The Woman in the Photograph (21 page)

The poet held the mallet menacingly—“Watch out, you!”—then winked at Lee. Again, they quickly cut to replace her with the plaster mold. Watching Enrique, wild and enraged, smashing it apart, she reflected drily on the fate of uncooperative muses.

“Well done, Lee,” Cocteau said as he removed the plaster arm parts. “Although your statue scene is only a few minutes long, it is guaranteed to cause an impression. Armless, with marble skin, your dark lips curled into that sinister smile—it is truly unforgettable.”

“I'm so glad you're pleased.” Trying to open her eyes properly, she glanced over at the broken chunks of the plaster cast of herself. “Do you really think a muse could lead a poet to madness?”

“Of course. Think of poor Coleridge!”

“
Who was his muse?”

“A muse need not be a woman, Lee.” He looked down his long nose at her. “Or even a person.”

•  •  •

When she and Enrique left the studio together, the white plaster glowing on their skin, Lee couldn't help but feel disappointed. As in Man Ray's photography sessions, once again she'd been little more than a prop.

“You say you've never been in a film before?” Enrique waited for the shake of her head, which caused bits of paint and plaster to flitter around her, then whistled. “Damn good job.”

“Thanks,” she said, but didn't believe him. All she'd done was try to stand perfectly still, make minimal expressions, and move her mouth correctly. The impressive part of her character was all in the costume, the makeup. On the other hand, his performance—sexy, strange, and intense—had impressed her. “And you—what stage presence.”

The elderly hotel receptionist was startled to see two phantoms in coats appear at his window.

“What's this?”

“I believe Jean Cocteau has reserved some rooms? We're actors in his film.”

“Yes. Monsieur Cocteau requested the rooms with baths. Here you are.”

With keys in hand, they each hesitated in front of their narrow doors. Enrique turned to her as he unlocked his. “When you're ready, let's have a drink together downstairs.”

“It may take a while,” she said, pulling a bit of paint out of her eyelashes.

“I'll wait.” Enrique kissed his palm like the poet in the film,
then went into his room.

Soaking in the square tub, she thought about him: his accent, his bare torso and muscular calves, that scar. Lee had nearly suggested that they bathe together. Not only was he extremely attractive, but he could have helped scrubbing off the paint and getting the plaster out of her hair. But it was just as well—the bathtub was tiny.

After vigorously toweling her short hair, she put on stockings and a snug green dress, added some rouge and lipstick, then headed downstairs. Enrique was at a table wearing a dark suit and nursing a martini. She ordered one for herself, then joined him. He stood a moment as she sat down.

“You are much more beautiful as a woman than as a statue.”

“Well, I sort of liked you as a poet.” She smiled at him. “Tell me, what's behind the mirror that makes you want to smash me apart?”

“It's the Hôtel des Folies Dramatiques. All I know is that I go down the corridor, peeking in all the keyholes and behind each door, there's something strange.”

“A voyeur, eh?” She looked into his eyes as she took a long sip from her drink. “And what do you see?”

“I'm not exactly sure. I've heard him talk about a Mexican firing squad behind one door, and a Chinese opium den behind another. I think the whole film—although it's completely mad—is about him. You know, his own father committed suicide when he was boy. In this film, I kill myself at least twice.”

Lee twirled her olive stick around in her glass, wondering whether her life would have been different if her mother had
succeeded in her suicide plans, if her father had not saved her. Would it torture her? Every time she got in a car, would she smell the fumes and feel the heaviness, the oncoming quiet? Would she set up photographs of such things—self-portraits of her dead body, still lives with guns or nooses? Would she contemplate suicide herself? She slowly pulled the olive off the stick with her teeth and chewed it, unable to imagine any of it, not even that depth of feeling for her mother. She shook the thoughts from her mind.

“Enrique.” Lee's eyes sparkled. “Why don't we go around this hotel and see what we find? God only knows what there might be behind these doors.”

