Table of Contents
Cover
Previous Titles by William Bayer
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
The Photograph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Author’s Afterword
Footnotes
Previous Titles by William Bayer
The Janek Series
PEREGRINE
SWITCH
WALLFLOWER
MIRROR MAZE
PUNISH ME WITH KISSES *
PATTERN CRIMES
BLIND SIDE
THE DREAM OF THE BROKEN HORSES
CITY OF KNIVES
HIDING IN THE WEAVE
THE LUZERN PHOTOGRAPH *
* published by Severn House
THE LUZERN PHOTOGRAPH
William Bayer
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
This first world edition published 2015
in Great Britain and the USA by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2016 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.
eBook edition first published in 2015 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Copyright © 2015 by William Bayer.
The right of William Bayer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Bayer, William author.
The Luzern photograph
1. Murder–Investigation–California–Oakland–Fiction.
2. Andreas–Salome, Lou, 1861–1937–Fiction. 3. Nietzsche,
Friedrich Wilhelm, 1844–1900–Fiction. 4. Detective and mystery stories.
I. Title
813.5’4-dc23
ISBN-13: 978-07278-8546-3 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-654-1 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-708-0 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,
Stirlingshire, Scotland.
‘Without an element of cruelty at the root of every spectacle, the theater is not possible.’
—Antonin Artaud
THE PHOTOGRAPH
On May 16, 1882, two men in their thirties and a woman barely twenty-one years old entered a photography studio at No. 50, Zurcherstrasse in Luzern, Switzerland.
The proprietor-photographer, Jules Bonnet, smiled broadly when the trio informed him that they wished to pose for a photograph in the form of a tableau vivant to commemorate a very happy personal arrangement they had just made.
Bonnet suggested various poses, but the older man, Fritz, insisted on setting up the shot. Fritz rummaged through the studio, assembled various props, improvised others, and finally set the scene in front of a large backdrop, a diorama depicting the mountain known as Die Jungfrau. When all was ready, the three posed and Bonnet, beneath the black hood of his view camera, made the exposure.
The picture that was taken that afternoon would become famous, indeed infamous, and on account of its enigmatic aspects it is still discussed and argued about more than one hundred thirty years after it was taken.
ONE
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.’
TWO
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.’
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