The Luzern Photograph

by William Bayer

  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.

  Her office isn’t one of those sleek sterile environments inhabited by movie shrinks. The walls of her therapy room are crowded with stuff – 60s era rock-concert posters, drawings by her grandchildren, Mexican masks. Impossible to peer around without one’s eyes falling upon some outré object to which one can free associate. She’s told me these artifacts make her feel at home and that her hero, Freud, had a collection of antiquities displayed on his desk and shelves. A short plump woman with a direct manner, Dr Maude presents herself as a former hippie turned neo-Freudian psychoanalyst. It’s rare to find a Freudian in Berkeley. The town’s overrun with Jungians. But when I chose her I wasn’t concerned about her method. It was her earthiness and warmth that drew me.

  ‘So Jerry doesn’t know you’re about to move out?’ she asks. As always her tone is sympathetic. She sits back in her worn leather recliner, soft hazel eyes focused on mine. Her neat gray-streaked pageboy speaks of a lack of personal vanity, as do the casual dresses she wears, garments which, if commented upon, she’ll dismiss as ‘just some schmatte I threw on.’

  ‘Oh, he knows I want to leave,’ I tell her. ‘Brings it up all the time. But I don’t think he believes I’ll go through with it.’

  ‘Pretty obtuse since he knows you leased the loft.’

  ‘For all his brilliance, Jerry can be pretty obtuse at times.’

  ‘Tell me, if you can, what you particularly dislike about him?’

  I pause to consider. ‘I think it’s his spitefulness,’ I say finally. ‘His mean-spirited irony. That British manner he picked up when he got his doctorate at Oxford – debate-club sarcasm, joy in puncturing the other guy’s balloon. Sometimes when he talks to me it’s like he’s peeling a lemon … and I’m the lemon. That’s what I fucking can’t stand!’

  Dr Maude smiles. ‘I like your anger, Tess. You need to express that when you have things out with him.’

  ‘But, see, I can never win in a confrontation. He’s too smart, too verbal. He’ll cut me to shreds.’

  ‘A break-up isn’t a debate. You win when you leave. He wins if he convinces you to stay.’

  I assure her I have every intention of leaving. ‘We’ve stopped loving each other, and I don’t enjoy sleeping with him anymore.’

  Dr Maude’s heard a lot from me about our sex life, the initial attraction, how in the days just after we met we couldn’t keep our hands off one another. She’s heard plenty too the last few months about the waning of this attraction.

  ‘He’s a good-looking guy, but I don’t feel attracted anymore. Lately I can’t understand how I ever was.’

  ‘Before you were reacting to his looks and love-making. Now you’re reacting to his character. Considering the way he speaks to you, seems to me, aside from the bruise to his ego, he’ll be relieved you’re moving out.’ She exhales. ‘You know I don’t like to give advice, Tess. That isn’t what we do here. But today I’ll make an exception. I think you should have it out with him, this afternoon if possible. And you should be prepared to move out right afterwards.’

  Just the kind of advice I needed. Out on San Pablo I feel elated. Dr Maude often has that effect on me. If there’re times when I question her interpretations, I never doubt her ability to give me a lift. Though she’s a fully-trained psychoanalyst, not a life coach, she has a gift for imbuing me with optimism, inspiring me to vanquish my inner demons and take on the world.

  Over at San Pablo Martial Arts, I change into gym clothes, jump some rope, shadow-box, then put on gloves and go to work on the heavy bag. I started coming here for the aerobic classes. Friends told me kickboxing was a great way to do cardio. Kicks, knee strikes, and punch combinations make for a terrific workout. But lately watching other women spar, I’ve gotten interested in developing combat skills. I’m still fairly new at it, not ready yet for full-contact fighting. But sparring invigor
ates me. I’ve discovered I enjoy hitting, and, surprisingly, that I don’t mind getting hit. Something exciting about the give-and-take, striving to outmaneuver an opponent. But today I concentrate on punching and kicking the heavy bag. Does the heavy bag represent Jerry? I think today it probably does. Finally, after an hour, drenched in sweat, knees, feet and knuckles sore, I shower, get dressed, and head home to have things out with him.

  Unlike most UC professors, Jerry Hunsecker is rich. He inherited a wad from his father, who made a fortune in the Oklahoma oil patch, enabling him to purchase his modernist masterpiece house high up in the Berkeley Hills. Constructed of stone, redwood, and glass, it’s well positioned on its steep lot. Ceilings soar, floor tiles gleam, the living room is dominated by a magnificent granite fireplace, and every window is positioned to frame a perfect view.

