31 Days

Praise for 31 Days:

Both a glimpse into daily life at a famous art school, and a tempestuous love affair; a month-long saga of life transformed, memorable to the very end.

– Midwest Book Review

An elegant and eloquent narrative of seduction and sensual awakening, against the backdrop of the last summer of Kokoschka’s famed international art school in the historic city of Salzburg.

– Miriam Frank, author of My Innocent Absence

Beautifully written, sensual and heartfelt. Gloster captures the reader quickly, providing insights into the emotional workings of a young woman’s mind. I believe every woman will relate to this story. As a male I found it eye-opening.

– Robert Tulipan, author of Rockin’ in the New World

I loved all the art and travel descriptions and the way this memoir was told.

– Book Girl

Certain to make you think about a passionate love affair you might have had.

– Vox Libris

31 Days

A Memoir of Seduction

By Marcia Gloster

While this is a true story, some of the names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.

Studio Digital CT, LLC

PO Box 4331

Stamford, CT 06907

Copyright © 2014 by Marcia Gloster

Jacket design by Joyce Fish

Story Plant paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-188-2

Fiction Studio Books e-book ISBN-13: 978-1-943486-43-4

Visit our website at www.TheStoryPlant.com

All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by US Copyright Law. For information, address Studio Digital CT.

First Story Plant printing: September 2014

Printed in the United States of America

For W.T., who lives in my memory and at the edges of my dreams.

And to every woman–or man–who has survived an impossible love and lived to laugh, and love, again.

Part I

Salzburg

If I love you,

what business is it of yours?

– J.W. von Goethe

17 August 1963

The last morning of the last day.

I woke with a start. The room was still and far too silent.

Picking up my watch from the floor next to the bed, I saw it was after nine, later than I thought. Reluctantly pushing the comforter aside, I sat up, feeling icy air sting my skin. Outside, the blue light had dissolved into a gray mist that swirled over the ancient city, obscuring the massive fortress in a porous cloud. I had known all along this day would come and it finally had. Now what? I thought, already knowing the answer: I get on a plane and fly three thousand miles back to reality. What happened here will never happen again, and perhaps it should never have happened at all. What fate has given, it has now taken away. But I knew about that, didn’t I?

Shivering, I picked up a crumpled shirt from the end of the bed. As I slipped it on, the door opened behind me. I didn’t want to wake you yet, he said quietly. He was bare-chested, wearing only khakis; a towel was draped around his neck. Damp dark hair fell over his forehead and his amber eyes were unusually bright in the dim morning light. I looked at him, unable to move.

How do we say goodbye? I asked in a faint whisper.

One

15 July 1963

Sweat was pouring down my back as I dragged my suitcase to the train, attempting without success to dodge the sticky steam rising from the tracks. It only added to the unbearable humidity and heat, making the air foul, fetid, and thick. A garrulous porter helped us to our second-class compartment, roughly shoving our suitcases under the seats and turning to me for the thousand lira in my outstretched hand.

Collapsing gratefully on the musty, thinly cushioned seat, I breathed a sigh of relief, realizing at the same time that the heat was actually worse inside the compartment than out on the platform. A small fan in one corner barely stirred the overheated air. Kate looked exhausted and rolling up her sweater, lay down across the lumpy seats. The last weeks traveling through Europe had been a revelation of art, architecture, and ancient ruins, despite the relentless heat that had been a constant, oppressive presence. Venice had been our final stop, and though I hated to leave that watery wonderland, I was hoping Austria would at least be cooler, not to mention sweeter smelling.

The conductors shouted, slamming the doors. The train jolted and hissed, moving sluggishly out of the station and heading across the flat, soggy plain toward the Alps and Austria.

I turned to look at Kate. She was already dozing. I closed my eyes, but between the shouts of the conductors, repeated passport inspections, frequent stops, and incessant clattering of the train, sleep was as distant and unreachable as a dream.

︷︷︷

We arrived in Salzburg at dawn, exhausted but grateful to be on solid ground. I stepped down to the platform into a strange, almost unworldly, pale cerulean blue light. It was as though I was standing at the bottom of a clear, azure pool. It was lovely and I was glad to see it, especially since I had no intention of being awake at dawn again anytime soon.

