Chantal asked to spar with me because she thought I looked hot!
Fueled by that revelation I suffer a restless night in which Chantal/Marie weaves in and out of my dreams. At times she whispers to me. As I struggle to make out her words, I feel her mouth graze my ear. ‘You are so hot,’ she tells me, ‘I want you so much …’
I wake up in the middle of the night sweating and trembling. Peering up at the skylight, I check to make sure no one’s watching me.
It’s then that I realize I have just dreamt of making love with Chantal, the two of us together naked in my bed, kissing, moaning, stroking and orally pleasuring one another, then moving together toward a shattering climax.
Did this dream carry me over the top? Seems it did. I enjoy the notion. I also find it frightening that I have drawn so close to this woman who allegedly found me hot that she now has entered my dreams and in them ravished me with her love.
Dr Maude wants to know how I felt when Kurt told me what Chantal said.
‘Strange,’ I tell her, ‘and also moved because that means she related to me in a way that now seems intimate. We weren’t matched up casually. She asked to spar with me. I played a role in her fantasies just as she now plays a role in mine.’
‘And your erotic dream about her – what does that tell you?’
‘That there’s something about her that draws me. Something more than just a fascination with her life and obsessions. Something corporeal. Her body.’
‘You sparred with her, made physical contact.’
‘That came back to me in the dream. The sweat on her forehead. The way her sports bra fit her bust. The attractive way she moved. And I knew from Eva’s letters that she was gay.’
‘Your lovemaking – was it sadomasochistic?’
‘No, we made love tenderly.’
‘You look troubled, Tess,’ Dr Maude says. ‘How does this erotic dream make you feel about your Chantal project?’
I think about that, then blurt it out. ‘Like I’m caught in a spiderweb,’ I tell her.
This morning, a little after eleven, my intercom sounds. A male voice inquires: ‘Chantal?’
‘No,’ I tell him, ‘she doesn’t live here anymore.’
‘Oh … well, sorry to bother you. Her website’s down and her phone’s been disconnected. I came by to see if she’s still around. When I saw the new name by the buzzer I figured she’d left, but decided to give it a shot.’ He pauses. ‘Any idea how to reach her?’
‘I really don’t,’ I tell him.
‘I’m from New York. Used to see her whenever I came to the Bay Area. Drove over from San Francisco this morning hoping she’d still be here.’ He pauses again. ‘You wouldn’t be in the same line of work?’
My first instinct is to blow him off. I hesitate. He’s polite and I don’t detect anything creepy. That he came by suggests he was one of her regulars. If he’s willing to share, this could be a chance to get a client’s perspective. So instead of telling him I’m not in the same line of work, I ask if he has time for coffee.
‘Sure.’
I direct him to Downtown Café, tell him I’ll meet him there in fifteen minutes, ask him to describe himself.
‘Dark hair, gray business suit, blue shirt, red and gray striped tie.’
Sounds like an old-fashioned gent.
I tell him I’ll be carrying a copy of The New Yorker.
Since he’s in business attire, I change from black T-shirt and jeans to blouse and skirt, and forgo wearing my black moto jacket. I slip on a pair of medium-heel pumps, grab my New Yorker, snatch up a pair of blue tinted shades to complete the ensemble, and check myself in the mirror.
Be sincere, I tell myself. Don’t wait too long to tell him Chantal’s dead. If he thinks you’re playing him, he’ll shut down.
I spot him right away. He’s sitting facing the door. Soon as I walk in, he smiles and rises.
I introduce myself as Tess. He tells me his name’s Carl. There’s a moment when I’m tempted to repeat his name the way I repeated Mike’s in the Redwood Lounge.
We check each other out. He’s younger than he sounded, about forty, appears prosperous, perhaps an internet company exec. No wedding band, but if he’s married he probably slipped it off.
‘So what brings you to the Bay Area?’ I ask.
‘I’m an architect. We’re setting up a branch office. I’m looking for an industrial loft with lots of light, preferably in San Francisco.’
‘Not Oakland?’
