The Woman in the Photograph (29 page)

Suddenly, he felt her presence and looked toward her. He shot out of his chair and enveloped her in a tight embrace. He kissed her again and again. She hid her face in his hug; he murmured superlatives in her ear. What was she going to do? The time away hadn't helped. His feelings for her had not slackened, and her resolve to leave him had not strengthened. She sighed in frustration, disappointment, exhaustion.

“It's swell to see you, too.” She managed a big smile as she pushed him away.

He chattered happily en route to her studio on rue Victor Considérant, deaf to her silence. In the tiny elevator, he took her by the waist. “Ah, it's so great to have you home. Your place is just the same as you left it.” He opened the door and set her bag on the floor; her trunks would be delivered later. “I sometimes slept here while you were gone. The bedsheets are dirty, I'm afraid.”

“Man?” What had he been doing in her studio?

“They still smelled of you.” He gave her a sheepish look. “I couldn't bear to wash them. Now that you're back, though, I'll change them. I don't have to rely on any sad pillowcases anymore. I can smell you anytime I want.”

She drew water into a vase for the bouquet. An exuberant, unlikely mix of pink, tiger, and calla lilies—not
all
funeral flowers—which he had doubtlessly put together himself. “It's gorgeous. Thanks again.”

Why couldn't she be satisfied with this man? For all his abilities,
for all his adoration, why couldn't she just love him? If not him, who? Would she always be unable to return affection—the Snow Maiden, the stony, destructive Venus—drifting from one set of arms to the next? She bit her lip. And when she was no longer desirable or attractive, when her beauty could only be found in old photographs—what then? Why was Man Ray not enough?

As she arranged the flowers, he came up from behind and nuzzled her ear. He unzipped her dress and led her to the sofa. He combed her hair with his fingers, then let them slide lovingly down her neck to her back. He wanted to greet each part of her—her shoulders, breasts, stomach, thighs—and welcome it home. She closed her eyes, yielding to his warm, silky touch. Not one of her lovers in London had taken such care.

•  •  •

During her first days back in Paris, she felt as awkward and green as she had that first week in London. On her own, she made the rounds to see her friends to find that almost everyone she knew was off on holiday. George was in Deauville, presumably doing a shoot of beach fashions; Tatiana was planning her wedding at her viscount's chateau; Zizi was in Geneva, reportedly infatuated with a new, younger beauty; Cocteau was in Provence. Most of Man's friends were also away, except for Kiki, who was still holding court at the Montparnasse cafés, now filled with foreign tourists. It seemed that Man was the only person who had eagerly awaited her return. The only one who had missed her.

Stay or go? Trying to make a decision was giving her a serious case of the blue jitters.

Unconsciously avoiding him, Lee began going to bed early, quickly rapt in restless sleep, and rising at dawn. She quietly dressed and slipped out, leaving Man alone in her bed. She stole away from Montparnasse and had coffee among early-morning workers—omnibus drivers, vegetable vendors, pre-mass priests—then ambled the warm, waking streets, the song “Love for Sale” stuck in her head. She stopped at parks and squares and leafed through newspapers or novels, scarcely reading a word. Through strangers and unknown
quartiers,
after a week she felt once again like she belonged in Paris. But where, exactly? And with whom?

One morning, after coffee and brioche in the din of les Halles marketplace, Lee slowly strolled across the river and up the long boulevard Saint-Michel to the Luxembourg Gardens. Past statuary and fountains, she made her way to the pond and fell into an iron chair, slightly softened by innumerable coats of thick green paint. She propped a book open on her knees. Man had loaned her William Seabrook's
The Magic Island
, about his adventures in Haiti; Lee flipped through it, stopping only for illustrations, grotesque charcoals of voodoo rituals and zombies. In one, hollow-eyed natives walked in a trance. Was that what she looked like this morning? She dropped the book on her lap and glanced around her. It was almost eleven and the park was filling with children.

All around the basin, boys in short pants were prodding model sailboats with long sticks. One boy gave his bright-red craft a vigorous poke; it was caught by the wind and went off to sea. Hands on his hips, he watched as it stalled in the middle
of the pond, lost to him. Mildly curious, Lee waited to see if he would burst into tears or take off his shoes and wade in to fetch it. But instead, after a moment eyeing the bobbing red boat, the boy lost interest and, with his pole, began digging around in the pond slime. Lee liked the determination on his round, rosy face, the effort he made as he tried to lift up a bunch of dead leaves plastered to the bottom. How serious he was, dragging the small lake, looking for God-knows-what. Suddenly, Lee's hands went cold. Harold, she thought. Oh fuck, poor Harold.

Lee had met him at age nineteen. She'd recently been dragged back from France and was grieving the loss of her Parisian freedoms: the wild parties, sodden with drink; nights dancing at cabarets; the long string of lovers. She was profoundly unhappy back at her parents' farm in rustic Poughkeepsie, and to make matters nearly unbearable, her childhood gonorrhea had flared up. Her pinch-mouthed mother had begun the daily acid douches again; the cure gave Elizabeth cramps and forced her into a state of chastity. Whenever out, she flirted recklessly—she cared little for those provincial boys' feelings—and received scores of declarations of love. Harold, however, she liked.

Like her, he was fun, lively and audacious, and together they took off on all sorts of little adventures. They loved taking the train to New York City to pretend they were part of the avant-garde scene. Lounging around bohemian cafés in Greenwich Village, they acted like poets; they went to art galleries and theater productions. There was a spark between them; although she couldn't have sex with him, she liked talking dirty
to him over the telephone, which never failed to arouse them both.