As we gathered our bags, I realized the air was cool and dry—a refreshing change from the sodden heat of Venice. Beyond the station, I saw neat, white houses trimmed with planters overflowing with brilliantly colored flowers and in the distance, the sun beginning to highlight deeply forested alpine peaks.

We found a taxi outside the station, and I handed the sleepy-looking driver a slip of paper with the address of the flat. Mumbling to himself, he practically threw our bags in the trunk.

We were both hoping that we’d be living in one of those charming white houses trimmed with flowers or, if not, in some fabulous, over-the-top, baroque building from a century or two past.

It was only three minutes before the taxi slowed and Kate, glancing out the window, frowned. I think we’re here. It may not be so fabulous.

The taxi driver dropped us and our luggage unceremoniously in front of a stark, modern apartment building on Gabelsbergerstrasse. We paid him, adding a generous tip, but he left in a huff.

︷︷︷

What was his problem? Kate asked, watching the taxi speed away. Did he think we knew it was so close to the station?

I looked up at the dull, ochre-colored building. It stood alone on a concrete slab that barely supported a few dusty bushes. There were no balconies, no overflowing flower boxes. I counted ten floors of unadorned concrete construction. The ground floor was occupied by a small, modern-looking supermarket and across from it on the corner was a large gas station. So much for charming, I muttered to Kate. She looked back at me with a grimace.

Inside the entrance we found a small elevator barely large enough to squeeze ourselves and our bags inside. The flat was on the fourth floor and the lift was creaky and slow. Even worse, it had a motion sensor, and we quickly discovered that if we didn’t move, the light would go off before we reached our floor. I quickly decided it would be faster and far less scary to take the stairs.

Our hosts were the Lipps, a couple in their early thirties. Herr Lipp was tall with a ruddy complexion, dark blond hair, and pale blue eyes. He answered the door wearing a frayed gray bathrobe. Frau Lipp, also robe-clad but in bubblegum pink, was standing behind him looking as though she wanted to hide. Short and plump, she was taking curlers out of her cropped, mousy-brown hair.

Herr Lipp greeted us with a smile, welcoming us to their home. Although his English was heavily accented, I had little difficulty understanding him. He told us his wife spoke no English at all.

I said I was hoping we’d learn some German, but I was sure we would manage to communicate.

You get settled, he said. We will make coffee and breakfast for you.

He showed us our room. It looked freshly painted in a rather bland light gray but was surprisingly spacious and filled with early morning light. There were two twin beds with large white square pillows and soft, plush comforters that appeared to be filled with feathers. The polished wood floor was bare except for a small woven rug between the beds. A dark sepia-colored wooden armoire stood against the far wall and next to it a matching chest with drawers. Hanging above the chest was a large color print of Salzburg with the Hohensalzburg fortress at the center. Between the beds, a small white wooden table sat below a large window that looked over the street. Against the wall opposite the beds, there was an oval wooden table with two chairs. A slender blue vase with white lilies had been placed in the middle, a welcoming touch.

Dropping our bags, we returned to the sitting room. We were starving. Last night’s dinner had been a hastily consumed plate of pasta before boarding the train. We joined Herr Lipp in the small dining room where Frau Lipp was just putting out coffee with milk and a plate of semmelen, small crusty rolls, with butter and jam. We will have breakfast like this for you each day, he said. But if you would like anything else, you should go to the supermarket downstairs and Frau Lipp will make space in the fridge.

I took a sip of the eye-opening coffee. Adding more milk, I glanced at Kate, who frowned and put hers down but reached for another roll. I looked around the flat. The large rectangular living room was comfortably furnished with an overstuffed sofa and a couple of matching chairs, all in a deep velvety maroon. There were a few mismatched end tables and a dark wooden coffee table in front of the sofa. It was pleasant, if a bit old-fashioned.

From where we were sitting in the dining room, I could see the small but modern kitchen, and to the left a narrow hallway leading to another bedroom, painted in pale green. When we first entered the flat, I had noticed the front door opened to a small vestibule with our room directly across from it. At least, I thought, the bedrooms are at opposite ends of the flat so we won’t disturb them with our comings and goings.