He shakes his head. ‘Oakland’s got a bad rep. Our clients would be scared off.’ He peers at me. ‘You’re very attractive.’ I peer back, noncommittal. ‘And,’ he adds, ‘you’ve taken over The Eagle’s Nest, my favorite Bay Area playroom.’
Time, I decide, to set him straight.
‘Yes, I’ve taken over Chantal’s old place, but I’m not in the same line of work. You’re wondering why I asked to meet. There’s something about her I felt you should know, something I didn’t want to say over the intercom.’
He peers at me, concerned.
‘Chantal passed away a few weeks back. The police say she was murdered.’
‘Is this true?’ When I nod he shakes his head. ‘Wow! That’s awful! I can hardly believe it.’
‘It’s a weird story. She moved out suddenly like she was scared, disappeared, then turned up dead. I’ve been talking to some of her friends. Seems she was a fascinating woman. I’m thinking of writing something about her.’
‘You’re a journalist?’
‘Dramatist. I write stories then perform them as monologues. Look, you don’t have to talk to me. But if you feel like talking about Chantal, you have my word I’ll never use your name, not that I know it anyway.’
‘It’s Carl Draper.’ He fishes a business card from his wallet, hands it to me: DRAPER & ASSOCIATES ARCHITECTS. There’s a phone number bearing the San Francisco area code and a PO box address.
Stirred by this act of trust, I reciprocate by handing him one of mine.
He reads it aloud: ‘Tess Berenson, monologist. Have I heard of you?’
‘That you ask tells me you haven’t.’
‘Sorry. Dumb question. My mind isn’t working too well. I’m still in shock.’
‘Everyone who knew Chantal was shocked. None of her friends can figure it out. And neither can the police … though they’re working on it.’
He studies me. ‘You seem very nice. I’ll be glad to talk to you about Chantal.’ Again he lowers his eyes. ‘I guess you’ve figured out I was one of her clients.’
I nod. ‘I’m trying to get a sense of what she was like. You’re the first person I’ve met who sessioned with her.’
‘Suppose I take you to lunch? Chantal and I would sometimes grab a bite at the Cambodian place around the corner. Good food and there’s a quiet table in back.’
I know the place. The food is good. I tell him I’ll go with him if we can split the check.
We walk to the restaurant. The streets of downtown are filled with office workers on their lunch hour, some strolling, others sitting on park benches munching sandwiches, still others lying on concrete piers taking in the sun.
After we sit and order, he leans forward.
‘This may surprise you but I’d like to describe some of what we did. Not the details, but the parameters. I’m not ashamed of my sexuality.’
I tell him I appreciate his openness and promise again not to betray his confidence.
‘I enjoy sessioning with pro dommes, so whenever I travel I check out the local websites. About a year ago, when I started coming out here, I found something interesting and unusual on Chantal’s site. Most of the pros list the same specialties. She offered what she called “Psychological Sessions”, “BDSM Oriented Life-Coaching”, and “discussions of BDSM Theory and Aesthetics”. She also listed “Confessionals”. That struck a nerve. I called her to discuss what she meant by it. We met at a café down the street. That’s why, when you suggested coffee, I thought you might be a pro checking me out. Anyway, she quickly put me at ease. She seemed genuinely interested in my needs. We set up a session. Two days later I drove back over here and we got into it. My scene … well, this is kinda embarrassing, but I’ve told you this much so why not tell it all? My scene was to be in a kind of mock church confession combined with a parody of a session with a psychotherapist.’
If I was attentive before, I’m doubly so now. ‘Did she use the word “psychotherapist”?’
He shakes his head. ‘She told me in California you have to be licensed to call yourself that. She used the term life coach.’
‘How did the scene resemble a psychotherapy session?’
‘I think it would be better to tell you how it didn’t. For one thing, I was naked. For another, I was bound face up on a gurney. Actually it was less like therapy than an interrogation with a very strict priestess-interrogator. She began slowly, then picked up the questioning. She wanted to know everything, wanted me to expose my entire private life – dreams, fantasies, sexual history. The more I told her the more she demanded. It felt liberating to be stripped so bare. She intended, she told me, not only to explore my conscious mind, but to probe my unconscious, the “animal core of you”, as she put it, “the deepest part of you that defines who you really are”.’
