The Luzern Photograph

by William Bayer

  ‘This picture was taken … when?’

  ‘About two months ago. It’s pretty damn great I think, powerful, bizarre, and disconcerting like she wanted it to be.’

  ‘Let’s go back to the posing part. You say you didn’t know the other guy. That seems kind of odd.’

  ‘We weren’t introduced. He was just, you know, this guy who’d agreed to pose for her. He got hard at one point, which made me think posing for her turned him on.’

  ‘And you – did it turn you on, Josh?’

  Josh smiles. ‘She’d posed for me, so I posed for her. Did I enjoy it? Sure. I’d never been naked in front of her before. She kidded me: “Anytime you want to explore your submissive side just let me know.” We used to joke around a lot like that.’

  Scarpaci asks Josh to describe the other man. Josh shrugs. ‘Well-spoken, educated, someone who’s probably an alpha type in everyday life.’

  ‘And you’d never seen him before in any of Chantal’s security camera feeds?’

  Josh shakes his head.

  At this point I decide to excuse myself. I don’t know where Scarpaci is going with this, why he’s so interested in the second man, but since Josh has stopped sketching me it seems like a good time to leave. When I tell them I’m going to slip out, Josh looks unhappy. When I rise he sees me to the door.

  ‘Going well, don’t you think?’ I whisper.

  ‘Not how I’d have chosen to spend the afternoon,’ he whispers back, ‘but, yeah, it’s going OK.’

  Back up in the loft, I stare at Chantal’s chariot and think about all the things I’ve discovered about her. Matching fetish hoods. A whip she called ‘Blackspur’. Denazification scenes wearing an Israeli uniform. A rubber pig’s snout in a strongbox. What was she up to? Did she see herself merely as a fee-for-service-provider fulfilling her clients’ fantasies, or did she get something from these bizarre performances that fulfilled her own needs too?

  One thing’s clear: Chantal’s commitment to her work. She threw herself totally into the roles she played, as I throw myself into mine.

  On my run this morning on my way to Lake Merritt, I intersect with Jake on 14th Street. He’s standing by his grocery cart filled with detritus. He grins as I approach.

  ‘Hi, Toots!’ he says, and then in a rasping whisper as I pass: ‘Beware the man in the green hoodie.’

  I stop, trot back to him.

  ‘Hey, Jake – you said something like that the other day. What’re you talking about?’

  He averts his eyes. ‘Watch out for the green man,’ he mutters, then turns away.

  Dr Maude receives me with a big hug.

  ‘You look so young, Tess! Last time I saw you, you looked even older than me!’

  Again she praises my performance. She tells me she hung around for almost an hour feasting at Grace’s buffet and listening in on audience comments.

  ‘I think a lot of people were confused. I overheard one woman say she found bits and pieces of “half a dozen of the bitches who run this town”. An elderly man said he found Mrs Z pathetic.’

  I ask her if she noticed a tall lean guy with hawkish features wearing a black suit, sitting near her in back.

  She nods. ‘He was on the edge of his seat. Couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

  ‘His name’s Leo Scarpaci. He’s the Oakland detective working the Chantal homicide. He asked me out this weekend. Says he wants to show me something I’ve never seen before.’

  ‘Attracted to him?’

  I admit I am.

  ‘Good. He struck me as real, a little out of his element but very attentive to you. Jerry was there too, wasn’t he?’ I nod. ‘I was pretty sure I recognized him. He looked nicer than I expected. He and this Scarpaci guy – different types.’

  She pauses. ‘I hope someday you’ll consider creating a piece inspired by your dad. I think your monologues are a healthy way to disempower your demons.’

  She gives me her usual hug at end of session. When she pulls back I notice a glint of amusement. ‘Good luck on the date. Hope it goes well for you. And for him too, of course.’

  At San Pedro Martial Arts, Kurt tells me to warm up then report to him for blocking drills. He demonstrates various moves, has me make them in slow motion, then use them to block his strikes: catching, hooking, cupping, parrying. He also coaches me on evasive moves – ducking, slipping, stepping in, stepping back. He works me till I’m tired, then has me strike at him so he can show me how he does it. When we’re done I ask him if he knew that Marie also used the name Chantal.