Spreading out a map, Herr Lipp began to tell us about the city of Salzburg. He pointed out the historic highlights and the tram that would take us to the Altstadt, the Old City. From there, he traced the streets to the cable car that ran up the mountain to the Festung Hohensalzburg, the medieval fortress that dominated the city and the location of our school. He added that the tram ran from early morning till night, stopping at ten o’clock. If you are out after that, you will have to walk home, he said with a slight smile. I had no idea if late nights would be relevant or not. Neither Kate nor I had any concept of what to expect from the school during the day, much less what we might be doing at night.

We’ll keep that in mind, I said seriously.

Handing us the map and two sets of keys, he said, You will notice that there are no cars in the Altstadt. The streets are very narrow and for pedestrians only. Only certain taxis and specially licensed vehicles are allowed in.

Frau Lipp took over, showing us the single bathroom in the flat. There was a large bathtub, and I was happy to see a handheld shower. In my opinion, the weak handheld showers we had encountered all over Europe were better than sitting in a tub of rapidly cooling, lukewarm water.

I knew the European view of Americans was that we bathed far too often. But after traveling for two months through England, France, and Italy, I was of the opinion that Europeans might consider increasing their bathing habits or at least try deodorant.

I must tell you, Herr Lipp said, there is hot water only once a day, usually in the evening.

With a quick glance at me, Kate, trying to keep a straight face said, Only once a day? Thank you for letting us know. I wondered if we would ever be there for that once a day.

After the heat and humidity of Venice, the cool Austrian morning felt heavenly. It was still early, and after thanking the Lipps for breakfast, we went back to our room. I suggested that we try to sleep for a few hours before going up to the fortress to register for our classes. Kate sat down on one of the beds, yawned, and looked at me. Good idea, she said.

︷︷︷

It was early afternoon when we woke up. Digging some clothes out of our bags, we agreed to unpack later. I pulled out the first things I saw: a light pink pleated skirt and a white sleeveless blouse, neither of them too terribly wrinkled despite being squashed in a suitcase for twelve hours. The coolness of the morning had given way to yet another hot afternoon, and I wished I could wear shorts. But my mother had told me that shorts, even Bermuda shorts, not to mention pants, were not proper attire for young girls in Europe.

Proper or not, I wished I had brought a pair.

I ran a brush through my red-streaked hair, twisting it into a loose chignon. (The streaks had resulted from a misguided effort by my college roommate to add highlights to my dark brown hair. She had used peroxide, and the color had come out a deep alizarin red. I hadn’t really minded it. After all, I was an artist and we were allowed our eccentricities. But eccentricities or not, my mother—not unexpectedly—had been apoplectic, screaming at me to get it dyed back to one color. Fortunately, there had been no time to deal with it before I left for Europe.)

Returning to my suitcase, I found a pair of tan sandals. Kate put on a blue shift dress and ballet flats and fluffed out her short, dark blonde curls. Picking up our map and keys, we left the flat and, following Herr Lipp’s directions, walked three blocks to the tram stop at the far end of the Mirabell Gardens. The tram ran along Rainerstrasse, a wide street bordering the gardens.

As we boarded the dark blue tram, everyone inside turned to look at us. Feeling self-conscious, we found seats near the back, staring out the windows in order to avoid the probing glances of the other passengers. In front of us, high on the Monchsberg, I saw the imposing Festung Hohensalzburg, where Oskar Kokoschka’s School of Vision had its painting studios.

After passing a deserted market square, we disembarked at the Staatsbrucke, the wide bridge that crossed the muddy green Salzach River. On the other side, we walked along a row of ancient, pastel-colored buildings until we found a vaulted archway leading into the Old City.

Reaching Getreidegasse, the main street of the Altstadt, we stopped short, awestruck by the scores of elaborate, gilded wrought iron signs hanging off the equally decorative shops and cafés that lined the narrow street. And as Herr Lipp had told us, there was not a car in sight. It was as though we had stepped into a movie set constructed to look like an enchanting alpine village.

︷︷︷

Deciding to have lunch first, we explored several of the passageways leading off Getreidegasse, finally choosing a small café in a flower-filled courtyard. Above us on the trees and balconies of the surrounding buildings, orange ribbons floated in a light breeze. Although the menus were printed entirely in German, the waiter, who spoke a little English, helped us sort through the choices. We both ordered what sounded like toasted ham and cheese sandwiches. He asked us if we wanted wine or beer. When we both asked for bottled water, he looked surprised.