Our food arrives. The waitress sets down our platters and moves away.
‘You’re probably wondering where the BDSM comes in. I won’t go into that except to say that when she didn’t feel I was being forthright or thought I was lying, she punished me by binding me into painful stress positions, and then applying pain to sensitive areas.’
‘Sounds like an inquisition.’
‘Oh, she was a grand inquisitor all right! I found it impossible to resist her.’ He looks up at me. ‘Hey, let’s eat before the food gets cold.’
As we dive in to our respective dishes, I consider the liberation effect he described. It reminds me how I often feel when I leave Dr Maude’s.
‘This fetish of yours for confession – did Chantal ask where that came from?’
‘I told her upfront. I was brought up Catholic. Like other Catholic kids you’ve heard about, I was abused by a priest. I went through years of psychotherapy trying to resolve it. Nothing seemed to work. Then I found I could obliterate the pain by eroticizing it. Somehow the abuse by my childhood confessor and my sessions with various shrinks got combined into a fantasy of submitting to a dominant priestess. Chantal seemed to understand exactly what I needed, and best of all was able to deliver it.’
‘Sounds like she really helped you.’
‘Though we only sessioned a dozen times, I view those experiences as life-altering. I always left her place with a sense of clarity, a feeling that the muddle in my mind had been wiped clean.’ He pauses. ‘Of course that only lasted a while, and then I’d need another fix. I became addicted to her.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m really going to miss her.’
‘Did she reveal anything about her personal life?’
‘Only after session. We’d go out, grab a bite, often here. Then we’d talk as equals. She was strict in session, but nice outside.’ He pauses. ‘What I liked about her was that she wasn’t big on therapeutic mumbo-jumbo. “We’re doing this together,” she’d remind me. “It’s not the why that’s important. It’s the reality, the action, the emotional work-out.”’
After we split the check, Carl walks me back to the Buckley. On the way I ask how he’d characterize Chantal’s style of domination.
His answer comes quickly. ‘Commitment and presence. Total commitment to me as her client, and, when we sessioned, being totally present in the scene.’
Just like a really good actress, I think.
I glance at him. He’s been candid with me, perhaps a little too candid, I think. Why reveal so much to a stranger? One side of me likes him; another side is suspicious.
‘I’m very glad to have met you,’ he tells me at the door. He pauses. ‘I have fond memories of the loft. I’d love to come up and see it again. You know … for old times’ sake.’
I tell him I’m sorry but that’s not possible.
He nods. ‘I understand. Anyway, thanks for giving me the opportunity to spill my guts.’
I thank him for sharing, let myself in, pause on the other side of the glass door. I turn, our eyes meet. He looks distraught. I smile. He smiles back then walks away.
This afternoon, after hours of solo rehearsing, I decide to go out for a walk. I check out a new pop-up gallery on Telegraph, try on a beautiful handmade necklace, decide not to buy it, then walk past the bookstore where I discovered Chantal’s library. A block later I spot Josh sitting in a café a couple doors down from the Fox Theater.
He spots me at the same time, calls out.
‘Hey, Tess! Where you been? Haven’t seen you in a while.’
I walk over to him. He motions me to sit.
‘I’ve been here,’ I tell him. ‘What about you?’
‘Down in LA for a week visiting with my kids. Now I’m trying to finish my tarot queens. Got Queen of Coins done. Finishing up Queen of Cups. What a bitch!’ He chuckles. ‘But then she would be, wouldn’t she?’ He peers into my eyes. ‘So … have you decided yet?’
‘What?’
‘Are we going back to being friends?’
‘I didn’t know we ever were.’
He laughs. ‘That’s a haughty response.’
‘I’m a haughty girl. Think of me as Queen of Cups. You know, a bitch.’
‘Would you pose for her?’
‘The Queen? Thought you were almost finished.’
‘Everything but the face. Left it blank. But now, running into you, I’m thinking—’
‘If you use my face, Josh, you just might end up in one of my monologues. Be warned – it might not be a pretty picture.’
He laughs again. ‘I like the way we get on. Always fun talking with you.’
‘Actually, I’m glad I spotted you. Got a couple questions.’