  He says he didn’t know that until he heard about the murder on local TV news. ‘In here she was always just Marie.’

  It’s then that I give him the kind of close look that says, ‘I don’t believe you and I may know more than I’ve let on.’ He peers back at me annoyed.

  ‘Next time you’ll train with Rosita,’ he tells me. ‘We’ll see if you can block her strikes.’

  ‘If I can’t?’

  ‘We’ll keep training you till you can.’

  That feels like a threat. Is it punishment for asking him about Chantal? Now I’m annoyed.

  ‘I know you went to her,’ I tell him. ‘I know you exchanged training for sessions.’

  He sniffs. ‘Whatever you think you know about that, Tess, you still have a lot to learn about Muay Thai.’

  Scarpaci has told me to dress up or down, but not, he advised, in between.

  ‘Where we’re going,’ he said, ‘the ladies go fine or funky.’

  I don’t own anything particularly fine, so it’s down and funky for me: black tank top, black jeans, black leather moto jacket, short black boots.

  ‘Wow, you look just like Queen of Cups!’ he says, when I meet him in the lobby.

  He drives us to the Ramen Shop, a small sit-at-the-counter Japanese noodle joint in Rockridge. The cooks here produce great ramen concoctions and the mixologist makes terrific cocktails. Since they have a no-reservations policy and the counter is occupied, we wait our turn in the bar. A good opportunity, I think, to find out what Scarpaci thought of Josh.

  ‘Less resistance than I expected,’ he says, ‘and plenty of subterfuge.’

  ‘But you’ve ruled him out, right?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I wanna take another shot, see if I can crack him.’

  ‘Do you really think in terms of cracking people?’

  ‘Appalled?’

  ‘A little surprised. You’re so soft-spoken.’

  ‘It’s not my style to yell, Tess, or even bear down hard. But homicide’s a rough business. It’s rare someone lays himself bare. You got to work ’em a while to open ’em up. Cracking’s just my crude way of putting it.’

  I like that he doesn’t apologize.

  ‘As for Josh,’ he continues, ‘he’s going to sketch the other guy in the photograph. He laughed when I offered to put him with a police sketch artist. “I’ll do the damn sketch,” he said.’

  ‘Why so interested in this other guy?’

  ‘Like I said before, I think this was a crime of passion. I see passion in that picture, so I’m interested in both men hitched to the chariot.’

  Scarpaci, as it turns out, would much rather talk about Recital.

  ‘I felt I was in one of those toney movies, the kind where you’re supposed to feel sorry for privileged folks on account of how hard it is for them to be so privileged. But the longer you went on, the more I got into it. By the end I was totally hooked.’

  ‘My shrink was sitting near you. She says you were on the edge of your seat.’

  ‘The middle-aged lady wearing tribal jewelry and the shapeless purple dress?’

  ‘She calls her dresses shmattas, Jewish for old housedress.’

  Scarpaci laughs. ‘Some folks there didn’t seem to know whether to laugh or cry.’ He pauses. ‘What about the snooty looking guy with the hair flap, the one who led the applause?’

  ‘My ex.’

  ‘I’m surprised you’d be involved with a guy like
that.’

  I peer at him. ‘You’re a perceptive man, Detective Scarpaci.’

  ‘You can call me Leo if you want.’

  ‘I kinda like calling you Scarpaci. Do you mind?’

  ‘Coming from you I like it.’

  Later, sitting caddy-corner at the counter, slurping our soup and noodles, we fill each other in on our respective backgrounds, as well as the usual punch list: books, movies, TV shows, what moves us, makes us laugh, what we do for exercise. He was married to a school teacher, divorced after five years. Then a series of long-term relationships, the most recent with a chef. That, he wants me to know, ended last year.

  He doesn’t act surprised when I tell him my dad was a con man who served time for fraud.

  ‘Con men can be very charming,’ he says.

  ‘He was a liar through and through. He couldn’t tell a straight story. The last time I saw him before he died he said something about that. It was the only time I can remember when he let down his guard.’

  ‘What’d he say?’

  ‘I remember his exact words. I had just told him an obvious fib. He looked into my eyes then spoke very gently: “Try real hard not to lie, Tess. Every time you tell a lie you die a little inside.” I never forgot that.’

