, suggesting a future of emaciated souls wandering a world reduced to ruins. Could that be the future he envisions as he leads Germany upon a course that must strike the sane as total madness?
I probably shouldn’t put down such thoughts in a letter that might be opened and read, but at my age I see no profit in pretense.
In regard to the rumors circulating about Anna and who may or may not have been the actual patient whose fantasies she elucidated in her brilliant paper, I have written her that, just as you advised, such gossip must be ignored. To respond to the chatterers is to give them credence. Her analytic work speaks for itself and will be regarded as important long after her detractors are forgotten. Let me add that I think it was singularly brave of you to turn Anna over to me for analysis. I took that as a strong vote of confidence and worked my very best with her. But I must tell you that she herself did the hard work required for true self-exploration and for that I commend her bravery. For this and the real affection I feel for her, I shall always think of her as the daughter I wish I’d had.
Yours devotedly and in renewed gratitude,
Lou
SIXTEEN
Chantal asked to spar with me because she thought I looked hot!
Fueled by that revelation I suffer a restless night in which Chantal/Marie weaves in and out of my dreams. At times she whispers to me. As I struggle to make out her words, I feel her mouth graze my ear. ‘You are so hot,’ she tells me, ‘I want you so much …’
I wake up in the middle of the night sweating and trembling. Peering up at the skylight, I check to make sure no one’s watching me.
It’s then that I realize I have just dreamt of making love with Chantal, the two of us together naked in my bed, kissing, moaning, stroking and orally pleasuring one another, then moving together toward a shattering climax.
Did this dream carry me over the top? Seems it did. I enjoy the notion. I also find it frightening that I have drawn so close to this woman who allegedly found me hot that she now has entered my dreams and in them ravished me with her love.
Dr Maude wants to know how I felt when Kurt told me what Chantal said.
‘Strange,’ I tell her, ‘and also moved because that means she related to me in a way that now seems intimate. We weren’t matched up casually. She asked to spar with me. I played a role in her fantasies just as she now plays a role in mine.’
‘And your erotic dream about her – what does that tell you?’
‘That there’s something about her that draws me. Something more than just a fascination with her life and obsessions. Something corporeal. Her body.’
‘You sparred with her, made physical contact.’
‘That came back to me in the dream. The sweat on her forehead. The way her sports bra fit her bust. The attractive way she moved. And I knew from Eva’s letters that she was gay.’
‘Your lovemaking – was it sadomasochistic?’
‘No, we made love tenderly.’
‘You look troubled, Tess,’ Dr Maude says. ‘How does this erotic dream make you feel about your Chantal projec
t?’
I think about that, then blurt it out. ‘Like I’m caught in a spiderweb,’ I tell her.
This morning, a little after eleven, my intercom sounds. A male voice inquires: ‘Chantal?’
‘No,’ I tell him, ‘she doesn’t live here anymore.’
‘Oh … well, sorry to bother you. Her website’s down and her phone’s been disconnected. I came by to see if she’s still around. When I saw the new name by the buzzer I figured she’d left, but decided to give it a shot.’ He pauses. ‘Any idea how to reach her?’
‘I really don’t,’ I tell him.
‘I’m from New York. Used to see her whenever I came to the Bay Area. Drove over from San Francisco this morning hoping she’d still be here.’ He pauses again. ‘You wouldn’t be in the same line of work?’
My first instinct is to blow him off. I hesitate. He’s polite and I don’t detect anything creepy. That he came by suggests he was one of her regulars. If he’s willing to share, this could be a chance to get a client’s perspective. So instead of telling him I’m not in the same line of work, I ask if he has time for coffee.
‘Sure.’
I direct him to Downtown Café, tell him I’ll meet him there in fifteen minutes, ask him to describe himself.
‘Dark hair, gray business suit, blue shirt, red and gray striped tie.’
Sounds like an old-fashioned gent.
I tell him I’ll be carrying a copy of The New Yorker.
Since he’s in business attire, I change from black T-shirt and jeans to blouse and skirt, and forgo wearing my black moto jacket. I slip on a pair of medium-heel pumps, grab my New Yorker, snatch up a pair of blue tinted shades to complete the ensemble, and check myself in the mirror.
Be sincere, I tell myself. Don’t wait too long to tell him Chantal’s dead. If he thinks you’re playing him, he’ll shut down.
I spot him right away. He’s sitting facing the door. Soon as I walk in, he smiles and rises.
I introduce myself as Tess. He tells me his name’s Carl. There’s a moment when I’m tempted to repeat his name the way I repeated Mike’s in the Redwood Lounge.
We check each other out. He’s younger than he sounded, about forty, appears prosperous, perhaps an internet company exec. No wedding band, but if he’s married he probably slipped it off.
‘So what brings you to the Bay Area?’ I ask.
‘I’m an architect. We’re setting up a branch office. I’m looking for an industrial loft with lots of light, preferably in San Francisco.’
‘Not Oakland?’
He shakes his head. ‘Oakland’s got a bad rep. Our clients would be scared off.’ He peers at me. ‘You’re very attractive.’ I peer back, noncommittal. ‘And,’ he adds, ‘you’ve taken over The Eagle’s Nest, my favorite Bay Area playroom.’
Time, I decide, to set him straight.
‘Yes, I’ve taken over Chantal’s old place, but I’m not in the same line of work. You’re wondering why I asked to meet. There’s something about her I felt you should know, something I didn’t want to say over the intercom.’
He peers at me, concerned.
‘Chantal passed away a few weeks back. The police say she was murdered.’
‘Is this true?’ When I nod he shakes his head. ‘Wow! That’s awful! I can hardly believe it.’
