The Woman in the Photograph (31 page)

He cocked his head to the side and looked at her from the corner of his eye.

“Finished?”

Chaplin jumped down from the chair, joined her on the floor, and planted a kiss on her mouth. It was something she'd seen him do so many times on screen: kissing with that funny combination of bashfulness and determination, that exquisite shy passion. Then he gave her another one. And another.

In the cab back to Montparnasse, Lee couldn't stop smiling. Chaplin had said that he'd never had such fun at a sitting, that her
surréaliste
photography was wonderful indeed. She chuckled to herself. Since she'd gone behind the camera, this had been her favorite sitting to date.

“Darling!” Man pulled her into a hug; Lee gave him a series of maternal pats. “Why didn't you just use your key? This is your place as well as mine.”

“I didn't want to interrupt you. In case you were busy.”

“Nonsense. I asked you to come.”

He took Lee's coat, then offered her a drink with a quick gesture. As he chipped the ice, she looked around his studio; she hadn't been there for weeks. Searching for new work, Lee found little had changed since she'd lived there: early nudes of her were on every wall. He handed her a sweet vermouth, then led her to the sofa. He was almost trembling with excitement.

“I've got some amazing news, kid.”

“What is it?” His mood was contagious. Were they in a new show?

“I've heard from Dr. Agha, Condé Nast's new art director. He's tired of the Steichen school and thinks my work is the new thing. He says you and I should get ready to take over the U.S. market.”

“Man, that's fabulous!” She creased her brow. “But what does he mean? Is he talking about exhibitions, or what?”

“He says Americans finally understand my work. They like it.”
He was beaming. “It's time to relocate to New York and open a studio there. You and me.”

“Go to New York? That's crazy. We can just send our work over by courier. It would be much easier than moving.”

“No, he says now's the time for my return.” He took her hand in his. “This could be the end of any money problems—ever—and the start of a new life for us.”

She glanced at his hand, perched on hers like a crab, then took a quick dose of vermouth.

“But we both love Paris. We're happy here.” She faltered at her unfortunate use of the coupling pronoun, took her hand from his, then continued. “I can't believe you really want to leave Montparnasse and all your cronies. Have you even thought this through?”

“Things could be even better there. Sitters, magazines, advertising, film. We could go to Hollywood, too. You'd like that, wouldn't you?” His eyes shone. “We can pool everything together—our skills, resources, connections—and be a team.”

She pulled a cigarette out of her case and packed the tobacco, tapping it deliberately on the tabletop. “Things are going so well for me here,” she started slowly. “The Schiaparelli collection, Chanel jewelry, the new Patou line. Like you said, I've been lucky. And I don't think I'm ready to leave yet.”

“Oh, Lee,” he said, fishing her hand off of her lap and kissing it. “I know you have doubts about such a big step, but we could do it as man and wife. We could get married.”

In wide-eyed surprise, she barked out a laugh; with a fallen
face, he popped off the sofa to refresh his drink, to have his back to her.

“I'm sorry, Man. But you know I'm not interested in marriage.”

“Forget about it,” he grumbled. “It was just a thought.”

He turned back around to give her a casual shrug, but his eyes were red-rimmed and watery. Seeing him so dejected filled her with pity, but not enough to make any regrettable sacrifices.

“Listen, why don't you go to New York first?” Lee suggested innocently. “Test the waters and see how it goes.”

“Nah. I wouldn't want to go without you. Now is our time. 1932 will be our year.” He sat back down and caressed her cheek. “You know what I'd really like?” He lowered his voice to that lusty whisper, the one she once found so appealing. “For you to spend more time modeling for me. Some artistic shots, erotic poses. Like we used to.”

She looked him in the face—the canine begging in his dark eyes, the hope in his half-smile—then sighed.

“I don't have the time,” she said flatly. “I've got so many—”

“Who the hell do you think you are?” A flash flood of anger washed over him. “What an uppity little b-b-bitch you've become! You're nobody without me.”

“That's what you'd like to believe. But, the fact is, I'm not Madame Man Ray anymore. People call
me
. Just last week, Charlie Cha—”

“D-do you think you'd have been included in those Surrealist shows if I hadn't pulled a few strings? The hell you
aren't
Mrs. Ray!”

“
You fucking bastard!” She jumped up and grabbed her coat. “My work stands on its own, and you know it. That's why you've put your name on it a time or two.”

“Jesus, will I ever hear the end of that shit? One or two good photographs and you think you're too good for me. Good luck with that c-c-career of yours.”

She slammed the door behind her and walked quickly back to her own studio, annoyed by his arrogance, but marveling at the fact she had outgrown him. Her mentor, her guide, her companion. Now he seemed to need her far more than she needed him.

•  •  •

Man immediately sent Lee a long letter—an angry justification bleeding into a nervous apology, with an addendum reiterating the New York plan—but she didn't reply. The next day, she left for the Swiss Alps to spend the Christmas holidays away from Paris and Man Ray.

Charlie Chaplin had invited Lee to join his entourage at the Palace Hotel in Saint Moritz, the most fashionable ski resort in Europe. And she was delighted to be able to live it up in her best clothes and jewels, away from the darkroom and the newfound stutter in Man's deep voice. Amongst royalty and movie stars, she threw herself into the glamorous social life. Skiing, toboggan runs, and skating filled the days, while at night, the beau monde mingled at chic restaurants and jazz clubs, dancing the latest steps while getting tight on newfangled cocktails. George Hoyningen-Huene was also there, on assignment, happily taking snapshots of his friends while enjoying himself at
Vogue
's expense.