  ‘You’re honest, sometimes brutally so. I think your father’s face was a mask he couldn’t take off, but you only wear masks when you perform.’

  That’s so perceptive, I can barely believe he said it.

  ‘And the rest of the time?’ I ask.

  ‘I’d say you’re complex but figure-out-able.’ He grins at me. ‘Is there such a word?’

  ‘Probably not. But I get what you mean. Sort of what-you-see-is-what-you-get-if-you-know-where-to-look … or something.’

  He gazes into my eyes. ‘I see a woman who’s very nice but for some strange reason would rather not be seen that way.’

  Gazing back at him, I find I’m more touched by his back-handed appraisal than I would have thought.

  Hey, careful! I warn myself. Don’t be so quick falling for this guy.

  Scarpaci drives us across the Bay Bridge to a warehouse district in San Francisco’s SOMA neighborhood. There’re several new buildings here, high-rise condo towers, but most of the structures are early twentieth-century brick warehouses now converted into live-work lofts, galleries, dance clubs, dojos, and cafés. We park then walk to a three-story building with blacked-out windows on the second floor and bricked-in windows on the third. A tough-looking black dude is standing beside the front door, one foot posed hustler-style against the wall.

  He examines Scarpaci. ‘Yo! I ’member you,’ he says, granting us entry with a nod.

  The dim first floor is deserted except for a battered vintage Ducati motorcycle parked against a wall. The second level looks like it might once have been an art gallery – white free-standing walls, empty pedestals, gray concrete floor. There’s a roped-off staircase far in the back attended by a grim-faced, muscular Asian guy with a shaven head. He’s wearing a black T-shirt and black drawstring sweatpants. As we approach the stairs I hear noise coming from above.

  Scarpaci mutters something to the guard, who nods, then lifts the rope.

  ‘What’s up here?’ I ask Scarpaci as we mount the stairs.

  ‘Private fight club. Semi-legal. So far nobody’s shut it down. I know you’re into fighting so I figured you’d be interested. It’s a little different from what you’re used to.’

  We reach the top of the stairs. The entire space is empty except for an elevated boxing ring set up at the far end. There’s a fight in progress, two young guys, both boyish, both extremely cute, one with long hair tied back in a ponytail, the other with the kind of sunken cheeks and high sharp cheekbones you see on Slavic models. They’re stripped down to gym shorts and slugging it out, their lean toned torsos slick with sweat.

  An older Eurasian man acts as referee. A young tuxedo-clad guy sporting a trimmed goatee, the time-keeper/promoter, stands beside a gong. One of the boys has an old man in his corner. The other is being coached by a young woman. There’s a ring girl dressed in a bikini and high heels who parades between rounds holding the round number card. Scarpaci, gesturing toward an unshaven middle-aged man with a paunch, tells me he’s the attending physician.

  I peer around. There’re a couple hundred onlookers. Most look like affluent educated types – young lawyers, high-tech engineers, fashionistas, maybe sons and daughters of the people who attended Recital. I’m struck by their alert attention. Unlike a typical rowdy fight crowd, these people seem mesmerized.

  I’m no boxing connoisseur, but I can tell the boys in the ring aren’t much good. And they bear no resemblance to the kind of fighters I’d expect to see at an unlicensed fight club: blue-collar cage-fighter types, truckers, construction workers, mixed martial arts specialists.

  ‘Who are these guys?’ I ask Scarpaci.

  ‘Pretty boys.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Second Saturday every month is what they call Pretty Boys Beat-Down night, fights between ad and runway models, some local, others from LA. Most took up boxing for exercise, tried light sparring, then got serious and decided to get down and dirty and compete. But see for me it’s not the fighting that’s interesting, it’s the fighters, that they’re willing to risk their fifteen-hundred-dollar-a-day pretty faces to prove they’re manly. They’re looking for a kind of hard reality they don’t find in the shallow fashion world.’

  Maybe that, I think, explains my interest in fighting. Theater’s great but when someone gets slapped in a play it’s faked. Maybe what I’m seeking in Muay Thai is the here-and-now hard reality Marie/Chantal described succinctly as ‘hitting and getting hit.’