  When Jerry invited me to move in, it didn’t occur to me I’d ever want to leave. But entering today, after my session with Dr Maude, I know I won’t miss living here. It speaks too clearly of Jerry’s cruel elegance.

  Better my new loft in downtown Oakland with its leavings of a dominatrix, than this compulsively arranged shrine to Jerry’s ego.

  I’m surprised at how few possessions I keep here. In an hour I’m ready to leave with three suitcases filled with clothing and four cardboard boxes containing my books and papers. I stack everything by the front door so Jerry will be forewarned when he comes home. Then I lie down on the living-room couch, close my eyes, and wait for his arrival.

  I must have dozed off. His voice booms to me from the entrance hall.

  ‘So you’re finally leaving me, are you, lover? All packed up, ready to make a clean break.’

  I sit up. ‘Hey, Jerry!’

  ‘Yeah, hey!’ He’s looming over me, eyes bristling with hurt, the shock of gray hair that crosses half his forehead hanging loose as he stares down at me nodding scornfully at my loss for words. He’s dressed in one of his bespoke sports jackets. His bench-made English shoes glow in the late afternoon light.

  ‘Yes, I’m leaving,’ I confirm, wanting not to show weakness as he stands menacingly above me. ‘Thought the least you deserved was to hear it from me face to face.’

  ‘Brave girl!’ His annoying irony again! But then I feel for him, watching him struggle to maintain composure. When he sits down opposite and lowers his eyes, I detect a tremor in his voice. ‘I’ve been expecting this, Tess. Every afternoon, on the drive home, I ask myself, “Is today going to be The Day?” And … well … seems today The Day has come.’

  ‘It wasn’t an easy decision,’ I assure him.

  ‘Sure. But better to be the dumper than the dumpee, right?’

  Hearing him turn edgy, I stiffen, waiting for the follow-up. It comes at me like a jab, hard and fast.

  ‘Funny how that Hollis grant of yours backfired on me,’ he says. ‘Guess I should’ve expected it.’

  ‘I’d have left anyway. Things have gone sour for us.’

  ‘And yet …’

  ‘What?’

  He smiles. ‘It’s not like I didn’t have anything to do with your getting it. The Hollis, I mean.’

  ‘Oh, really! You put in the fix for me – that’s what you’re hinting?’

  He raises his eyebrows. ‘I did tell certain people, whom I knew were Hollis scouts, that they should take a good long look at your work. They did and you got the grant. Of course I’m not trying to take anything away from you. I don’t mean to diminish your achievements.’

  I want to scream then, point out how maliciously he is trying to diminish me, and what this says about his character. I want to tell him how I find him nearly unbearable on account of his put-downs, verbal jabs, uppercuts and carefully aimed knock-’em-out punches. I want to tell him how little respect I have for his take-down book reviews and sterile academic studies of mid-century French nouveau roman writers whom nobody reads or cares about anymore. And how I wish I’d never gotten involved with a man twenty years older because, in truth, he makes me feel old, more so every day …

  Oh, yes! I could rant on. And what good would that do? It would only raise my blood pressure. Then he’d scream insults (‘silly bitch,’ ‘stupid cunt’ – he’s called me those things before), maybe even slap me (the one time he did, I warned him never to do it again; but why would that matter to him now?), we’d have a vicious fight and part on ugly terms, which he’d then use to feed his already withering bitterness. And so I decide to leave things as they are, stay quiet and make the break with as much dignity as I can summon.

  Let him try to rattle me, shake my sense of self. He only does that to provoke me into lashing back. Ignore him. Go to the phone and call a taxi, then wait outside until it comes. Then go with just a simple understated goodbye, leaving him alone here in his magnificent house to eke out a bitter tear or two and maybe even a stingy drop of remorse …

  Having made that decision, that’s exactly what I do.

  I experience a new clarity of mind over the next several days, savoring my freedom, reveling in feelings of relief.

  I’m free, I think. And the best part is that I did it cleanly and at just the right time.

  I’m eager now to get back to work, to prove I earned my Hollis on my merits and not because Jerry knew people who knew some other people who maybe recommended me. Understanding that his intent was to sow self-doubt, I vow not to let him define me.

  This morning I call my friend and regular accompanist Luis Soeiro, inviting him to come over to discuss the music for the new performance piece I’m working on.

