The Woman in the Photograph (19 page)

With a pleasant buzz in her head, she picked up the magazine and leafed through the rest: an obligatory article boasting their alliance with the Soviet Union (
Vive le Communisme!
), an anti-clerical poem, muddy gray reproductions of paintings—dreamscapes and grotesque images. . . . Then, on the last page, she let out a gasp. There was her photograph of Tanja's head, trapped inside the bell jar. Had Man intended this as a surprise for her? Was she, then, part of their group? She eagerly read the caption underneath it:
HOMAGE TO LE MARQUIS DE SADE. PHOTO: MAN RAY
. She stared at the words, her head cocked, her mouth agape.

Remembering the tantrum Man had thrown after she'd reworked his discarded plate, she wanted to tear the magazine to shreds or stab it with a knife. Instead, she threw it across the room. The fucking hypocrite! How dare he steal her work, passing it off as his own? She gulped down another shot of whisky and paced, her stride too long and fast for the small studio. It was the first artistic photo she'd had published—her fashion
shots didn't count—and she didn't even get credit. Her photo, his name. Did he think she'd never find out? He'd admitted to being envious of the shot. Had he swiped it, pure and simple? Forgotten to tell Breton it was hers? Or could it have been an honest mistake? Surely not.
Her
photo,
his
name.

Suddenly, she stopped pacing and smiled to herself. It occurred to her that the pompous bastards who esteemed this “original Man Ray” were in fact taken by her work, the vision of
Madame
. She'd hoodwinked them! Fury became pride as she picked up the splayed journal and looked at the photo again. It was a fabulous image, first-rate. Scanning it carefully, she looked for any changes; no, he hadn't retouched it. It was just as she'd developed it, just as she'd thrown it at him that night he lost his senses. The anger came crashing back. How shifty he was, how two-faced! She reread the caption, shaking her head. Her photo of Tanja—a tribute to Sadism? Who the
hell
had come up with that?

By dusk, she was tipsy and desperate for air.

She called her friend Tatiana Iacovleva. Since Tanja left—really, since she'd fallen in love and stopped going out—Lee had mostly been palling around with the sophisticated Russian model.

“Tata, darling?” Her voice was calm; she wanted to forget her anger, not dwell on it. Besides, Tatiana probably wouldn't understand how she was feeling—not that she did herself. “Sorry for calling so late. Do you have plans for dinner? I want to dress up and go out on the town.”

“There's a soirée tonight, but it doesn't start until nine o'clock. Where do you want to go?”

“Let's go to the Ritz,” Lee said. “I'm in the mood for the
Right Bank tonight.”

“All right. I quite like the Ritz now,” Tata said, “since the Crash cleared out all the bores.”

Seated in the middle of the room, Tata and Lee immediately drew attention from admirers who peeked at them through the palms and flower arrangements, or stared at their reflections in the mirrors. One stately gentleman, dining alone, sent over a bottle of champagne, but they couldn't be bothered to invite him to join them; Lee was not up for small talk just yet. Looking at the menu, she was suddenly starving. When her first course came—a borscht—she spooned on a heap of sour cream and dug in.

“Delicious.” She offered some of the hearty soup to Tata, who had ordered a dainty crab salad.

“Very authentic. It's the fennels.” Tatiana nodded, then took another bite. “It reminds me of my grandmother.” She went back to her salad with a long sigh.

Lee glanced over at her friend. Although they were both expatriates who had chosen a life in Paris, she sometimes forgot that, since the revolution, the Russians couldn't go home if they wanted to (not that she would care if she were exiled from Poughkeepsie). She savored her last bite of borscht, thinking of Breton's love affair with the Soviets. Perhaps she should introduce him to Tatiana, surely she could give him a different point of view. She refilled her glass and sat back with a cigarette, determined to forget all about the Surrealists, photography, and Man Ray.

“So, where are you going tonight?”

“To Zizi Svirsky's
place. Do you know him?”

“Zizi?” Lee grinned. In French, that was what little boys called their penis. “You've
got
to be kidding.”

“No, unfortunately. He's Russian, too. Maybe it's short for Ziven?” Tata shrugged.

“That's even worse! ‘I'm Zizi, but it's short.' ” Lee laughed.

“Zizi is perfectly adorable,” Tata said, pouring herself the last of the champagne. She glanced around the room, as if wondering who would provide the next bottle. “He trained as a concert pianist but suffers from such terrible stage fright, he's never been able to perform.”

“Zizi has performance anxiety?” Lee's eyes twinkled.

“Yes, darling, I guess he was afraid he wouldn't measure up.” Tata giggled, then dismissed the joke with a wave of her hand. “He works as a decorator, and his rooms are
gor
geous. Do come along! What host wouldn't want the pair of us?”

They clinked glasses and finished the champagne.

They took a cab to Svirsky's apartment, in an elegant building next to Parc Monceau.

“You'll have a grand time,” Tata said, reapplying her lipstick before getting out of the taxi. “Zizi knows everyone. I've told him to find me a title to marry, but I think he's too fond of me to get serious about it.”

As soon as they entered the salon, Tata was swept off by a group of elegant émigrés; Lee went in search of the powder room. In one corner, a trio of black jazzmen—Americans, surely—played banjo, saxophone, and stand-up bass while an international crowd danced, chatted, or simply decorated the colorful rooms. Walking to the rhythm of the beat, her shoulders
bobbing and hips swinging, Lee took in the eclectic collections of exotic rugs and statuary, antiques and Art Deco, modern paintings and naïf tapestries. Warm and worldly, innovative and chic, it made the Bal Blanc palace—with its rococo walls and pre-Revolution gilt—seem ridiculous.

