The Woman in the Photograph (16 page)

“That sounds perfect.” Breathing out, she squeezed him tight, relieved no starfish would be projected onto her body. “Let's have a whisky to celebrate.”

She forced a bright smile and began to pour.

The day before the ball, Man and Lee went to the mansion to do a test run. They packed the camera equipment into Man's Voisin and drove to the rue de Babylone. At the mansion, he parked his car alongside the thick outer wall.

“I wonder if we should ring at the servant's entrance?” Man mumbled.

Since the count and countess were out, the butler showed them to the second-story room with the best view of the gardens. The white walls were covered in gold relief; rococo patterns thundered from the dome ceiling to the marqueterie floor. The furniture—prissy red armchairs and settees, spindly legged tables, large mirrors with elaborate gold frames—seemed to fight the walls for attention. Lee breathed in. She'd been in elegant old Parisian apartments, with woodworked walls and gold swirls, but this was over the top. Obviously, this mind-numbing décor had given rise to the idea of a pure white party. She joined Man at the French windows and, taking his hand, looked out on the large green lawn. The stage and dance floor were finished.

“Monsieur, madame.” The butler quietly approached them on the balcony. “I believe the countess plans to hang muslin
curtains through those trees”—he pointed—“and white lanterns will be lighting the gardens.”

Man stared at the butler uncomfortably, unsure whether he should tip him; Lee, who had grown up in a house with servants, gave the man in white gloves a regal nod.

“I'm sure it'll be marvelous. We'll set up here.
Merci
,” she said, a clear dismissal.

Man, thankful to be left to his own devices, put the 35-millimeter projector together, then pulled out the reels. He opened the tin lid and held the film up to the light.

“Imagine painting a moving picture, one still at a time.” He gave out a low whistle. “Not something I'd ever do. You know, this is a Georges Méliès film—and there it was, wasting away at the flea market.” She looked at him blankly. “I guess you're too young to remember
Le Voyage dans la
lune
?”

“Doesn't ring a bell, but then I don't know many French films. But, you know, when I was a teenager, I dreamed of going to Hollywood to be in the movies. I even practiced signing my autograph—Betty Miller—for all my fans.” She laughed at her younger self.

He handed Lee an old sheet. “All right, Betty, let's see what you've got. Go into the garden and wave this around. Through the trees, on the dance floor, by the stairs. I want to see what the effect will be.”

Lee raced down the stairs—startling a pair of chambermaids—and came out on the finely cut lawn. She waved up at Man, then, from the projector, saw the piercing white dot. Throwing the sheet up to the wind, she jumped around, trying to catch the colored light like butterflies in a net. She liked
having the enormous garden to herself, the only one invited. On the long dance floor, she kicked off her shoes, then twirled and leaped, limbs loose, pretending she was Isadora Duncan. She could see faint traces of pink, yellow, and blue on the white platform, on the sheet, on her bare arms. With the single sheet, she was mistress of the entire lawn.

•  •  •

The afternoon of the ball, Lee waited downstairs in the studio, trying to guess what Man's costume would be.

“A toga?” she called up. “An angel with big feathery wings? An egg?” She smiled to herself imagining a naked Man Ray, dark and hairy, wearing half a broken eggshell.

Finally, with a satisfied grin, he charged down the stairs in shorts, a polo shirt, and a cardigan.

“Tennis whites!” She gave him a big hug. “How swell! You look like a little boy.”

“I don't remember the last time I actually played,” he said, flicking a racquet to and fro. “But it's perfect for an aristocrat's ball.”

“You wouldn't want anyone to think you were groveling to the ruling class, would you, Man?”

“Conquer them with nonchalance and bare legs, I say.”

“So do I get a tennis outfit, too?”

“Come upstairs and I'll show you,” he said. He ran up, somehow invigorated by his sports clothes, and she followed. On the bed lay a chic white tennis skirt with a halter top to match. “Madeleine Vionnet designed it. She's happy for you to wear it tonight; she says she can't get better advertising than a coat hanger like you.”

Lee had modeled some of Vionnet's flattering designs for
Vogue
—exquisitely draped, natural, and timeless—and loved them. She immediately put it on: the short skirt, the ankle socks and flat shoes, the top. Man tied the halter in double knots so no wise guy could undo it. She added some lipstick, then turned to him and curtsied.

He whistled. “You'll be the belle of the ball.”

“Or at least the belle of the projection room.”

That evening, Man Ray slowly turned his long car into the mansion's narrow street, stopped at the gate, and rang. A couple of menservants, dressed all in white, were soon at the door; one carried the photography equipment into the house, while the other parked the car down the road. Lee and Man walked into the spectacular garden. Long, thin curtains blew through the trees, while hundreds of lanterns bobbed on the branches like houses for fairy folk.

The servants were buzzing over last-minute preparations. The champagne fountain was being arranged in one corner, while the white-clad orchestra was settling in onstage. Lee and Man followed the valet upstairs to the Louis XIV projection room, checked everything, then went to the bar for a drink.

As the guests began to arrive, Lee strolled around the garden to see if she knew anyone. There was the pianist Arthur Rubinstein, posing as an oriental prince, and Jean Cocteau, whom she recognized despite a powdered wig and plaster mask, because of his long, skinny legs. Amused, she noticed that the countess had elevated her rank and become an empress.

Back inside the mansion, she found Man on the upstairs balcony. When a handful of couples began dancing on the white
platform, he switched on the projector. Vibrantly colored figures and faces, distorted by distance and movement, suddenly came to life on the guests. The dancers gasped, stopped, and tried to grab the images, to straighten them out on their clothes. People crowded onto the dance floor, whirling a waltz, laughing in delight as they saw their partner's face turn green, then orange, an oblong mermaid flit on a shoulder, yellow skeletons land on a large behind.