Looking worried, Kate asked, Did you feel uncomfortable on that tram?

I told her I did, a little. But I thought it was that we were obviously foreigners and dressed differently from the people who lived here. They probably thought we were tourists or students, which actually we were, and perhaps they didn’t see as many Americans here as the rest of Europe, so we were a bit of a novelty. I hadn’t felt any real hostility. I thought they were just curious.

But we really never saw that in Italy or France, she complained. In those countries everyone was very friendly.

Maybe you’re nervous hearing the language. I think we’ll just have to get accustomed to living in a German-speaking country, I said.

You’re probably right. I’m sure it will be fine, she said, still sounding anxious. I only hope they don’t dislike Americans and that there’s no anti-Semitism left over from the war.

I paused. It was a disturbing thought. I don’t know, Kate. But the school’s been here for ten years, so I doubt it will be a problem.

︷︷︷

Leaving the café, we followed our map, crossing the broad Residenzplatz to the cobblestoned street that led to the Festungsbahn, the cog railway that ran up the mountain to the fortress. At the top, we exited the steeply pitched cable car and followed a cobblestone and brick street through a broad stone archway where we saw an alcove with the registration desks for the school.

It was after three and only a few people were still registering. As we signed our admission forms, I noticed four more desks, each with a sign: Deutsch, Italiano, Francais, and one marked Sculpture. At first I was surprised that there was a course in sculpture, but thinking back to the information I had received from the school last winter, I vaguely recalled reading something about it.

The registrar told us that although the classes were separated by language, each would have students from several countries. Since the English class was the smallest, we would have English-speaking French, Dutch, and Swiss students in our studio. Also, as the Italian class was full, there would be several non-English-speaking Italians as well, and the Italian instructor would come up to work with them every day. There were two German classes, as they were by far the largest group represented at the school. That didn’t surprise me; Salzburg was practically on the German border. Even more significant was that Kokoschka was Austrian, although often identified as a German expressionist painter.

Handing us our identity cards, she suggested we stop at the art store, where we could purchase the supplies we would need for the class. As we turned to leave, I saw a young man walking rapidly toward us. Tall and thin, he had long, shaggy, light brown hair, blue eyes, and a pleasant smile. He wore khakis and a plaid short-sleeved shirt, and carried a briefcase.

He greeted the registrar by name and, turning to Kate, asked if she was a student at the school. Surprised, she nodded.

My name is Les Albers, and I’m American, he said, but I’m sure you can tell that. I live in Munich, but I often work in Salzburg. In fact, I’m just coming from a meeting upstairs.

We introduced ourselves, and Kate, suddenly flustered, said that we were indeed attending the school for the next month. Les nodded, saying it had a great reputation, but no one he had met had found it easy.

I think you’ll find it more challenging than you expect. He paused for a moment, his glance resting on Kate. I have an idea. Why don’t you join me for dinner Friday and I’ll tell you all about Salzburg.

We’d love to, Kate said quickly.

Good. He wrote the name of a restaurant and the address on a card and handed it to her. It’s in the Altstadt across the Domplatz next to an ancient church. If you have a map you won’t have any problem finding it. I’ll see you there at eight.

We’ll be there, she said with a big smile.

That was great, I said, watching him as he walked away.

Blushing, she agreed. I thought he was really attractive.

He’s all yours, I said.

︷︷︷

Kate wanted to find our classroom before going to the art supply store. Pointing, the registrar told us to walk straight ahead and turn right where we would see a pink marble stairway and signs for the different studios. They were all on different floors.

We entered the fortress through a wide vaulted passageway, noticing forbidding-looking iron rings set into the ceiling. We found the stairs but, seeing daylight ahead, went outside to a large white gravel courtyard, obviously the center of the fortress. It was stark and empty except for two large trees, each ringed by a coarse wooden bench. A few tourists were walking around aimlessly, taking photographs. Surrounding the courtyard, small uneven windows punctuated the simple whitewashed buildings that formed the walls of the fortress and appeared to contain offices and living spaces. A few windows held dusty flower boxes. Seeing a small Gothic chapel that appeared to be in a sad state of disrepair, Kate tried the door but found it locked. Just past the chapel on the left, we saw another vaulted passageway that opened onto a broad grass-covered parapet edged with a low stone wall. Below us, the roofs of the Old City shimmered in the late afternoon sun.

