‘Thrown!’
I emphasize the word, slowly twisting it in my mouth to show how deeply it cut. ‘Then the public gloating when my other son, Justin, was convicted of running a Ponzi scheme.
‘There are some, perhaps a few here tonight, pleased that he’s incarcerated. You invested money with him, lost it, and now you’re pleased to know he’s suffering.’ I take a short bitter breath. ‘Schadenfreude – that’s the new blood-sport in town these days, isn’t it? You all know what I mean.’ I take a long pause as if trying to remember what to say next.
‘And now,’ I tell them, ‘we come to the matter of Madame’s parking permits. They say I have too many.’ I titter, amused. ‘How much time and money do you have to give around here before they leave you alone? It isn’t enough, evidently, to collect old fur coats for the homeless. That was my idea, by the way – collect them from you when it was no longer politically correct to wear them, cut off the sleeves and turn them into blankets for those sorrowful unfortunates who live on our streets. Thanks to me your old fur coats and stoles, some reeking of your veddy expensive perfumes, now protect the homeless from the cold. As for those silly parking permits, this is, as you all can see,’ I gesture broadly, ‘a not incommodious residence. It requires a sizeable staff. My employees need to park. Thus I purchased permits for them. Yes, I needed quite a few more than your average citizen. But is that so evil? Really?’ I wipe my eyes. ‘Oh my God, what do they want of me? How much more must I give?’
I tell them I feel disrespected by the rumors going around, such as the one that Sam was gay and kept a pied-à-terre in Japantown where he met little Asian boys for romps in the hay.
‘For God’s sakes, the man’s dead! His philanthropies … we’re talking about tens of millions. But never mind that and never mind that the poor guy’s in his grave. Let’s roast him now that he can’t defend himself, mock him for his little peccadilloes! The point I’m making is it’s quite quite unfair. But then what do they want of us? Are we to give and give only to be reviled? Is that what it all comes to these sorrowful days?’
I pull myself up into a regal stance. ‘In this regard let me say that we are not amused. I believe Queen Victoria said that once. Yes, I’ve made my full share of (to put it kindly!) faux-pas. When the Modigliani exhibition came to the DeYoung and I held a reception in this very room, and the directrice of the Musée d’Art Moderne in Paris, who loaned most of the works, asked to see my Modig … well, I said something rather shall we say … inopportune. At least so I’ve been told. I don’t truly recall, as I was a bit tipsy at the time.’
I give out with a little snort of amusement. ‘I believe I told the lady I kept my Modig upstairs in a room my granddaughter uses on those rare occasions when the little brat deigns to sleep over. Because, I told the lady, I don’t really like old Amedeo. Oh, the shock! The glances of derision! What a rude philistine was I!’ I puff out my bust. ‘You’d think I’d vomited on the poor woman’s borrowed second-hand Valentino! I simply spoke my mind, spoke truth to power … though we could certainly debate who actually held the power in that particular social context, she the lender or yours truly the benefactor? But never mind! Point is I was mocked for it, severely mocked.’
I tell them how one spends forty years contributing, giving, kissing (if I may be crude about it) butt, and still they want more. And how, God knows, one must always be politically correct. God forbid one give offense to anyone! Because then they all look askance at you and whisper (but plenty loud enough so you can hear!) that your late husband was queer and your younger son’s a poseur, and the other one’s in the pokey because he made some inadvertent business errors.
‘Were all fair game, all of us. You and me! Our crime – well, we all know what it is. All of us here are guilty of it. Being, to put it bluntly, rich! Some of us bloody damn rich! And how very sweet it is to make the rich pay for being so! How they love to see social nobles such as ourselves rolling in the dust of disgrace. If I’ve learned one thing in my sixty-seven odd years it’s that no matter what I do, how much I give, it will never ever be enough.’
I peer around, careful to avoid the eyes of my real friends, concentrating on the eyes of the paying audience.
‘Luis here, who is of Brazilian heritage, told me about a Mexican soap opera that’s very popular in Latin America.’ I turn to Luis. He smiles at me and nods. ‘The title’s quite expressive, Los Ricos También Lloran. “The Rich Also Cry”. I could tell you a lot about that. I’m sure some of you can as well.’