“It's stunning!” Lee cried, looking down from the balcony, arm in arm with Man. Her feet tapped to the music as she watched the happy crowd below. After another minute, she blurted out, “Oh, Man, you wouldn't mind if I went down for a little bit? To see the effect up close?”

“Of course not,” Man said. “I can't go with you, though. When this film is over, I'm putting on another one. Then I guess I'll repeat the Méliès. They do seem to like it.” He looked down on the crowd, pleased with their reaction.

“See you in a minute,” Lee called from the door, then disappeared.

In the dark garden, waltz turned to jazz. She walked toward the white dance floor with her hands in the air, trying to touch the movie-colors like a child reaching for a rainbow. Suddenly, one hand was plucked down. It was the baron, George Hoyningen-Huene, dressed as a sheik.

“Lee, darling,” he said, twirling her around once. “You look fabulous—and you won't get too hot on that packed dance floor.” He cocked his head in that direction. “Shall we?”

After dancing with George, Lee went from one partner to the next, doing the foxtrot, the Charleston, the tango. As she
started the Lindy Hop, the film changed, from colored fantasy to black-and-white script. Everyone on the dance floor tried to read each other's bodies, to find a full word. The man dancing beside her lunged at a shape on her arm: “Got ‘u'!” he cried in English, delighted with his wit. Lee looked up at the balcony to wave at Man, but could only see the flickering light from the projector. After a few more numbers, she wound back through the garden and up the wide staircase, to see how he was doing.

“You having fun?” Clearly annoyed, his lips jerked into a terse smile. “You do realize, Lee, that you are not a guest. You're my assistant. That's the only reason you're here.”

“I know, darling.” Taking his hand, she pretended not to notice his dark mood and opted for flattery. “What a success! Everyone just
loves
your idea. It's dangerous out there, though,” she said, changing to a semi-serious tone. “Lots of toe-steppers. I guess the lights distract them. I wish
you
could dance with me. You're a much better dancer than those stodgy ole aristocrats.”

He slid his arm around her and gave her a kiss, cut short as the Méliès film clicked to an end. “I'm turning off the projector. The novelty's worn off, anyway. I'm going to start taking photos now. Could you carry the tripod for me?”

As soon as Man had the camera ready for portraits in the downstairs hall, a line of guests appeared, ready to be captured in tall hats and long pearls, feathers and thick makeup, as Greek statues, sailors, royalty, or buccaneers—but white, all white. Lee was setting up the tripod when the count, dressed as Voltaire, asked her to dance. She looked apologetically at Man; he couldn't rightly refuse his employer. He nodded peevishly at her, swatting the air with his hand.

“Don't be long,” he muttered to her back.

The platform, without the swimming lights and colors, was not so crowded. On their first turn around the floor, the count whispered in her ear, “Please tell me you're a Yankees fan.”

“Excuse me?” she faltered; had she misunderstood him?

“The Yankees! Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Bob Meusel . . . Murderer's Row? Say, aren't you a New Yorker?”

“Yes, I'm from New York.” She looked up at Voltaire, confused. “You like baseball?”

“Of course I do! I'm from Manhattan.”

The American count spoke eagerly of home, but was interrupted when, during the next dance, a Russian prince cut in. After them, a French marquis followed an English earl. “Noblesse oblige,” he said with a grin. Lee delighted in the attention, flirting and dancing—fast numbers on the platform, slow ones in the shadow of the trees—and remembered Man only vaguely. Finally, hot and thirsty, she went to the bar for more champagne and saw him there, alone, drinking a whisky.

“Rubbing shoulders with high society, I see.” His voice slurred slightly, his eyes were angry slits.

“Everyone's so nice.” She put her arm around him. “They just wouldn't let me leave the dance floor.” She looked around. “Are you finished with the photos?”

“Ran outta plates.” He took another long sip. “An hour ago.”

She could feel heat rising off him; if they weren't in a palace, he'd be yelling and cursing.

“Do you want to get some food? They're setting up a buffet outside.”

“I've
had it with this place.” He'd been working; his shift was over. “Let's go.”

“You're sure?” Lee asked, disappointed.

She opened her mouth again to protest—she could have stayed till dawn—but clamped it shut when he glared at her, his eyes reflecting white. Lee wasn't afraid of him, but didn't want a fight, not there. She could imagine what that would look like: two low-born, drunken servants loudly bickering in the royal chambers, horrifying the bluebloods. “All right,” she mumbled, and bolted down her champagne, dreading his jealous accusations and desperate expressions of love.

Back at his place, there was no argument. In silence, in bed, he loved her violently—strangling, bashing, grappling, pounding—as if trying to prove that her body was his, that he could do what he pleased with it. No nobleman, no party guest had access to her now. With no enjoyment, she stared at the naked ceiling; she couldn't bear to see the urgency in his eyes, the sweat dripping off his hair, the lipless mouth, grunting like an ape. She let him work out his anger, knowing it would be over soon. Long after he'd drifted off to sleep, Lee lay awake, his hot body still pressed next to hers, trying to decide if it was worth it.

When she woke up the next morning, his side of the bed was cold. She called out; no one answered. She found the downstairs empty, but saw he'd been making prints. A new batch lay scattered on the coffee table. There was a cropped enlargement of her lips, grainy but full and sensual. Underneath were her fingers, barely touching her mouth, holding back a secret. Last was her solitary eye staring back at her from the table, all-seeing, accusing, a witness. He had chopped her to bits.