I told Kate it was time to go back inside and find the studio; we could do more exploring later in the week. I reminded her that Herr Lipp had mentioned there were several decorated state apartments as well as a museum somewhere in the fortress, including a torture chamber with a dramatic view of the city.

She laughed. Torture with a view. How grim. Those old Austrians must have had a bizarre sense of humor.

We retraced our steps through the courtyard back to the stairs. On the first floor landing, a small hand-lettered sign pointed down a short corridor to the English studio. Just ahead in an arched stone doorway, I saw a man talking with a couple of students. As we approached, he turned to us and introduced himself. I’m Bill Thomson, the instructor in this studio.

We introduced ourselves, and he glanced briefly at Kate, shaking her hand. As he turned, about to shake my hand, his eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. I felt a sudden, powerful sensation wash over me as my mind went blank. I saw him in a flash of white light and knew that image would be engraved in my memory forever. As we both looked away I blinked, my mind awakened by the image. I reminded myself to breathe. Whatever that was, I knew it wasn’t a good thing. Stay away from this man, I warned myself; he’s much older and there’s something dangerous about him. He’s not to be played with. Do not even think about going anywhere near him.

I saw him glance back at me as he turned to talk to another student. Realizing he was standing practically under a spotlight, I shook my head thinking that was the light I had seen. But it had been more than that. Something had happened that I had never experienced before, something primal, deep, and unknown that had both excited and frightened me.

He wasn’t much taller than I. Thick dark hair fell over his forehead, long and slightly curling at the back of his neck. His long bushy sideburns were brushed with gray. He had thin, unsmiling lips and an aquiline nose, but the drama of his face came from his eyes, which were an unusual and intense light hazel. I didn’t think he was particularly handsome, but he radiated sensuality. He was slim, wearing a loosely constructed dark navy jacket, khaki pants, and a white shirt with a narrow knitted tie. I guessed he was in his late thirties. But what surprised me most was that he had a colorful woven sash wrapped around his waist. I wondered briefly if he was a Gypsy. It was a romantic thought, but I doubted it.

Later when I told Kate about my reaction to Bill Thomson, she looked at me, her eyes wide in disbelief. He must be forty, twice your age, she said incredulously. He’s old.

︷︷︷

Walking gingerly past him, I entered the studio and looked around. The walls were stone gray, flat, and bare. Large windows, widely spaced along the left wall, let in bright daylight and overlooked the shingled roof beyond. The scuffed wooden floors were worn and creaky in places; it wasn’t a room one could walk in and out of in silence. Easels and high stools were scattered in a large circle around a slightly elevated model platform. There was a sink with jars for water and rolls of paper towels next to it.

With a quick glance back at Bill Thomson, I quietly suggested to Kate that we should look for the art store. We located it in a small dark alcove not far from the studio. The elderly, gray-haired lady who ran it spoke little English but showed us what we would need.

The small, square pans of vibrant watercolors intrigued me, having never seen anything quite like them in the states. While I picked out a couple of large, soft-tipped sable brushes, she brought us big packs of paper that could be clipped to our easels, indicating that we would be using a lot of paper and she would be expecting to see us often.

Kate asked if we could leave the paint and paper with her and pick them up the next morning on our way to the studio. She nodded.

︷︷︷

Our first evening in Salzburg felt a bit strange after the long trip we had taken through Europe. For the last two months we had become accustomed to moving every few days, and packing and unpacking had become a chore. We were more than content to be settling into one place for the next month.

Venturing out, we found one of the cafés that Herr Lipp had suggested for dinner, the Auerspergstube. Family owned, it was small and comfortable with white-painted walls trimmed in dark wood and fragrant with the warm scents of home cooking. Best of all, it was conveniently close to our flat. We both ordered Wiener schnitzel, the only thing we understood on the menu. Kate ordered a small beer, and I asked for weiss wine. As the waiter brought them, she asked why I had been so suddenly attracted to Bill Thomson.

Taking a sip of wine, I told her I honestly didn’t know. What I didn’t tell her was I had already asked myself that question several times since meeting him that afternoon. He certainly wasn’t the best looking man I had ever met, and I was confused by my powerful reaction to him. I was both attracted and afraid, my instincts the same as earlier that day: stay away.