At this I observe some knowing nodding in the audience.
‘I have found myself in tears quite often lately, about what things have come to in this world I thought I knew and understood. Aging is difficult too. Our beauty fades. People show less respect. And the new people, as Sam used to call them, the up-and-comers – they don’t seem to know who we are. Or were. How we built the great cultural institutions here – symphony, opera, ballet, museums. Supported them through thick and thin. And then … what? Who are we really? Who am I? Just some dumpy old dyed-hair society broad who passes out smelly old fur coats to the homeless. Oh, and the politics these days! The crude way people dress on the streets! Please don’t get me started!’ I take a long pause. ‘But there’s a sadness to it, isn’t there? A sense of time passing one by, an era ending. The world that we all knew and loved, the world we created and nurtured here, all passing now. Gone, as they say, with the wind …’
Another long pause.
‘I look in the mirror some mornings and don’t recognize myself. “Who am I?” I ask the glass. “Has all I’ve done in my life been for naught? Has it all been meaningless?” All that giving and organizing, the luncheons and charity balls, the planning and pleading – what, I wonder, did it mean? Will time vindicate us? Who knows? There’s an old expression: “‘Not I,’” said the walrus!”
‘Forgive me now,’ I beg. ‘I know I’m ranting. I can see it in your faces, how embarrassed you all are on my behalf. Are you sorry you came? Sorry even to have received the gift of Luis’s beautiful playing? The way he makes his gorgeous old cello moan with pleasure the way a woman moans in the arms of a skillful lover. Or perhaps I should say as a woman would moan if the man … well, never mind! As I was saying, the arts feed us, heal us, give a special sheen and luster to our lives. And yet, it seems, not always, and, well, perhaps not even tonight. For me tonight is bittersweet. I also choose not to go into that. Let it simply be said that soon an extremely talented and very handsome young man will be off to New York to build what I am certain will be a brilliant career. And I am very, very proud of him. An old lady, this withered old windbag of a thing who stands before you now, with her lines and wrinkles and sagging boobs … she’ll still be here soaking up the abuse. The abuse which never seems to stop … the mockery, the lies and the vicious, ever-so-vicious schadenfreude … which, and I say this quite merrily too, makes our cruel world go ’round and ’round …’
As I break down into sobs, I see my audience turn away. Luis comes to me, holds me, supports me, leads me from the ballroom. I cling to him, a sobbing old lady broken on the wheel of age. Even out of their sight I continue to sob. I hear some shuffling. Are they standing to applaud? Of course not! How could they? Finally I straighten myself, take Luis’ hand and we go out to stand before them again. I refuse to bow. My eyes remain watery and aloof as I stare stone-faced at the far wall of the ballroom.
Finally the applause begins. Jerry, my ex, leads it. I want to acknowledge him, thank him for doing so, but I don’t want to break character, and so I grimace, act embarrassed, then even more distraught. The applause turns thunderous, or so it seems. And the ones who paid so dearly to come – they love my piece for the way it mirrors them and yet allows them to remain aloof. For a few moments listening to me they forgot it was a performance. Now they remember that’s all it was. And so they yell, ‘Bravo! Bravo!’ and still I refuse to beam or in any way acknowledge their praise. I start sobbing again. I can’t he
lp myself. I cling to Luis as once again he escorts me off stage.
I do not attend the after-show reception. I told Grace that it would be part of my performance that I not do so. I told her I want to leave the audience perplexed about what they’ve seen, wondering whether I identified something as yet unrecognized in their lives.
After I wash off my makeup, shower, and change upstairs, Rex, Luis, and I slip out silently through a back entrance. A taxi is waiting to take us to Zuni Café. En route Rex turns to me.
‘You totally slayed it, Tess! Good as you were in rehearsal, performing it for an audience brought out something special. You electrified those people. They were in thrall to you, awed by your anguish. There were waves of pity and terror in that room. I’ve seen most everything you’ve done, but I’ve never seen you give so much of yourself.’ He turns to Luis. ‘You were great too. Your powerful playing made it work. And you performed the backstory with subtlety and finesse.’
