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The Luzern Photograph
By William Bayer Severn House Publishers Ltd
Copyright © 2015 William Bayer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-84751-654-1
CHAPTER 1
Vienna, Austria. December 1912. A wintry Sunday afternoon of glittering sunlight and frosty air. Crowds mingle on the Ringstrasse, well-dressed men and women wearing fur hats and long winter coats. Cafés with art-nouveau window treatments line the boulevards. Gray stone statues of famous Austrian composers peer down from pedestals. Groups of soldiers in military greatcoats eye young women walking in pairs. A student violinist plays a virtuoso piece by Paganini, while further down the street a gypsy player garners coins with showy interpretations of Strauss. There is a hum, people talking, laughing, the sound too of the hoof beats of horse-drawn carriages and backfires from passing automobiles.
Two women are briskly walking on the Franzensring, passing the Volksgarten, striding toward the Hofburg Theater. Of different ages, they stroll arm-in-arm like a mother and daughter out for a promenade.
The older woman is fifty-one, stout, draped in a heavy unfashionably cut Russian fur jacket. Her name is Lou Andreas-Salomé, the author of ten books and over fifty articles. She is one of the most famous female intellectuals in Europe on account of her writing, her early romance with the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, and her long-term love affair with the poet Rainer Maria Rilke. She is also notorious for her role as femme fatale in a photograph taken when she was twenty-one years old in which she holds a whip while sitting in a cart pulled by a pair of men in harness, Nietzsche and his best friend at the time, Paul Rée. She has recently come to Vienna to study psychoanalysis with Dr Sigmund Freud, after which she intends to return to Göttingen, Germany, to start her own psychoanalytic practice.
Her companion, nearly thirty years younger, is a former child actress and would-be writer named Ellen Delp. She wears a stylish set of furs, has a slim figure, sharp Nordic features, and an exquisite mane of dark blonde hair. Although she and Lou are unrelated, Lou regards her companion with great affection, often introducing her to friends as 'my adopted daughter.'
Suddenly Ellen draws Lou close to whisper in her ear.
'There's that man!'
'What man?'
'The one I told you about. The one who's been following us and hanging around our hotel.'
'Oh, that one! Let's find out what he's up to.'
'You're not going to speak to him!'
Lou nods. 'I've been followed before. I don't like it. If someone has business with me, he must approach in a proper manner.'
Lou turns to eye their follower, a young man, barely into his twenties, who, realizing that the women have become aware of him, stops in his tracks and gapes back.
Lou starts toward him. Ellen tries to restrain her.
'You're not going to —'
'Oh, I am!' Lou confirms.
She gently breaks free, then strides forward with confidence, a stern expression on her face. The grand way she moves signals she's not to be trifled with. She has, her manner implies, dealt with fools like this before. Intimidation, she knows, will usually turn a stalker back. She is not afraid of this man or of anyone ... and never has been.
Approaching the young man, Lou notices a certain shabbiness about him. Though he appeared presentable at a distance, up close his suit is revealed to be threadbare and his shoes are coming apart at the seams. Still, he is decently groomed, cheeks shaven, a mustache curling slightly upwards at the corners of his mouth. His most prominent features are his eyes, which burn with an intensity Lou has encountered before in strangers who, for reasons of their own, become obsessed with her.
It does not occur to her that the young man is infatuated with young and beautiful Ellen Delp. She knows that it is herself, Lou von Salomé, who is his focus. She is certain of that and she is right.
'You're following us.' She addresses the young man without rancor or warmth. 'I don't like that. Be so kind as to state your business, then be off.'
The young man starts to stutter. 'I kn-kn-know who you are.'
'That's nice. I know who I am too. What do you want?'
'My name —'
'I don't care what your name is. Why are you stalking us?'
'I just —'
'What?' And when he cannot manage to respond: 'I see. You're speechless. My presence so bedazzles you, you've lost the ability to explain yourself.'
'Please. I'm sorry. I apologize.'
'You should be very sorry. A stalker must apologize then desist.'
'I promise —'
'What?'
'I don't mean you any harm. I just wanted to ... talk a bit. If you'd just allow me to introduce ...'
She cuts him off. 'Not here and not like this. Following us on the street – that's intolerable. My friend tells me she's seen you hanging around our hotel. If you have something you wish to say to me, I suggest you address me in a proper letter, then leave it at the hotel desk. If I decide to allow further contact, you will be informed. Do you understand?'
'Yes! Perfectly. Thank you. I'm so sorry I ...'
'If you're truly sorry, be so kind as to put your apology in writing. That's all I have to say to you.' She shows him a tight smile. 'Now go! Disappear!'
The young man nods, then walks off rapidly in the opposite direction.
Lou turns back to Ellen, who has been lingering behind throughout the encounter. 'I doubt we'll be seeing him again.' She rubs her gloved hands together. 'Brrr, it's cold. Shall we go to a café? I could use some coffee, and we could share a warm strudel.'