‘It’s a weird story. She moved out suddenly like she was scared, disappeared, then turned up dead. I’ve been talking to some of her friends. Seems she was a fascinating woman. I’m thinking of writing something about her.’
‘You’re a journalist?’
‘Dramatist. I write stories then perform them as monologues. Look, you don’t have to talk to me. But if you feel like talking about Chantal, you have my word I’ll never use your name, not that I know it anyway.’
‘It’s Carl Draper.’ He fishes a business card from his wallet, hands it to me: DRAPER & ASSOCIATES ARCHITECTS. There’s a phone number bearing the San Francisco area code and a PO box address.
Stirred by this act of trust, I reciprocate by handing him one of mine.
He reads it aloud: ‘Tess Berenson, monologist. Have I heard of you?’
‘That you ask tells me you haven’t.’
‘Sorry. Dumb question. My mind isn’t working too well. I’m still in shock.’
‘Everyone who knew Chantal was shocked. None of her friends can figure it out. And neither can the police … though they’re working on it.’
He studies me. ‘You seem very nice. I’ll be glad to talk to you about Chantal.’ Again he lowers his eyes. ‘I guess you’ve figured out I was one of her clients.’
I nod. ‘I’m trying to get a sense of what she was like. You’re the first person I’ve met who sessioned with her.’
‘Suppose I take you to lunch? Chantal and I would sometimes grab a bite at the Cambodian place around the corner. Good food and there’s a quiet table in back.’
I know the place. The food is good. I tell him I’ll go with him if we can split the check.
We walk to the restaurant. The streets of downtown are filled with office workers on their lunch hour, some strolling, others sitting on park benches munching sandwiches, still others lying on concrete piers taking in the sun.
After we sit and order, he leans forward.
‘This may surprise you but I’d like to describe some of what we did. Not the details, but the parameters. I’m not ashamed of my sexuality.’
I tell him I appreciate his openness and promise again not to betray his confidence.
‘I enjoy sessioning with pro dommes, so whenever I travel I check out the local websites. About a year ago, when I started coming out here, I found something interesting and unusual on Chantal’s site. Most of the pros list the same specialties. She offered what she called “Psychological Sessions”, “BDSM Oriented Life-Coaching”, and “discussions of BDSM Theory and Aesthetics”. She also listed “Confessionals”. That struck a nerve. I called her to discuss what she meant by it. We met at a café down the street. That’s why, when you suggested coffee, I thought you might be a pro checking me out. Anyway, she quickly put me at ease. She seemed genuinely interested in my needs. We set up a session. Two days later I drove back over here and we got into it. My scene … well, this is kinda embarrassing, but I’ve told you this much so why not tell it all? My scene was to be in a kind of mock church confession combined with a parody of a session with a psychotherapist.’
If I was attentive before, I’m doubly so now. ‘Did she use the word “psychotherapist”?’
He shakes his head. ‘She told me in California you have to be licensed to call yourself that. She used the term life coach.’
‘How did the scene resemble a psychotherapy session?’
‘I think it would be better to tell you how it didn’t. For one thing, I was naked. For another, I was bound face up on a gurney. Actually it was less like therapy than an interrogation with a very strict priestess-interrogator. She began slowly, then picked up the questioning. She wanted to know everything, wanted me to expose my entire private life – dreams, fantasies, sexual history. The more I told her the more she demanded. It felt liberating to be stripped so bare. She intended, she told me, not only to explore my conscious mind, but to probe my unconscious, the “animal core of you”, as she put it, “the deepest part of you that defines who you really are”.’
Our food arrives. The waitress sets down our platters and moves away.
‘You’re probably wondering where the BDSM comes in. I won’t go into that except to say that when she didn’t feel I was being forthright or thought I was lying, she punished me by binding me into painful stress positions, and then applying pain to sensitive areas.’
‘Sounds like an inquisition.’
‘Oh, she was a grand inquisitor all right! I found it impossible to resist her.’ He looks up at me. ‘Hey, let’s eat before the food gets cold.’
As we dive in to our respective dishes, I consider the liberation effect he described. It remi
nds me how I often feel when I leave Dr Maude’s.
‘This fetish of yours for confession – did Chantal ask where that came from?’
‘I told her upfront. I was brought up Catholic. Like other Catholic kids you’ve heard about, I was abused by a priest. I went through years of psychotherapy trying to resolve it. Nothing seemed to work. Then I found I could obliterate the pain by eroticizing it. Somehow the abuse by my childhood confessor and my sessions with various shrinks got combined into a fantasy of submitting to a dominant priestess. Chantal seemed to understand exactly what I needed, and best of all was able to deliver it.’
‘Sounds like she really helped you.’
‘Though we only sessioned a dozen times, I view those experiences as life-altering. I always left her place with a sense of clarity, a feeling that the muddle in my mind had been wiped clean.’ He pauses. ‘Of course that only lasted a while, and then I’d need another fix. I became addicted to her.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m really going to miss her.’
‘Did she reveal anything about her personal life?’
‘Only after session. We’d go out, grab a bite, often here. Then we’d talk as equals. She was strict in session, but nice outside.’ He pauses. ‘What I liked about her was that she wasn’t big on therapeutic mumbo-jumbo. “We’re doing this together,” she’d remind me. “It’s not the why that’s important. It’s the reality, the action, the emotional work-out.”’
After we split the check, Carl walks me back to the Buckley. On the way I ask how he’d characterize Chantal’s style of domination.
His answer comes quickly. ‘Commitment and presence. Total commitment to me as her client, and, when we sessioned, being totally present in the scene.’
Just like a really good actress, I think.
The Luzern Photograph Page 16