I tell him I’ve spoken with Detective Scarpaci, who told me he’d ID’d Chantal’s body. ‘That’s something you neglected to mention.’
‘I’m sure there’s plenty I neglected to mention. Let’s make a list. Then I can apologize for everything at once.’ He eyes me carefully. ‘What else did Scarpaci say?’
‘I think you should talk to him.’
‘I’ve got nothing to tell him.’
‘Seems to me you have a hell of a lot, seeing you monitored Chantal’s sessions.’
‘Some, not all.’
‘Including her denazification scenes?’
‘Who told you about that?’
‘Scarpaci found out a lot. But not enough to ID her killer. Not yet anyway.’
‘Chantal was very sensitive about those scenes. She was afraid they’d be misunderstood.’
‘Tell the truth, I was pretty offended when I heard about them. But Scarpaci seems to understand them. He thinks the murder may be connected to them.’
‘Did you tell him I watched her?’
‘Not yet.’
He shakes his head. ‘Seems like you want to drag me into this.’
‘You are in it, Josh! As much as anyone. If she was killed by one of her clients, you could be a real help.’
‘Like I told you, I didn’t see everything she did. Just the sessions she wanted monitored. Her denazification game – she kept that private. I only saw her doing it once wearing her snazzy Israeli uniform. That was a fluke. She forgot to turn off the feed.’ He shakes his head. ‘What makes Scarpaci think it was a client?’
‘Strikes me as a reasonable theory. Contrary to what you thought, he’s serious about tracking down her killer. I’d think you’d want to help with that.’
‘I’ll consider it.’ He pulls out his cell phone. ‘Mind if I take your picture?’
‘For Queen of Cups?’ He nods. I shake my head. ‘Here’s the deal – open up to Scarpaci, tell him everything you know, and not only will I let you put my face on Queen of Cups, I’ll come down to your studio and pose for you. And, to put a little frosting on the cake, I’ll slip you into the premiere of my new performance piece. Oh, one other thing: will you loan me Queen of Swords?’
‘You don’t want much, do you?’
‘It’s a brilliant portrait. I’d love to feast my eyes on it.’
‘Suppose I say yes? Can I use your likeness any way I want?’
‘Sure, make me a bitch. I’ve played that role lots of times.’
He smiles, raises his phone. ‘Pretty for the picture!’ Click! ‘Got it!’
We walk together to the Buckley. On the way, I tell him about seeing a guy clinging to my bedroom skylight.
‘It was during the big storm. There was this huge thunderclap, I woke up, there’s lightning, and suddenly I see this guy in a hooded slicker spread out face down on the skylight above my bed. Next lightning strike, he’s gone.’
‘I don’t believe it. How’d he get up there? There’re locked doors between your floor and the roof. And why would anyone go up there on a night like that?’
‘The next morning I went up to the roof with Clarence. Both doors were unlocked. Plus there’s a way to get there from the next building.’
‘So what happened to him when he disappeared?’
‘There’re corners where someone could wait a storm out.’
‘So some perv voyeur was up there peering down at you?’
‘I think so. And maybe not just once. Maybe many times in the middle of the night when I’m asleep. The whole thing creeped me out so much I moved my bed into the main loft.’ I look at him. ‘Could you rig up a way to screen off my skylights, drapes I can open and close?’
‘Sure, but won’t be cheap. Cost you eight-fifty including fabric.’
We’re at the front door now. ‘Worth it. When can you speak to Scarpaci?’
‘Why don’t you set it up for the three of us – he can come over and interview me, and I’ll sketch you at the same time.’
‘That’s a lot going on at once.’
‘That’s how I’d like to do it.’
I phone Scarpaci, tell him I’ve persuaded Josh to spill.
‘It’s going to be a little weird,’ I tell him. ‘He wants to sketch me while you two talk.’
‘Sounds like he wants a witness. Any idea why he was such a hardass?’
‘He was disgusted by Ramos and thought you were just going through the motions. Also I think he’s wary of cops. He may have forged some paintings, Picassos. He makes his living doing Légers and Matisses for restaurants and cafés. He calls them appropriations, but I think he may have done some outright forging in the past.’