CHAPTER 2
I have always been attracted by decadence and perversity, and have made them the subject of my art. Which is why from the moment I walk into this loft I know I want to live here. There are plenty of reasons: great views, high ceilings, skylights, it's filled with brilliant sunlight, and is on the top floor of a wonderful spooky eight-story art-deco office building in downtown Oakland. But it's certain items, left behind by the previous tenant, that clinch the matter for me.
The building manager, a young, lanky, beaming Chinese-American, Clarence Chen, gestures toward these left-behinds.
'They belonged to Ms Chantal Desforges, a professional dominatrix.' He pronounces the word with gusto followed by a quick raising of his eyebrows. Clarence, I can see, is flirting with me ... a good thing since I desperately want to rent the place.
'Just before Chantal moved out,' he continues, 'she held a tag sale and sold off most of her ... er ... equipment. What a hoot! You should have seen the characters that showed up! All these pro dommes with their hunky slaves to help them haul the stuff away. Anyway, what she couldn't sell she left behind.' He gestures at an eight-foot-wide steel grill that converts an alcove into a prison cell. Its barred door hangs precariously. Then he points to a seven-foot-high wooden X-frame embedded in the opposite wall.
'She called that her St. Andrews Cross,' Clarence tells me.
I turn back to the cell. 'What happened to the door?'
'Maybe one of her "prisoners" busted out,' he says, clearly delighted by the notion. He winks at me. 'If you do decide to take the place and want me to get rid of this stuff, I'll bring in welders to cut up the grillwork and a plasterer to patch the wall. But I'm thinking, hey, why go to all that trouble if the new tenant wants to keep it?' He shoots me a lascivious grin. 'I can kinda tell by your expression that you like it.'
He's right. I'm much intrigued by the perversity of these artifacts and tantalized by thoughts of what it will feel like to live among them. I tell Clarence I find them amusing and if I take the place he can leave them just as they are.
'All right!' he says, pleased he's read me so well.
He shows me the galley kitchen ('top of the line appliances'), the bedroom ('how 'bout that skylight – you can look up at the stars!'), and the huge walk-in closet.
'You say you're an artist, Ms Berenson?' he asks.
'Performance artist, yes.'
'I like artists. Got several in the building. You guys make good tenants and you're a lot more interesting than the accountants.' He chuckles. 'Chantal was an artist. At least so she said, though I never saw any of her artwork.' He shrugs, turns businesslike. 'This loft'll run you seventeen-fifty including utilities. Think that might work for you?'
I hold my breath. 'Actually I think it will.'
'You're saying you'll take it?'
'I definitely am,' I tell him.
Due to the crummy economy the downtown Oakland office-rental market is in a slump, inspiring smart landlords to convert unoccupied office space into live/work lofts. Having just been awarded a Hollis Grant I'm now in a position to rent one.
The Hollis, called the 'mini-genius' to differentiate it from the more famous and lucrative MacArthur Fellowship, provides a female artist (writer, painter, choreographer, performer) with a living of fifty thousand dollars a year for five years. In return the grantee has no obligation other than to devote herself entirely to creative work. Because Hollises are awarded only to women, there's an expectation that the supported work will reflect a feminist perspective. This didn't perturb me as all my performance pieces are about women. I was thrilled and grateful to receive a Hollis for it promised to be a life-altering event. Over the past few years I've gotten by working various boring day-jobs: hotdog-stand vendor outside the Oakland Coliseum; midnight-to-six a.m. night watchperson for a tire company. The Hollis had now relieved me of that, allowing me time and freedom to work up new pieces and now to lease this magnificent space in which to do so.
It doesn't occur to me to try to bargain with Clarence. I want the loft too much. I also know he's offering a fabulous deal. A penthouse this nice would cost three times more in San Francisco.
Heading back to the creaky elevator, Clarence points to a line of cursive lettering over the archway between the foyer and the main room. He recites it aloud: '"If you have no more happiness to give, give me your pain!" – Lou Andreas-Salomé. Chantal had that inscribed,' he tells me. 'She told me Lou Salomé was a famous woman.'
'True, and it's a famous line. Later Nietzsche set it to music. Quite appropriate for a dominatrix.'
'Hey, you're smart!' Clarence says. 'Chantal was also intellectual.' He gestures toward empty built-in bookcases in the foyer. 'She had a ton of books.' He peers at me. 'Cal grad?' I nod. 'Major?'
'Theater, Dance, and Performance.'
He nods approvingly. 'I majored in Viticulture and Enology at UC Davis. Wanted to work in the wine industry.' He spreads his arms. 'So here I am ... a building manager.'
On our way down I notice the lighting in the elevator dims then brightens between floors, and that the cab moves slowly then speeds up just before it stops abruptly at the lobby.
As we cross it Clarence points out period details.
'How 'bout those sconces! That brass-work! I love the moldings and the coffered ceiling. They tell me this lobby's worth a fortune.'
As we descend to his basement office, he explains that the Buckley, as the building's called, is owned by his great-aunt Esther, an elderly Chinese lady resident in Vancouver.
'She bought it as an investment property. Put me in charge. Which means I get to decide who lives here.' He glances at me. 'I only rent to people I like.'