“In a place like this? We'd be lucky to see some sad old man clipping his toenails.”

“Maybe you're right.” She looked around the room, empty except for a workingman at the bar, on his second round of pastis. “This place doesn't seem very promising. But hey, I still have my key. Why don't we go back to my room and make a scene?”

He stared into her eyes a moment, then quickly finished his drink.

“After you, mademoiselle.”

“That was a long day.” Man rose from the small sofa in her studio to give her a warm hug. “I picked up some things at the charcuterie if you're hungry.”

“Starving!” She plopped down on a chair and let him fuss over her. After opening various waxed-paper packages, he arranged cold cuts and cheese on a plate and cut a baguette. “A bit of wine?” He poured them each a glass, then sat down next to her.

She kissed him fondly. “Thanks, sweetie. I'm beat.”

“So tell me all about it. How was your first day of filming?”

“Being a statue is not all fun and games,” she said while chewing. “In fact, my costume was nasty. Plaster, butter, papier-mâché, paint, fleas . . . I could barely breathe and, when I could, I realized I stank.” Lee laughed and cleaned the crumbs off her mouth with the back of her hand; she could still appreciate her clean skin—soft, warm, and no longer itchy. “It didn't require much in the way of acting skills either. I didn't have to move my limbs, open my eyes or anything.”

“So how does the statue fit in? Is there an actual plot? Or is it just a series of images?”

“It's the story of an artist whose drawing comes to life. Well,
the mouth does. And it gets onto his hand—in the middle of his palm—and he panics and tries to get it off.”

She was about to joke with him about the erotic possibilities of such an aberration, but he broke in, changing tack.

“On his hand? That sounds like that scene from
Un chien andalou
. Have you seen it? One of its main images is the palm of a man's hand. There's a hole in the center and ants keep coming out of it. It's chilling—a really powerful image.” His eyebrows pitched and his tone grew dark. “Sounds like Cocteau just stole it.”

“I don't know. It seems very different to me. An ant hole and a living mouth? What does it matter if they're both in someone's hand?”

“I'd have to see it first. But Cocteau's always been a little magpie, picking up the shiny bits from everyone else's work, from here and there. Then he makes a lovely little nest for himself and everybody oohs and aahs.” He shook his head in disgust. “He even looks like a bird.”

“I don't know about that. You should see how he improvises, Man, how he solves problems right on the spot.” She considered reinforcing her case with a word about Cocteau's friendship with Picasso, the longtime darling of the Paris art world, or Breton's obvious jealousy of him, but really, she didn't feel like arguing. Between filming and Enrique, she'd had a full, interesting day and now just wanted to rest. “Like you. A lot like you.”

“All right, all right. What happens next? The artist has a mouth on his palm. Then what?”

“He gets rid of it by putting it on the statue's mouth. That's
what wakes it up, you see. That living mouth breathes life into it.”

Man stroked her lip with his thumb. “Is it your mouth, Lee?” he asked softly, pointing to the photograph of her isolated lips framed over the dresser. “That mouth?”

“No and yes.” She understood his interest in that detail; her mouth was his. “It starts off as one of Cocteau's line drawings—you know, those simple Greek-looking portraits he makes—then, at the end, it winds up on me.”

“And you are the muse.” He got up and began to pace, each of his words louder than the last. “But, you're
my
muse, Lee. I don't like this one bit. It's like sharing your mistress!”

She ignored his shouting—indeed, the poet had shared his mistress as well—and tried to make light of it. “Well, you know what Cocteau does to this muse at the end of the scene? He smashes her to smithereens.”

Man took a long drink of wine, then leaned into her face. “Perhaps all muses are ultimately meant to be destroyed.” His voice was serious and thick.

“Or to destroy.” She threw a piece of bread at him. “Jesus, Man, calm down. If it makes you feel any better, I've got a few weeks off from the film. We can spend that time together.”