Lee smiled graciously at several attentive young men—each one trying his best to latch on to her—before she finally found the lavatory. Waiting outside the door was a man of about fifty. Tall, fair, and impeccably dressed, he was not especially handsome, but looked vigorous and fun. Crow's feet danced around his blue eyes; a thin mustache twitched with contained laughter.

“I don't know if we've met,” he said. His bow was formal yet slightly farcical. “Welcome to my home.”

“You must be Zizi.” Lee's smile was mischievous, but charming nonetheless. “Your home is one of the most beautiful I've seen.”

Drinking vodka cocktails, she spent the rest of the evening with her host. He had none of Man Ray's gloom or temper; in fact, silly and carefree, he seemed his opposite. Lounging on the smile-shaped divan, he made her laugh with his frivolous talk and only became serious when discussing fashion and design.

“I've never met a model with such an eye for aesthetics, Lee,” he said finally. “I'm impressed.”

“I've studied art.” She was tipsy enough to just come out and say it. “I'm more than just a model at
Vogue.
I'm a photographer.”

“Now I'm
doubly impressed. Beauty and talent both.”

Lee took his hand in hers, tempted to tell him about the Surrealists' journal. About their adoration for his Stalinized country, about Man's fuming photo of her, and, most of all, her impressive bell jar photo, published under his name. No, she took a drink. To hell with that. And to hell with Man Ray. Leaning back on the cushions, Lee breathed out and looked at her host. She liked this Zizi. When the guests began to leave, and the son of a French viscount escorted Tatiana home, she stayed.

Later, when they got into bed, she blindfolded Zizi with her scarf. It excited him, but that was irrelevant. She didn't want him looking at her anymore. She pushed him down and got on top of him. This man would be the raw material to power
her
creative arts. For tonight, anyway.

•  •  •

“Lee, baby!” Man let himself into her studio, rushed in and embraced her. “I got in last night, but you weren't home,” he said. His hands—one carrying a gift, a richly scented package—clasped around her. “I was beat, though, so I went back to my place. God, I missed you!”

She unwrapped his arms and stepped back. “I can barely look at you right now. You should probably just go.”

“What are you talking about?” His face filled with dread; his voice quaked. “What happened while I was gone? Did you meet somebody? Are you with someone new?”

“No, but that sounds like a good idea. I need a person I can trust, Man. Someone who respects me.”

His brow lifted and his smoking eyes began to clear. “Jesus, kid, I don't know what you've heard about me, but I wasn't
with anybody else down in Cannes, I swear.”

She looked at his mouth, tight but smug, resisting a smile—and wanted to slap him.

“I don't give a damn if you sleep with other women. But sneaking behind my back, playing me for a fool—”

“What the hell? I have no idea—”

“
This
is what I'm talking about, you son of a bitch.”

She threw open the journal—she'd bought a copy for herself at the newsstand—and watched his face. He dropped his parcel on the table—colorful cakes of soap from Provence spilled everywhere—and grabbed the magazine. After giving the photo a cursory inspection, he looked back at Lee, his eyebrows arched in confusion.

“This is what you're all worked up about?”

“How could you put your name on my photo?” She felt like spitting.

He shrugged. “It's not such a big deal, Lee. Breton wanted to use a name people know. It's like the Old Masters and their workshops. Rubens, Rembrandt, Velazquez—they all had apprentices learning from them, painting in their style—”

“It's not the same. I'm not just making copies of your work or filling in the background. That photo was my idea—that's my print! How are people ever going to recognize my name if you sign my work?” Exasperated, Lee lit a cigarette and pulled on it hard. She didn't understand how he could act so faultless and unsympathetic. “And this title? ‘Homage to le Marquis de Sade'? It's the stupidest thing—”

“The title's mine.” He looked pleased with himself. “And
the group loved it. I mean, suffering is the first rule of sadism and here we have a woman's head, trapped in a jar, unable to breathe. It's surrealistic sadism. Perfect, really.” His manner was so cool that she had a mind to practice a little sadism herself—a nice cigarette burn should get his attention. “Why, what did you want to call it?”

“That's not important.” Lee clenched her fists and glowered. She had to force herself not to raise her voice—Man stopped listening when the volume went up—because he needed to hear this. “What is important, and just wrong, is that we have two sets of rules here. It seems you can take my work and publish it under your name, but if I so much as rework a plate that you've
thrown in the trash
, you slit my throat.” She took another long drag off her cigarette. “I won't have it, Man. I won't.”

“I'm sorry, baby.” He slowly walked toward her and put his arms around her. “I didn't realize it meant so much to you.”

“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. It seemed he finally understood. She wasn't just his model or assistant anymore, but a fellow photographer. It was her profession, her ambition, too.

“But, really,” he added with a knowing smile, “you should be glad. Everybody's just crazy about that photo.”

“You bastard!” She pushed him away. His apologies were empty, just a quick way to end a row; he still didn't see any harm in what he'd done. She grabbed a handful of lavender soaps and started pelting him with them.

He ducked behind a chair. “What the hell? Stop it!”

“You treat me like a child. When are you going to realize that I'm a
photographer, just like you?” Soap bounced off the chair and clunked on the wooden floor. “We're colleagues, you idiot!”

He waited until she'd exhausted her supply, then put his hands up in surrender.

“I think I get it now, Lee.”

It was Man's idea to go to the cabaret le Boeuf sur le Toit that night.

“Clement is going to be playing the songs from the new Cole Porter musical. I can't wait!” He attached his left cuff link, then looked over at Lee. “You ready?”

Lee looked up from blowing on her nails—she'd just painted them a brilliant crimson to match her lipstick—and nodded. She'd always like the Boeuf, the half-restaurant, half-nightclub where all kinds of people met and the latest music played at the loudest volume.