  ‘Lots of heart but not much talent,’ Scarpaci whispers into my ear. ‘Hopefully the next few pairs will be better … if you’re willing to stick around.’

  I’m willing. The scene interests me. No question it’s decadent. I get a feeling the audience is hoping to see something that will thrill their jaded souls – a spilling of blood, a fighter crumbling, a face badly bashed. I see it in their eyes: fascination with violence combined with an eagerness to see one of these beautiful flailing boys beaten to the floor. It’s an excitement, I know, as old as the human race. I think of ancient Greek theater, the audience eagerly waiting for the moment when Oedipus gouges out his eyes, or in Roman times, the mob in the coliseum cheering wildly as their favorite gladiators fight to the death. This crowd radiates that same cruel energy. These people aren’t interested in sport. They’re here to witness hurt.

  I ask Scarpaci if he agrees.

  ‘I do,’ he says. ‘I get why models want to test themselves, but until you said that I didn’t understand what the audience got out of watching these third-rate match-ups.’

  We stay for two more pretty-boy fights and then a stylized kickboxing match between two beautiful tall slim female models. The girls fight better than the boys. They move with more grace, dodge and weave with more skill. They seem almost too perfectly matched, as if their moves have been choreographed. In the end the ref, declaring a tie, holds up both their arms, then the girls embrace. The crowd responds with a mix of cheers and boos. They’ve come for blood, and all they’ve gotten from this pair is a sparring exercise.

  ‘You were right about decadence,’ I tell Scarpaci as we drive back to Oakland. ‘But if it’s semi-legal how come they let you in?’

  ‘I know the guy owns the building.’ He glances at me. ‘I wanted to show you something you’d probably never seen before. Hope you weren’t offended.’

  ‘Not at all. To paraphrase your favorite Roman playwright: “I am a man, nothing human is alien to me.”’

  ‘Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto.’ Scarpaci enunciates the Latin with the sonority of a priest. ‘I love that quote. I once thought of having it tattooed on my arm to remind me not to give in to sorrow on the job.’

  We stop at a bar he knows near his apartment in Temescal. As we sip beer
s, he asks why I identify so strongly with Chantal.

  ‘She was also a performer. She set up scenes, took on roles, put on costumes, and used props. For me that’s artmaking.’

  ‘Artmaking’s important to you.’

  ‘Without it I’d be lost.’

  He studies me. ‘I have a feeling you were damaged.’

  When I neither confirm nor deny, he tells me then about his love of breaking open cases, finding solutions to puzzling crimes.

  ‘It’s the only thing I really enjoy,’ he tells me. ‘It seems we both like to live with purpose.’

  We acknowledge that we share an obsession with Chantal and that we’re both eager to unravel her story if for different reasons. I want to understand it so I can turn into something I can dramatize. He wants to understand it so he can bring her killer to justice.

  ‘Seems we’re both story tellers,’ he says.

  I very much like the way Scarpaci makes love to me: slow, easy, solicitous. After the first time, he asks me to share some of my fantasies.

  ‘And if they’re a little kinky?’

  ‘Especially then,’ he says.

  Figuring nothing I can tell him will upset him, I reveal a few special desires, at which revelations he nods and proceeds to gratify.

  ‘You’re a very accommodating lover,’ I tell him afterwards.

  ‘I try my best.’ He peers at me. ‘You’re special, Tess. I felt that the first time we had coffee. When you described yourself on the phone as a performance artist I wasn’t sure what to expect. But when we met I realized how special you were. And I got the feeling you liked me too.’

  In the morning, while he makes us breakfast, I look around his apartment. His bookshelves are crammed with classics, and it’s clear from the wear on them that he’s reread them many times: Melville, Joyce, Dostoyevsky, Hemingway, Graham Greene. Not just the famous titles, but a good half-dozen works spanning each writer’s career.

  There’re books too about ancient Greek and Roman history and best of all from my point of view, plays written by the ancient dramatists: Sophocles, Euripides, Aristophanes, Terence, Plautus, and Seneca. I also notice books by Thomas Merton and a beautiful edition of the poetry of Gerard Manley Hopkins.