I tell him then about Kurt at San Pablo Martial Arts, the odd way he acted when I brought up Marie’s name. ‘Like he’s afraid I know about their barter arrangement. I know you talked to him but you might want to check him out some more.’
‘You did good, Tess. I appreciate it. Hope we can get together soon, maybe go out for a drink.’
The Recital run-through goes well. Rex makes minor corrections. I confer with Grace. We set a date: Thursday June 10, 8 p.m. Engraved invitations will go out, champagne and canapés ordered, valet car service arranged.
I’m excited and a little nervous. I phone Dr Maude, invite her. ‘Jerry will be there, so you can have a look at him. Also Rex the director, Josh the forger, Scarpaci the detective, and a couple old friends.’
‘Sure you want to include Maude the shrink?’
‘Absolutely. I want everybody to check out everybody else.’
Josh appears at my door with a ladder and Queen of Swords.
‘Here to measure the skylights,’ he says. ‘And I brought The Queen.’
Soon as he enters the main room, he stops cold. ‘You got her chariot!’
‘Clarence was storing it. He gave it to me. Pretty great, huh?’
Josh shakes his head. ‘You’re turning this place into a museum of … what would you call it? Chantalania?’
He carries Queen of Swords over to the St. Andrew’s Cross, positions it, then stands back so we can admire it together.
‘Looks cool beside the chariot,’ he says. ‘If I’d known Clarence had it I’d have tried to wangle it for myself. Wonder what else he’s got of hers. Couple times when we ran into him I’d catch him looking at her a certain way. Like he found her drop-dead gorgeous. Which of course she was.’
He sets the ladder under the main room skylight, takes measurements, then does the same in my bedroom. As he works, he describes how the draping will work: lightweight black velour will be threaded with drawstrings, then gathered at the sides of the skylights into neatly drooping folds. When the strings are pulled, the velour will unfurl across the bottom of the skylight wells blacking out the glass above.
‘The way Chantal had this place fixed up it was like a theater.’ He shows me where she kept her gurney, and an ob-gyn table with stirrups for intimate examinations.
‘She had one of those!’
‘She believed good props were essential. She hated the dark dungeon she’d shared with Lynx. She wanted what she called “a clean, well-lighted place”.’
‘The more I learn about her, the more interesting she becomes.’
‘She had something going on in her head, a story she didn’t want to share. She was focused when we talked, but I had the feeling there was a private movie playing in her brain.’
Josh says it’ll take him a week to get the drapes set up. He pauses at the door.
‘I went up on the roof. Clarence took me. He admitted he was upset the doors were unlocked when you two checked it out. You’re right, there’re places up there where someone could ride out a storm. And it wouldn’t be that hard to cross over from the next building. But if there was someone there, my bet is he came up through the Buckley. I told Clarence he ought to put in a security system, cameras in the lobby and on the landings. He said his aunt doesn’t want that, thinks it’ll mess up the priceless period decor. Said he’ll pitch the idea to her again, but I have a feeling he won’t.’
‘Why?’
‘I think maybe there’s something sleazy going on here like with those Chinese guys in black suits I keep running into in the lobby. Ever notice how they barely nod if you say hello? They look like folks who wouldn’t want video surveillance.’
‘You think they’re into something illegal?’
He shrugs. ‘You don’t think it was Clarence up there that night?’
‘God, I hope not!’ I tell him. But the possibility did cross my mind.
Often when I go out for a run around Lake Merritt, I pass a homeless guy camped on the corner of 14th and Alice. People call him Jake, he’s black, looks to be in his sixties, and always greets me with a big ‘Hi, Toots’ and a toothless smile. Today he’s pushing along his grocery cart, piled high with empty soda cans. I wave to him as I approach, but he doesn’t respond. Then just as I pass he whispers: ‘Watch out for the green man, Toots.’
I invite Scarpaci up to the loft. The jail cell stuns him. ‘Chantal put that in?’ I nod, then gesture toward Queen of Swords. ‘That’s her portrait. Josh painted it.’
Scarpaci stands in front of the painting gazing at it the way a museum-goer might gaze at a Matisse. ‘Strange how alive she looks. Lot different than at the morgue.’