“Really?” His bitter mood quickly faded. “I've been waiting for you to have the time to work on a new project with me.”

“That's grand. What is it?”

“I thought we'd make a film of our own. A little home movie, just for us.”

“And what will this film be about?”

“
Whittling pipes.”

“My, my.” Lee chuckled. After meeting Kiki in la Coupole, she'd never forgotten that French expression. “This promises to be a bit naughtier than Mr. Cocteau's film.”

“And you won't have to worry about uncomfortable costumes.” He grinned. “Or any costume, for that matter.”

She laughed. “So I finally get to star in my own Man Ray film. Too bad it wouldn't pass the censors.”

Two days later, Man was ready to start. He'd bought a long-stemmed pipe for blowing bubbles and, the evening before, had popped by his friend Brancusi's studio to borrow one of his sculptures. He arranged the lights in the bedroom and turned up the heat in the studio.

“Like I said, this is just for us. Just for fun.” He pulled out the pipe. “Now, get comfortable on the covers. I'm going to take a few stills first before I start filming.”

Lee lounged back on the bed and began blowing bubbles, excited about being filmed nude. It reminded her of when she first started posing for Man, their first months together when they could scarcely keep their hands off each other. After taking a few photos of Lee, he'd join her under the tungsten lights and, occasionally, the photo sessions would continue during sex. He'd grab his camera to take tremulous close-ups; moaning in pleasure, she'd arch her back or spread her legs wider, to give him a better shot. This time, it would be live action.

“I love the shadows the bubbles make on your breasts,” he said, then quickly changed to the movie camera. “Here, look at me. That's right.”

Lee gave him her most seductive gaze, with her eyes half-closed,
her mouth half-open. She took a deep breath—making her chest heave—and blew a long trail of soft bubbles out of the pipe, then licked its stem, caressing it with carmine lips. She could see Man getting aroused and took another breath, this time while slowly stroking her torso.

“Here, Lee, now you film me.”

They exchanged the pipe for the camera. Still looking at her, he took a drag off his cigarette, then blew through the pipe, making pearly bubbles. They wobbled, heavy in the air, then exploded, releasing the smoke.

“Nice,” she murmured, zooming in on a bubble.

He put the pipe down and got up on his knees, exposing himself to her and the camera; she looked at his midsection through the viewfinder, remembering the Renaissance penises in Florence, those shy marble lumps, a lifetime before.

“I think this lens is too small for what you've got, Man,” Lee drawled.

He laughed and took the camera back. “See that object wrapped in the corner?” he asked. “I want you to uncover it and discover it.”

Lee walked over to it and dramatically pulled off the sheet. It was Brancusi's statue
Princesse X
, which, despite its title, was a stylized gold penis in full erection. Lee smiled back at the camera and, like an erotic harpist, caressed it up and down.

“Now that you're all heated up, come back to the bed.”

She leaned toward the camera, pushed her breasts together, and put the bubble pipe down the hollow. Crouching down on the covers, she showed him her backside and waved at him from underneath. With a laugh, she flopped back onto her back and
slowly began to spread her legs. He reached over and turned off the camera.

“Let's take a little break,” he said, his voice strained. He straddled her hips then, on his knees, made his way to her face. “Blow my pipe now, Lee. Please?”

She took him in her mouth, surprised—and nearly disappointed—that he hadn't wanted to film it.

When they were both satisfied, they got up. She made some coffee while he poked around the kitchen, looking for something sweet. With nothing better at hand, he pulled out a tin of graham crackers, which Lee's parents—health-food connoisseurs—had sent her a few weeks before. He broke a cracker in two and dunked it in the café au lait. She took the other half of his cracker and popped it in her mouth. After weeks of tension, the happy mood, this camaraderie, was a relief, an echo of the enthusiasm they'd shared when they first met. However, she couldn't help but see the similarity of this home movie and
The Blood of a Poet
. This one was also about the artist and his muse. Man was reclaiming his property—and this time, it had to be on film.