The Woman in the Photograph (18 page)

Man nodded his head, regarding his would-be father-in-law with awe. “I couldn't agree more.”

“Well,
girls, what do you say?” Theodore clapped his hands.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Miller.” Tanja picked up a croissant crust and considered it. “I'm going to have to say no.”

“That's too bad.” Theodore looked like a child who had been given the wrong present on Christmas morning. “I hope there's nothing wrong.”

“Actually, there's something very right.” Tanja smiled shyly. “I've only told Lee so far, but you two might as well know. Henry has asked me to marry him.”

“The young archaeologist?” Man said, surprised. “What, has he proposed by post?”

“Yes!” Tanja laughed. “We're getting married as soon as he gets back from Syria.”

“Congratulations!” Man tugged her out from under the covers, propped her up and gave her a hug. “That's wonderful news.”

“Best wishes, my dear,” Theodore said as he shook her hand. “That's very fine indeed. But what does that have to do with you posing for pictures?”

“I just don't think Henry would be too keen on the idea.”

“Is this fiancé of yours really such a prude?” Theodore asked. “That doesn't bode well, to my mind.”

“Daddy.” Lee scowled. “Let Tanja be. If she doesn't feel like posing, that's up to her. I'm sure we can find some other models for you while you're here. Right, Man?”

“In Montparnasse? If you throw a stone, you'll accidentally hit three.”

A few hours later, Man and Lee went to the cafés in search of models. On le Dôme's terrace, they found the painter Pascin.
Over his clothes, he was wearing the long, checkered bathrobe he used for painting; a flop of dirty hair, which quivered when he talked like the tail of a nervous bird, was half-plastered to his cheek. He was drinking spiked coffees with two pretty girls, a blond Italian and a dark-haired Russian, both snuggled up in enormous wooly sweaters.

“Pascin! What a pleasure.”

“Man.
Ma belle.
” He gave Lee a kiss flush with whisky fumes. “Join us.”

They perched on chairs and got down to business. Theodore was waiting at Lee's studio, anxious to get started.

“We're looking for models,” said Man. “Girls to pose for photos, not paintings. Just for the afternoon. Most of the women I work with seem to be out of town. Is there anyone around that you would recommend?”

“These two here have modeled for me.” He gestured to the women at his side. “Don't be put off by these potato sacks they've got on.” He pulled up a handful of knit-work from each sweater—“
Mon Dieu
, are
both
your grannies blind?”—then turned back to Man with a shake of his head. “They actually have nice bodies. And I can vouch for their skills. These dirty little bitches are limber.” He gave his fingertips an appreciative kiss as the girls twittered with giggles.

Man looked them over. “I can offer you a day's wages—” he began. Without another word, they bounced off their chairs, ready to go. Pascin raised his coffee cup in a farewell salute.

When they walked in, Theodore bowed stiffly and greeted them in his formal, though limited French.

“
Je suis heureux de faire votre connaissance, mesdemoiselles
.”

They giggled again.

Lee began setting up her tripod.

“What are you doing, Lee?” asked her father, frowning in confusion.

“I'm going to take pictures, too. You don't mind, do you?”

“But, princess, I want you to model.”

“Daddy, there're already two girls here—”

“And you're far prettier than either of them. It isn't right for you to be on the sidelines, taking pictures with us old men.” He gave Man the wink of a comrade-at-arms. “Please, Li-Li?”

“If it means that much to you,” she said sulkily. “I'll be posing, too,” she told the other girls in French.

While the two photographers manned themselves with cameras, Pascin's friends kicked off their shoes, unfastened their stained stockings, and slid them down into silken heaps; with their bulky sweaters off, Theodore snapped a few candid shots of them unbuttoning each other's dresses. Silently steaming, Lee began taking off her clothes as well. After all the praise he had given her photographs during this trip, her father still thought of her foremost as his model, his beautiful little girl. Still a teenager on the sleeping porch in P'ok. She supposed parents never let their children evolve too much; regression was de rigueur.

“Elizabeth, I'd like to take a few shots of you and the blonde on the bed.” He peeked down into his camera, adjusting the focus. “Side by side, like a reflection, an echo. Lovely. Now, bring your mouths together, as if you were going to kiss. That's right.” He took a few more shots, then motioned to the brunette. “Could you join them, please?”

Lee did as she was told, nuzzling a neck, arching backward on the bed, propping her legs up on the wall. She could feel the excitement emanating from the men; she could hear the shutters snapping faster and faster, like breathing, like panting.

“Elizabeth, you're grimacing, darling. Just close your eyes. That's right.”

As the afternoon light began to fade, the photographers decided to stop, satisfied with the day's work. Pascin's friends quickly got dressed and put on their hats. Lee watched them reapply their lipstick. Although she had been tussling on the bed with these two women for an hour, feeling their warm skin and smelling the bitter coffee on their breath, she didn't know them, their names, their stories. Modeling was such a strange business: women playing make-believe for the camera; men taking photos that told a nonexistent story.

“I'm going to get in the bathtub,” she said to the two men, busy packing up equipment and going over the potentially best shots.

As she lay soaking, she imagined asking Theodore and Man if she could take a nude series of them. Just a few saucy poses—simple acrobatics, playful fondling, a love bite or two. She laughed aloud picturing their shocked faces.

•  •  •

The next day, before the boat train to Cherbourg departed, Man offered to take double portraits of Lee with her father. In a dark suit, the sixty-year-old sat up straight in Man's posing chair.

“Lee, where do you want to be?” asked Man. “Do you want to stand behind the chair?”