He peers around. ‘I see why you like it here.’ He glances at my over-size inkblots. ‘The shrink who checked me out showed me a set like that. I saw a lot of weird stuff but since I wanted back on the street I kept it to myself.’
To prepare him for his interview I tell him about the concealed cameras and microphones Josh installed so he could monitor Chantal’s sessions when she had security concerns.
‘So he saw her sessioning with her clients. How long have you known this?’
I tell him I’ve known it for a while.
‘Please in future don’t hold anything back. From now on we share everything, OK?’
When I mention the skylight incident, he looks concerned. ‘Cameras in the ceiling that may have been live and maybe someone on the roof staring down at you in bed – I want to bring in my technician, have her do an electronic sweep.’
‘Is that really necessary?’
‘It’s for your protection. If someone’s snooping on you, it’s best to find out.’
He phones his technician then suggests we continue our conversation on the street until she shows up. ‘You know, in case your place is bugged.’
On our way toward the Oakland Museum, he fills me in on the San Jose killing.
‘I spoke to the detective who worked the case. Lynx was right. The bullets were dug out. Which suggests the killer used a gun with a registered ballistic signature, or a gun he liked so much he didn’t want to dump it.’
‘So it could be a cop?’
‘Maybe. But the victim, aside from being a pro domme, had nothing in common with Chantal. She was British, middle-aged, worked the low end of the trade. She was found in her dungeon … if you could call it that, a shabby basement room in East San Jose. The door was unlocked and there were no signs of a struggle. The detective thinks it was probably a client. And yes, some cops do go to pro dommes.’
‘So it doesn’t fit.’
‘Doesn’t seem to. It would be interesting if there was a pattern, a guy who sees dommes and then gets enraged and kills them. But here you’ve got a shooting and a strangling, one body left in place and the other stuffed into the trunk of a car, a middle-aged low-end domme and a young beautiful high-end one. Feels like unconnected homicides.’
Shortly after we return to the Buckley, my buzzer sounds. A female voice at the other end tells me she’s come to meet Detective Scarpaci. I buzz her in. She turns out to be a small Eurasian woman carrying a backpack filled with electronic gear, earphones, probes, and meters.
Scarpaci introduces her. ‘This is Nadia, my fortochnitsa.’
‘Great! What’s a fortochnitsa?’
‘It’s a derivative of fortochka,’ Nadia tells me. She speaks with a Russian accent. ‘That’s a kind of very narrow kitchen window you find in Moscow apartments. A fortochnitsa’s a small wiry girl like me who can wriggle through a window like that.’
‘So are you a cat burglar?’ I ask.
‘Used to be.’ She smiles. ‘Until Detective Scarpaci caught me one night rappelling down from a roof with my pockets full of gems.’
‘She was a first-class thief,’ Scarpaci explains, ‘expert at getting into places she didn’t belong and excellent safe-cracker when she did. I was working robbery. There’d been a slew of break-ins at wholesale jewelers’ offices, the kind you find on the upper floors of buildings like this. I got a tip and staked the place out. I caught Nadia just as she hit the ground. After I collared her we worked out a deal. She’d plead guilty and give up her boss, a Russian who had a crew of fortochnitsas. In return the DA went light.’
‘Not all that light,’ Nadia says. ‘A year in Chowcilla. But it wasn’t a total loss. Got my cosmetology license. Now I’m legal to cut hair.’ She grins. ‘When I got out I looked up my old friend Scarpaci here. He got me into a security training program. Now I work on contract for the Oakland, Hayward, and Berkeley PDs.’
‘She’s one of the best. Do a full sweep, Little One. Then I want you to check for access.’
‘I can tell you right now if I was on the roof I wouldn’t have any trouble getting in. Penthouses are easy.’
As she hooks up her gear she points to the ceiling cameras.
‘You know about those?’
I turn to Scarpaci. ‘Did you tell her?’
He shakes his head.
‘Easy to spot,’ Nadia says. ‘I saw them soon as I came in. When I finish the sweep I’ll take them down.’
While Nadia starts work, Scarpaci peers again at my inkblots.