One night, Lee and George joined Chaplin for dinner with a group of his friends, which included a wealthy Egyptian couple, Aziz Eloui Bey and his wife, Nimet, a celebrated beauty.

“Good evening, Mr. Bey.” The man on Lee's right was classically good-looking and elegantly dressed, probably in his early forties. To provoke him slightly, to see what he might say, she decided to compliment his wife. “Nimet is the most beautiful woman in the room.”

“She should be,” he said, his accent more British than exotic, “she spends all her waking hours applying makeup and skin creams.”

Lee laughed; she was already his confidante. “I know she's sat for George and Man Ray. I wonder if she'd allow me to take her photo?”

“I'm sure she'd be flattered. But you'll have to schedule a time that doesn't interfere with her beauty regime: baths in Vichy water, strolls, long naps . . . Truly, I wish you the best of luck.”

“Oh, my darling girl,” Chaplin said suddenly to Nimet on the other side of the large round table. He looked at her teeth through a spoon, then wrapped her head in a napkin. “I'm afraid that molar is going to have to come out. Luckily, I am a graduate of the Grand Canard School of Dentistry.” He pulled up his sleeves and put her head on the table. “Open wide!” Using a pair of butter knives as forceps, he pretended to tug and pull, until he finally extracted a sugar cube from her mouth.

Everyone at the table shook with laughter. Lee peeked over at Aziz. She liked the way his eyes sparkled, his teeth shone.

The next morning, they ran into each other at the door of the coffee shop.

“A pleasure to see you again, Lee.”

The night before, by the end of dinner, they had insisted on first names; in the daylight, the clipped sound of her nickname caught her by surprise. She took his arm—finally, a man taller than her—and returned his familiar tone.

“And you, Aziz. Would you like to join me for hot chocolate? I recommend it with a touch of Grand Marnier.”

“Sounds delightful.”

They sat together at a window filled with snowy mountains and ordered cocoa and croissants.

“Are you on your own this morning?” Lee asked him.

“As usual. I wasn't joking about my wife's strict routine.” He looked at his watch. “At this moment, Nimet must be having her facial. That's the curse of marrying a peacock, you know. You spend all your time alone.” He gestured to her with his hand. “And you, Lee? A woman as lovely as you surely has a trick or two.”

“Mine is an anti-regime. Late nights followed by a hearty mix of darkroom chemicals, tobacco, and cocktails. Perhaps I should write an article about it for
Vogue
? It could start a whole new fad.”

“Whatever you're doing, it's working like a charm.” He leaned back, allowing the waiter to serve them. “Plus, it leaves you free to have breakfast with me.”

Unlike the scores of ski-resort flatterers, Aziz seemed perfectly sincere. Blowing on her chocolate, Lee watched him
drink, his elegant movements, the dapper mustache disappearing behind the cup. He glanced back at her, nearly startled to find her staring at him.

“Tell me. What other things do you do with all this spare time?”

“I'm an engineer,” he began.

“No kidding.” Lee smiled at the handsome Egyptian, warming to him by the minute. “So is my father.”

“I took a degree from Liverpool. Since then, I've worked in both business and diplomacy. We usually spend half the year in Cairo and half here in Europe.”

“Is that so?” Lee dunked her croissant in her spiked cocoa and took a bite, trying to imagine Nimet's life: luxury, travel, and utter leisure. What might it be like to be spoiled by a gentleman—one who gave her room to breathe and money to spare? To be the only artist in a pair? A photographer who didn't have to do endless sittings, but could concentrate on creative work—for galleries and shows, not rent and electricity. To have complete security, to never worry. It sounded perfect to her, ideal. Nimet was lucky to have such a husband, such a marriage.

“What are your plans for today?” Lee asked him suddenly.

“I haven't made any.”

“Why don't we go sledding?” She looked so excited, like such a small child, that he broke into a grin.

“Excellent idea!”

They changed into sports clothes and met on the run, opting to share a large sleigh instead of using two singles. Deferring
to her childhood spent in northern climes, Aziz let Lee steer. They bumped down the hill, rosy-cheeked and laughing, until they hit a stump and fell into each other's arms. He scooped her up and kissed her. His arms were youthful and strong, his mouth still tasted of chocolate. In the snow, she felt herself begin to thaw.

Lee and Man stepped out of the taxi, in front of the Théâtre du Vieux-Colombier. She smoothed down her new dress—although it was late January, she wasn't wearing a coat—and smiled at the crowd around her. A photographer's flash went off, momentarily blinding her; she took Man's arm.

After her holidays in Saint Moritz, she'd headed to his studio, ready to make a clean break; smitten with Aziz, she'd no longer felt the need to carry on with the charade of being Man's girl. Puffed up with pride, he'd greeted her casually, almost coldly. She supposed that her refusal to go to New York—to marry!—had been clear enough. They'd spent a half-hour together, saying nothing. Did that mean they could just be friends? As a token of her goodwill, when she heard about the premiere of
The Blood of a Poet,
she asked him to be her escort. She felt she owed him that.