When we arrive at the restaurant I’m so drained I barely find the energy to speak. But half an hour later, in the midst of our late dinner of oysters and roast chicken accompanied by champagne, I catch a second wind.
Luis turns to me. ‘Are you OK, Tess?’
I assure them both I am. ‘I just need a good night’s sleep. Mrs Z has been in my head too long. Time to expel her and go on to something new.’
Did I really ‘slay it’ tonight? I hope so. Good or bad, I’m glad it’s over and that I’ll never have to perform it again. I’m excited now only about what lies ahead: a major piece about Chantal, the murdered Oakland dominatrix obsessed with Lou Andreas-Salomé, and the young woman (me!) who takes over her loft and in turn becomes obsessed with them both.
I sleep in. When I wake it’s nearly eleven. I find a slew of congratulatory messages on my voicemail.
Grace is ecstatic. She says most of the audience hung around for hours talking about what they kept calling ‘the show.’
‘They wouldn’t shut up about it,’ she says. Best of all, she adds, no one complained about the price. ‘They felt they’d really seen something! I’m proud to have hosted Recital, Tess. Let me know if you decide to perform it again. My ballroom will always be available.’
Jerry is not nearly as effusive, but his message does contain a line that washes away some of the bitterness between us: ‘Your Mrs Z was a perfect monstre sacré. There’ve always been people like that going back to ancient Rome and before. Proust knew them well. Yours was the twenty-first-century century model. Quel cri de cœur! If I ever had doubts about your talent, tonight you put them to rest.’
To have your ex admit he may have underrated you – not a bad outcome!
Dr Maude says my performance left her with tears in her eyes, ‘on behalf of the person you created and then stripped bare before us, and perhaps even more for all you put into her.’ We will, she promises, discuss this more extensively next session.
I think the most unexpected reaction comes from Leo Scarpaci. He calls around noon. Seeing it’s him, I pick up.
‘Is bedazzled a word?’ he asks.
‘It is. But I’ll settle for dazzled … if that’s how you felt.’
‘It was. Don’t know anyone like Mrs Z. Don’t hang out with her kind of folks. You took me into a world I knew nothing about and made me believe it could exist.’ He pauses. ‘Is it OK for me to tell you this, Tess?’
I assure him I can’t imagine a finer compliment.
He pauses. ‘I want to get to know you better, Tess. We’ll be seeing each other tomorrow when I interview Josh. But I was thinking … would you …?’
‘Go out with you? If that’s what you’re asking the answer’s yes.’
‘Thanks. You make it easy. If Saturday night’s OK, I’ll pick you up, we’ll have dinner and then I want to take you to see something I doubt you’ve seen before. Not elegant like last night. But it’s decadent and I remember you told me you like decadent stuff.’
Late in the afternoon Josh arrives to drape my skylights.
‘Loved your show, Tess. Thanks for inviting me. Was kinda surprised to see the detective there. I’m still not crazy about talking to him.’
‘It’s about Chantal, Josh. You’ll be doing it for her.’
‘Sure,’ he says, ‘but cops have a way of sweet-talking you, then getting you to admit to something.’
‘Stop worrying. I’ll be there for most of it. You’ll be sketching. By the way, Scarpaci’s not too happy about that. He likes to look a witness in the eye. So you’ll have a little advantage there. My suggestion – get used to him while you’re sketching me, then give him your full attention after I leave. All he wants is to bring in Chantal’s killer. I know you want that too.’
After he hangs the drapes, he comes down from the ladder and shows me how to work them. They draw beautifully, and once closed block out all light from above. No one can watch me through my skylights now.
From the moment Scarpaci steps into Josh’s loft he makes an effort to put Josh at ease. He pauses in front of the unfinished Queen of Cups in whose face Josh has already roughed out my features.
The painting isn’t what I expected: a lean lone female figure in jeans and black tank top, bare arms toned, standing casually in a desert amidst dunes. There’s no one else around and nothing man-made in the background. One of the Queen’s hands rests on her hip. The other holds out a white porcelain cup. Though the painting is frontal and hieratic like Queen of Swords, there’s something attractively casual about this Queen, loose and contemporary, that defies the tarot norm. She’s confident but not haughty, and definitely not a bitch.