‘Tell me about these?’
I describe how I made them and how everyone who visits comments on them. ‘Maybe they think they reveal something … you know, my secret inner life.’ He laughs.
I tell him more about Josh while Nadia moves about the loft, running her probe across the floor, then up the walls, listening to her scanner through heavy earphones.
Scarpaci tells me he’s skeptical about Josh’s role as Chantal’s security guy.
‘I don’t doubt she had him do that, but I’m sure he got off watching. Sounds like he was pretty obsessed with her.’ He gestures toward Queen of Swords. ‘I’d say that portrait proves it.’
I don’t admit to the degree to which I too have become obsessed.
‘I think on some level Josh was smitten by her,’ I tell him. ‘After the cremation he kept back half her ashes. I believe he truly wanted to protect her. I think that’s the main reason he wouldn’t talk to you guys – he wanted to protect her memory.’
Nadia comes out of my bedroom. ‘So far no bugs,’ she says, ‘but I’m getting a reading from the closet floor. Could be an old pipe, but I don’t think so.’
‘Let’s take a look,’ Scarpaci says.
Nadia leads us to my closet, points to an area beneath the clothes rack, crouches, runs her hands along the flooring, then pulls gently on the baseboard. A section comes loose. She pulls it out and peers into a cavity behind. ‘There’s a safe in here,’ she says. She pulls out a shallow metal strongbox with a keyhole in the top.
‘Typical small business strongbox,’ Scarpaci says. He tests the top. ‘Locked.’
Nadia smiles. ‘Give it to me.’ It takes her five seconds to get it open. She hands it back to Scarpaci. ‘I’ll finish the sweep then take down the cameras.’
Scarpaci carries the strongbox back into the main loft.
‘Not much here,’ he says, pulling out the contents then laying them one at a time on my coffee table.
Looking at the array I’m amused at first, and then amazed: another swastika armband like the one I found inside the book on Third Reich uniforms; a pair of ordinary domino masks (why keep them in a strongbox?); a well-worn Aleister Crowley tarot deck; a joke-store rubber pig’s snout with band so it can be attached to someone’s face (humiliation device?); a bunch of military pins, rank insignia and medals, some bearing swastikas and SS symbols (for use in denazification scenes?), others bearing Hebrew lettering (fittings for Chantal’s Israel Defense Forces uniform?); and a black-and-white photograph which, soon as I see it, gives me the shakes.
The photo shows Chantal standing in her chariot wearing a smartly tailored business suit. She holds a black single-tail whip in one hand and a double set of reins in the other. But the aspect that causes me to tremble is the pair of men to whom the reins are attached. They’re equally tall, equally muscular, and totally naked, a matched pair of human beasts of burden. Though both face the camera, their heads are encased in identical full black leather buckle-on hoods with eye and ear holes and mouth openings zippered shut, the kind I saw in the glass case at the fetish shoe store where I first met Lynx.
It’s a bizarre compelling image. In it Chantal appears incredibly glamorous, even more than in Josh’s Queen of Swords. But what fills me with awe is the clear reference to the photograph of Lou Salomé, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Paul Rée that so obsessed her.
I can’t help but wonder what was in Chantal’s mind. Was this photo taken to memorialize her reenactment of that famously ‘infamous’ image? Was she trying to reproduce it or parody it? And did the male participants have any notion of the reference?
It takes me a while to explain all this to Scarpaci. I bring out books in which the Luzern photo is reproduced while explaining the backstory and Chantal’s obsessive interest in it. When I’m finished, Scarpaci shakes his head.
‘Weird disconnect,’ he says. ‘We find a hidden locked strongbox filled with odds and ends along with a photograph you think could be important. I gotta ask myself – why store trinkets in a hiding place, and if the photo really was important why’d she leave it behind?’
I wonder about that too. Might she have forgotten it?
Seems unlikely since she was so thorough about cleaning out her loft and selling off her stuff. But as I gaze at the items laid out on my coffee table, I realize they tell a tale about Chantal, who she was and what she did.
Could she have left these things behind for someone like me, someone who’d find them and think about them and perhaps use them as a way to unravel her story and the final drama of her life?