'That's a really nice thing to say, Clarence ... especially as we only just met.'
'Well, I hope you'll come around to accepting that I like you,' he says quietly.
In his office, he prints out a lease. We sign papers, I write out a check, then we shake hands.
'If for any reason you're not happy here, give me a month's notice and I'll release you,' Clarence tells me. 'I did that for Chantal.' He turns solemn. 'She was only here a year. Then, don't know why, she told me she had to leave. It was sudden. Couple days later she held the tag sale and cleared out. Didn't leave a forwarding address. Told me if anyone came around asking for her, I should tell them she left town on account of an illness in the family.' He shakes his head. 'I'll miss her. Beautiful. Elegant. Calm and low-key on the outside, but I had a feeling there was a lot going on underneath. She called the loft her "aerie", placed her business card, EAGLE'S NEST PRODUCTIONS, beside her bell downstairs.' He smiles. 'Guess she did that so her clients would know what was in store for them. She told me she liked to get her claws into people ... then not let go.'
Eagle's Nest – as I'm pondering that, thinking it sounds a little Hitlerian, Clarence flashes his best smile. 'Anything you need, Tess, give me a call day or night.'
Such a reasonable building manager! I can't believe my luck. Clarence nods sweetly as I inform him I'll start moving in the following day and will take up residence by the end of the week.
It's late April, the rains have stopped, and spring is very much in the air. The sun shines full each day, and there's a fresh aroma here in the East Bay, the smell of wild flowers popping up along the fringes of vacant lots, and of fruit trees in the neighborhoods coming into bloom. It could be my imagination, but it seems that even the troubled street people who hang out in front of the marijuana dispensaries are displaying glimmers of contentment.
The next few days are busy. I purchase new furniture – bed, black-leather couch and two matching chairs, a free-form Noguchi knock-off coffee table with ebony base, and a black-and-white checkerboard area rug.
I have in mind an austere living-room arrangement at one end of the loft, with my desk, mike stand, and video equipment at the other, leaving an expanse of dark parquet flooring upon which to rehearse.
I hire a student moving service to haul my boxes of books, kitchen equipment, files, and costumes from my storage unit in Berkeley. After they dump everything in the middle of the main room, I retrieve my four huge rolled-up Rorschach-style inkblots and take them to an art store to be framed. I made them one night ten years ago in a deserted second-floor life-drawing studio at the San Francisco Art Institute. After my then-art-school-boyfriend and I finished making love on the filthy sitter's couch, we smoked, got high, then he inked my naked body. I lay down on folded-in-half sheets of canvas, assumed various positions, then extricated myself after which we carefully folded over the pristine halves creating symmetrical blots.
On my way in and out of the Buckley, I occasionally run into other tenants as well as office employees who work on the lower floors. I notice a number of Chinese men in business suits all sporting slicked-back black hair. I introduce myself to an elderly woman who tells me she's a jewelry fabricator, and to a couple who own a leather store where they sell garments of their own design. Everyone is friendly.
Twice in the elevator I encounter a guy in paint-spattered coveralls. He looks about forty, has dark eyes, and wears a close-fitting black-wool watch cap from which protrudes a tail of dark hair secured by a soiled ribbon. The second time I see him I ask if he's a painter. When he nods I ask if he'd be available to do some touch-up work in my loft.
He gives me an ironic look. 'I am a painter,' he confirms, 'but not that kind.'
'Oh, you're an artist! Sorry!'
He laughs. 'Hey, no problem. I've done plenty of house painting, hung wallpaper, made electrical and plumbing repairs, and I know how to weld. Truth is I'd rather think of myself as a modest Jack-of-all-trades than an Artist-with-a-capital-A.' He peers closely at me. 'New?'
I tell him I've taken over the penthouse.
'Nice,' he says. 'Been up there a couple times. Great views. Knew the lady used to live there. Man, she left quick! Didn't even bother to say goodbye.' He shrugs as the elevator stops on five. 'Here's where I get off. Name's Josh.'
'I'm Tess.'
'Welcome to the Buckley, Tess.'
As the elevator door rolls shut, I catch a glimpse of the words BAD ART SUCKS stenciled on the back of his coveralls.
On Wednesday morning I head over to Berkeley to see Dr Maude for my regular weekly psychotherapy session. Today I need more than therapy, I need some serious counseling. It's getting time to tell my soon-to-be-ex boyfriend that I've rented the Oakland studio not just as a rehearsal space but as my new home. Although we've more or less agreed to separate, he doesn't know my departure is imminent. Dreading his reaction, I've postponed giving him the news. I'm hoping Dr Maude will advise me on how to handle what I fear will be a nasty confrontation.
Maude Jacobs sees her patients in a second-floor suite above a crafts gallery on San Pablo just two blocks from the martial-arts academy where I take kickboxing class. I like my Wednesday morning routine: expunging demons then exuding sweat, a cerebral hour with my shrink followed by an hour of vigorous cardio at the gym.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Luzern Photograph by William Bayer. Copyright © 2015 William Bayer. Excerpted by permission of Severn House Publishers Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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