In July, on a cloudless summer day not unlike this one, they went rowing on Upton Lake. When they were far enough from shore to enjoy a little privacy, he brought the oars in. After a few steamy kisses, he began to take off his shirt.

“Harold! What are you doing?” She watched in disbelief as he yanked down his suspenders and shook off his pants.

“What do you think? I get so damn hot when I'm near you . . .” Stripped down to his underclothes, he bent over and kissed her again. She was about to protest when he stood up in the rowboat and added “that I guess I need to cool down.”

He balanced himself on the seat, then made a perfect dive into the water. Elizabeth laughed and shouted, “I never told you to go jump in a lake!”

Chuckling, she scanned the lake's black surface, waiting for him to pop up. Would he try to push the boat over? She clutched the rim of the boat, grinning down at the water, staring first at one side, then the next. After a minute went by and then another, she grew cold, unable to move, frantically eyeing the water. Where the hell did he go? Was this a joke? Was he hurt? Should she jump in? Could she save him? Finally, she screamed, long and loud.

Much later, from the shore, her father's arm around her, Elizabeth watched them dragging the lake. When his body was found, they hauled him in, chalky white in his undershorts, thin, and so, so young.

She rarely thought back on Harold, on their innocent
romance, on that day at the lake, but when she did, her insides froze. It wasn't so much the picture of his death she avoided—the sudden, achy still of the silent lake, the nightmarish consequence of the harmless prank: the unnatural color of his skin, the odd position of his wiry legs—but the horror of loss. The emptiness that followed. Although she didn't return his love, he had been her friend. A boy she not only flirted with, but talked to. A playmate whose company she enjoyed.

Was that what she had with Man? Was he a real friend, almost family? Was he the only person in the city who really cared about her? If she left him, would she regret it? Would she feel that loss, that emptiness?

Lee wondered if all long-term relationships were like this, filled with highs and lows, enjoyment and animosity, desire and disgust. Her mother, for example, had a complicated tangle of reasons for being with her father—but love was not among them. Did Tanja ever doubt her feelings for her beloved archaeologist? Did Tatiana sometimes want to run away from her viscount, hide, never see him again? Was it normal, this indecision, this uncertainty? She thought of all the heroines from books and films—the passionate countess from
Stamboul
—primed for sacrifice, all unshakably convinced of their love. Lee had never been very feminine—in fact, she took it as a great compliment when her detractors said she had a man's attitude toward life—but this cold inability to love sometimes made her feel half-human.

She heaved herself out of the uncomfortable metal chair and
turned away from the pond, away from the plump, pink-faced boys. Staying with Man made practical sense. That she knew. Not only was he very generous but their work was linked: she often appeared in his images and they shared a similar style. In fact, upon her return he'd announced that they had both been chosen for upcoming group exhibitions in New York, Paris, and Brussels.

She'd looked up him, ecstatic, her first moment of real enthusiasm since being back with him.

“Really? Oh, Man, that's wonderful! My work, in the Surrealists' shows!”

“And you know what they're calling you?” he'd added, grasping her hand, pleased with them both. “A photographer in the ‘Man Ray School.' ”

Her smile had faltered. “Does being in your school mean I'm still your student?”

“Well, I guess it means you were, that you've learned my technique. Like ‘in the School of Rembrandt.' ” He smiled at the thought.

“Yeah, those people are generally referred to as ‘Anonymous.' ”

“Hey, hey, don't work yourself into a lather. Your name'll be up there, big as anyone else's.”

“It irks me that, even after a half-year working in London, I'm still Madame Man Ray.”

“Aren't you, baby?” He looked at her nervously.

“I've got a name, just like you.”

God, she was tired of being in Man's shadow, professionally
and personally. Paris was bigger than him, his artist friends and Montparnasse. Even if it wasn't the most practical decision, she had to leave him; she could manage just fine on her own. Lee headed out of the garden gates, thinking again of Harold. He had drowned at nineteen. Had he had any regrets? Was she one of them? Life was too damn short—even if you lived to be a hundred—to spend it with the wrong person.

Walking back to the studio, she tried to think of the best approach. Nothing too dramatic, nothing too final. Perhaps something about being just friends? Or, she could make a bid for sincerity and explain her inability to provide what he needed. Or warmly tell him that she loved him, but was not “in love.” Whatever that meant.

She let herself into her flat and heard him in the bathroom; he hadn't gone back to his place since her return.

“Where were you, kid?” he called out.

Man strode into the living room, rubbing the stubble on his face, a cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth. His legs emerged from shorts, as thin and white as Harold's. She put the zombie book away with a shiver.

“Where do you keep disappearing to these days?”

“Disappearing?” she repeated. That was a trick she'd liked to learn. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the necessary words. They were no longer a couple. She wanted to be on her own. He needed to leave. She turned to him and opened her mouth.

“I've just talked to Max Ernst.” He rubbed his hands in delight. “
Everyone is back from holidays, so there's a big Surrealist party this weekend. Costumes, jazz, art, the works! What shall we wear?”

Her mouth stayed open, but Lee was swallowed again by doubt. In another instant, she managed a quirky half-smile.

“I think I'd like to be a gypsy. Telling fortunes and predicting the future.”

“Move that light to the left.
Oui, c'est ça
.” Lee nodded at her assistant, on loan from Coco Chanel, then looked back through the viewfinder and smiled to herself.

Sworn to secrecy, she was in a windowless room, shooting Chanel's first
haute joaillerie
collection, diamonds dripping in innovative designs: celestial bodies, feathers, ribbons, knots. Lee wanted to take photos that would be as original and startling as the jewelry. As an inside joke—to amuse herself—she decided to use wax mannequins with arms cut in the style of the
Venus de Milo.