I don’t understand, she said. He’s so much older than we are. He’s nothing like Steve.

Steve was my high school boyfriend. Steve was a boy. Bill is a man, I said flatly. There’s something about him that attracts me. I don’t know what it is, but I think I should stay away from him.

I agree. Anyway, I don’t think he’s all that attractive, she said petulantly.

Changing the subject I asked, Your parents are friendly with Steve’s family aren’t they?

Yes, she answered.

Are they going to the wedding?

No, I don’t think so. Since his girlfriend is pregnant I think they’re having a small wedding, just family.

︷︷︷

I had seen him first. It was the beginning of my junior year in high school. I passed him in the hallways every day that September. But he had never even glanced at me. Overcoming my usual shyness, I asked friends if they knew him. Finally, my friend Chas Dittell told me he had some classes with Steve and would be willing to introduce me to him. Chas and I had met the spring before and quickly became platonic friends. We never dated. But after talking together after school a few times, we discovered we were both searching for an understanding of ourselves and our places in a world that seemed to become increasingly confusing every day.

I had told him I would be painting scenery for a play after school all that week, and he agreed to casually stop by one afternoon with Steve. They came in just as I was finishing a large flat. I’m sure Steve was wondering why he was there, but he politely asked about the play. I explained that I was painting sets for The Man Who Came to Dinner, which would be staged in a few weeks for the entire school. I added that although the drama teacher had wanted me to perform in it, I preferred to work behind the scenes.

We hit it off immediately. Leaving Chas, who vaguely said he had to go somewhere, Steve took me in his red 1956 Plymouth convertible to the Bar-B-Que Pit, a local high school hangout where we continued talking over french fries and Cokes. I was surprised he didn’t have a girlfriend; he was tall, attractive, and easy to talk to.

The next day he asked me to go to the movies that Saturday night, and from that day on we became inseparable. By Thanksgiving we were in the throes of first love and that bliss continued, practically uninterrupted, until the following August, when it was time for him to leave for college.

That night had been my mother’s annual anniversary party. Steve was leaving for the University of Pittsburgh the next morning. We spent the early evening trying to be sociable and mingling with my parents’ friends, but later we went off to be alone and hold each other. So far, sex had never been an issue. We had only touched and petted, both of us well aware of the unwritten code of 1950s Scarsdale—nice girls didn’t do that. And at that point, I was still a nice girl. As he left that night, we both had tears in our eyes, having promised to love each other forever and write every day.

Later that night, my mother came to my room and sat on my bed, where I was sobbing and curled up in a ball of abject misery. I know you’re sad about Steve leaving, she said gently, but I know you’ll write and see each other at school vacations. I’m sure it will all be fine, at least until he meets someone prettier than you. I looked up at her in shock, not believing what I had just heard. She had always been critical of me. I could count on one hand the times she had told me that I looked pretty; pretty wasn’t part of her vocabulary. Instead it was, Fix your hair, Your lipstick is the wrong color, Do something about your nails, and her perennial favorite, Are you really going to wear that? I was accustomed to her criticisms and, although they always hurt, I had learned to ignore them. But I had never thought she could be so cruel. Through my tears I snapped, I don’t know what that means, but leave me alone. I didn’t speak to her for weeks after that.

As he promised, Steve had written almost every day, as had I, and we spent practically our entire Thanksgiving and Christmas vacations together. Back at college, he called in January asking me to come to Pittsburgh for a fraternity dance. But my mother, no doubt thinking I might end up sleeping with him, refused to let me go. She may have been right.

Two months later, he stopped writing. He had finally met that prettier girl and one who would sleep with him.

︷︷︷

Devastated, I dressed in black for months and lined my constantly red-rimmed eyes in black eyeliner. After we returned our class rings to each other, I began writing poetry, the pages stained with tears. Confused about life, I turned to Chas as a friend, and that summer when he returned from college, he brought me books by Sartre, Heidegger, and Camus. We spent days and nights discussing the importance of thinking for ourselves and refusing to accept the suffocating conformity of the time, as well as actively making choices and taking responsibility for those choices. In the midst of all this philosophy, I lamented that I would never love again. Chas, smiling at me indulgently, assured