Scarpaci squints at it. ‘She already looks like Tess.’
‘She’ll look a lot more like her when I’m done,’ Josh says.
We settle down, Scarpaci beside me on Josh’s couch, Josh in a chair across from us, a low table in between. As soon as he’s seated Josh picks up his sketch pad and begins to draw. Scarpaci sets up his recording device on the table, watches Josh a while, then starts the interview.
Josh, to my surprise, doesn’t obfuscate as he has so often with me. He describes Chantal’s security system, and admits he watched many of her sessions.
‘I never saw anything go wrong,’ he tells Scarpaci. ‘I don’t think she had real security concerns. She was very careful about taking on new clients. She’d always meet them first at one of the neighborhood cafés.’
‘So why have you monitor her sessions?’
‘Selected sessions,’ Josh corrects him, ‘only when she activated the feed. Frankly, I think there was an element of exhibitionism involved. She liked having me watching her.’
‘Think she was trying to turn you on?’
‘She told me one time that she liked having an audience, that she believed that being aware I was watching improved her performances.’ He turns to me. ‘You and she are alike in many ways, Tess. I think she’d have admired what you did the other night.’
Scarpaci leans forward. ‘So she was an exhibitionist and you were her voyeur – that’s what you’re saying?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And you never saw a client step out of line or give her any cause to be afraid?’
‘If I had I’d have told you. I’ve no idea what she was frightened of. Chantal was not a fearful person.’
‘What about a threat?’
‘I believe she could have handled that. And if she couldn’t she’d have taken it to someone who could. Maybe even the cops.’
Scarpaci responds with a grin. ‘You never recorded any of her sessions?’ Josh shakes his head. ‘Sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
Scarpaci nods, then pulls out the chariot photo and places it on the coffee table. Josh puts down his sketch pad and picks it up, allowing me a quick look at his drawing. I like it. He’s caught something in me – the long steady stare I employ sometimes, similar to the way I peered past the audience at Recital when I came out unsmiling at the end.
‘What can you
tell me about this?’ Scarpaci asks.
Josh gazes at the photo. ‘I can tell you plenty. The guy on the right – that’s me. The other guy – I’ve no idea. But I’m certain he was one of her regulars.’
‘You?’ I ask. ‘You’re kidding, Josh.’
He laughs. ‘Want me to strip so you can compare our bods?’
‘OK, OK.’ Scarpaci squints. ‘She’s in this chariot wielding a whip over two naked guys wearing fetish hoods pulling her around.’
‘We didn’t pull her. We posed in place. She wanted it to look staged. That was the point of it, she said. She told me she wanted an image that would be a work of art, something powerful that would make a statement about who she was and what she did. She showed me an old photo in a book. The guys in it were dressed in frock coats, there was a cart instead of a chariot, and the girl holding the whip grinned like she thought the whole thing was a joke. Chantal told me that was her inspiration. She wanted to use it as a model, recycle the imagery, and by remaking it turn it into something rawer and more intense. But despite the changes she was adamant it be in black-and-white and that the content and angle of vision be exactly the same. When I asked her why this was so important she said she was haunted by the original, and that people who knew of it would instantly recognize the source.’
‘Who operated the camera?’
‘She did by remote. It was her concept, her camera, her lights. Once it starting clicking, we had to stay still and pose.’ He sits back. ‘There were some problems. For the first set of shots she had us wear black fabric hoods. But when she checked the images she saw that the lights burned through the fabric and exposed our features. She didn’t like that. She wanted her slaves to be anonymous. I told her she could easily black out our faces on the computer, but again she was adamant, our faces had to be masked even before she manipulated the image. So she brought out this pair of matching black-leather fetish hoods she used in sessions, had us buckle them on, then did a reshoot. She chose this image to put up on her website.’ He shakes his head. ‘I wish I’d copied it. Her website’s gone now. Seems she took it down when she decided to leave.’
The Luzern Photograph Page 19