  ‘You’ll be my first guest,’ I tell him. ‘Please bring your cello. I want us to try some things out.’

  Later I run into Clarence in the ornate lobby.

  ‘You mentioned welders,’ I remind him. ‘Can you give me a name?’

  ‘You want to take out the grillwork?’

  ‘No. I like it. I want to have the cell door repaired.’

  ‘There’s a guy here in the building can handle that.’

  ‘Josh on five?’

  ‘Oh, you’ve met him?’

  ‘Briefly. Do you think he’d fix it for me?’

  ‘Don’t see why not. He built it.’ Clarence grins. ‘Chantal commissioned it from him. Least that’s what she told me. For all I know he built it for her for free. Seemed like they were pretty tight there for a while.’

  Interesting! Josh told me he’d been up to the penthouse ‘a couple of times,’ which, in view of Clarence’s revelation, seems something of an understatement. Josh also shrugged off Chantal’s sudden departure without a goodbye as if that were merely a breach of courtesy. All of which suggests a lack of candor. But then I realize that having met by chance in the elevator, we don’t owe one another our personal details.

  I go to the building register just inside the front door and inspect the names. There’s a J. Garske in 5-C.

  I leave a note under his door asking if he’d be willing to take on the job.

  The title for my new piece is Recital, inspired by photos I’ve seen in The San Francisco Chronicle of wealthy women who support the city’s many fine cultural organizations. It will be a one-off, performed a single time before an audience of imaginary ‘wealthy friends’ whom I, in the guise of a certain Mrs Z, will ‘host’ at an exclusive ‘musical evening’ in a grand private home. Luis will play something classical, then I’ll stand and address the gathering, praising Luis, thanking everyone for coming, then launching into some improvised remarks that will at first seem coherent, but which will become increasingly self-pitying and disorganized, lurching finally toward a meltdown accompanied by tears. I have lots of ideas about the things I’ll say and how I’ll say them, ideas too about makeup and clothes. Perhaps the hardest part, I think, will be finding a proper venue.

  I set to work making calls, checking in with friends I’ve neglected because Jerry didn’t like them. I inform them of the breakup, tell them I’ve received a Hollis grant and am working on something new.

  ‘I n
eed a performance space,’ I tell them. ‘A grand apartment, say, on Russian Hill, or maybe one of those great houses in Sea Cliff. Perhaps you know someone who’ll let me use her place for an evening. I can’t pay much, but she can invite her friends and have the fun of co-hosting a premiere. Please put out the word …’

  Luis Soeiro arrives at the loft with his weird electric cello that looks like a weapon, a long thin stick of a keyboard with a scroll at one end and a spike at the other. This is the instrument he usually plays when he accompanies me, but soon as I see it I realize it won’t work for Recital. If the musicale is to come off, Luis has to play his acoustic cello.

  ‘You’ll be portraying a musical prodigy,’ I tell him.

  In fact he is a former prodigy who can play almost anything: classical, rock, tango, jazz. Tall, slim, with shaved head and finely chiseled features, he shuts his eyes and sways as he bows, projecting intense commitment to whatever he happens to be playing.

  I explain the backstory. ‘I’ll be Mrs Z, this oh-so-grand and very rich sixty-seven-year-old widow who’s had considerable work done on her face. She fancies herself an important patroness of the arts. She’s invited some friends over for a musical evening to hear her brilliant young cellist protégé whose career she’s about to launch.’

  ‘So it’s a real recital. You want me to play acoustic so they can hear the wood.’

  ‘Exactly! You’ll play music for unaccompanied cello, then I’ll take over. When I break down in tears, you’ll try to cover up the situation.’

  ‘Like the way they play at an awards ceremony when the actress goes on too long? The orchestra sneaks in with a few notes, and if she doesn’t shut up, they play her off the stage.’

  ‘Then when I can’t compose myself and run off in shame, you launch into something unnerving and crazed. Mental break-down music.’ I hug him. ‘I love working with you, Luis. I don’t know how much we’ll earn with this, but like always we’ll split it fifty-fifty.’

  Today out of nowhere I receive a call from a freshman-year college dorm-mate, Grace Wei, now wife of a venture capitalist who’s made several killings investing in internet startups. She and her husband, Grace tells me, have recently purchased an early twentieth-century mansion in Presidio Heights. She’s heard I’m looking for a venue and wonders if her place might work for me.