She plopped down on her father's lap. Nestling her head on his shoulder, she closed her eyes. She remembered falling asleep in those arms, warm, in front of the fire. How effortlessly, almost magically, they would lift her up and carry her off to bed. For better or for worse, Lee would always be his princess, his favorite, his girl.

She knew her relationship with her father was unconventional. Most fathers would turn their heads in shame from their daughters' nudity, would pretend they were asexual beings, even after they'd become mothers. But neither she nor her father were very ordinary. They both burned with curiosity, loved novelty and the outré. Their relationship, as singular as it might be, was the most important one she had. He'd always been her ally, her champion. With him, she felt safe.

“Now look at me,” Man said.

She sat up and put her arms around her father's neck; his arms wound around her waist. When their brows touched, they looked at the camera. Neither one smiled. They were united, the photographer, an outsider.

At the train station, Theodore shook Man's hand warmly. “It's been a pleasure. Thank you for everything.” He hugged his daughter and spoke into her ear. “I understand why you want to be here, in Paris, with him. This Man Ray is an extraordinary man.” He looked her in the eyes. “But come see us sometime. We miss you back home.”

“I miss you, too.”

After the train pulled out of the station, off toward the Atlantic,
Lee looked at Man with renewed admiration. His mind, his repute, his milieu, his skill and grace, his love for her—he
was
extraordinary. With a warm smile, she wove her arm through his and gave it a squeeze.

“Daddy likes you,” she said.

It was September. While Parisians were returning from their summer holidays, Tanja, newly married to her archeologist, went back to the States and Man Ray left for Cannes. His friend Picabia had managed to set up an exhibition for him there, and he would be gone a month. Most people did not consider photography a medium worthy of an art gallery, but Man had decided to try his luck; he knew from experience that his canvases wouldn't sell. Lee debated joining him for the late-summer sunshine on the Riviera, but opted for the time alone. Even though her relationship with Man had been on an upswing again since her father's visit, a romance this long—over a year!—was still a constant challenge.

As Paris came back to life after the summer, Lee's appointment book began filling up. While Man was away, she had a dozen sitters pose: a few royals, including the Duchess of Alba and that dapper divorcé, Duke Vallombrosa, as well as some American literati and wealthy Parisians. Most of the latter brought their children or—even worse—their pets. Apart from the private sittings, she also kept her hours at the
Vogue
studio, went to dance clubs with friends, and, when she wanted, had a fling. After three weeks of complete independence, meeting no one's
expectations but her own, she was starting to look forward to having Man back.

By the end of the month, on a chilly, gray Sunday, she decided to go to his studio. For a few days now, she'd been feeling the blue jitters creeping in and wanted to stave them off with good thoughts. Memories of her first months in Paris, their artistic collaborations, their laughter. She let herself in—a faint smell of pipe tobacco was still in the air—put on one of his jazz records, then stood at a table, rearranging his building blocks. Instead of feeling better, she was overwhelmed with nostalgia. Was this longing what the poets call love? Did she really need him the way he claimed to need her? Or was this melancholy? Just passing boredom?

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Slightly startled, she answered it to find André Breton, the writer of manifestos, shaking his umbrella. He took off his hat in the entranceway; underneath, his hair was combed back in its perfect mold.

“Oh, hello, Lee. Isn't Man here?” He looked past her, into the room.

“No, he won't be back from Cannes until tomorrow or the next. Can I do anything for you?”

“I wanted to give him a copy of my new magazine,
Le Surréalisme au service de la révolution.
It's the first issue.” He held up a thin, plain journal for her to admire. “Man was a great help getting it together—and he's got a few pieces in there, too. Make sure he gets it.” He handed the magazine to Lee and replaced his hat. “That's a good girl.” With a half-wave, he went back out the door.

Shaking her head at Breton's patronizing superiority, she
plunked down on the sofa and lit a cigarette, curious to see the latest from Man and his cronies: the charming poets, crazy painters, talented writers, and stuffy phonies; some, men of genius. Lee opened the magazine to a random page and there, scowling back at her, was her own face, trapped in a wire mesh. Rolling her eyes, she blew out a puff of smoke. Although she liked most of Man's ideas—even the most provocative or revealing poses—she'd resented putting that stupid thing on her head. Her hair and makeup done, she'd been about to go out when Man called from downstairs.

“Hey, Lee! Come here!”

She'd looked down from the top of the stairs. The corner was draped in black, and he was standing below, holding that filigree snare.

“Lose the dress, will you,” he'd said, with an impatient wave of his cigarette. “I want to take a few shots with this.”

“Can't it wait? I'm meeting George and Tatiana in a few minutes.” She looked at her watch. “I'm already running late.”

“Come on, Lee,” Man jerked his head, motioning to the corner. “I've got a great idea. It won't take long. If you want you can just pull your dress down to the waist. Seriously, if you're late, those Russkis can keep each other company.”

Lee sat in the corner and yanked down the top of her dress. Obviously, when
he
was inspired, saying no was not an option. She seemed to remember the muses of Greek myth as capricious, never at the artist's beck and call; yet hers was a full-time job. He stuck the wire mesh on her head and nodded, pleased with himself. From various angles and with different lighting, he'd proceeded to take a full roll of film.

She peered at the magazine reproduction. Underneath the wire, her features smoldered with resentment. Her eyes flickered down to the caption.
YOUNG WOMEN: THE RAW MATERIAL TO POWER THE CREATIVE ARTS.

Lee poured herself a shot of whisky, then sat back down, sipping it slowly. She supposed many people would be flattered to think of their face, body, or character as the inspiration for an artist: that his work depended on their presence. Ah, the vanity of it. She stuck her tongue into the shot glass to lick up the last few drops. And such a poetic idea, she used to revel in it herself. But being a muse was not enough anymore.