The Woman in the Photograph (4 page)

“He showed me
Noire et Blanche
,” she said, staring back at him. “I'd never seen anything like it.”

Man nodded, his expression softening into a smile.

“That is a good piece,” he said, seemingly surprised that she knew something about him besides his name. He sat back in the seat, combing his hair with his fingers. “So, tell me. How do you know Steichen?”

“I modeled for
Vogue,
” she said, slightly self-conscious about how frivolous that might sound to a serious artist. “The whole thing was just dumb luck, really. A couple of years ago I was on my way to a party on Park Avenue, running late as usual, and I wasn't paying any attention to the traffic. I stepped out in front of a motorcar. There was a loud honk and a whoosh of hot air, but before I was hit, a stranger grabbed me. In shock, I fell into his arms and started babbling in French.” She laughed at herself. “The stranger was Condé Nast, the owner of
Vogue.
And just like that, he asked me to work for him.”

“I've worked for Nast myself. I've done fashion shoots and taken portraits of all the aristocrats in the French Republic,”
he said, with a small snort. “But that's not what interests me.”

“I know. That's why I'm here.”

Her tone was persuasive, her eyes even more so.

“All right, then. You can be my assistant, Lee Miller, and I'll teach you the ropes. But it would be foolish to have a woman with your looks always on the wrong side of the camera. I'll want you to pose, too.”

“Of course!” She nearly popped out of her chair to give him a hug but, with uncharacteristic self-restraint, contented herself with excitedly jostling his knee. “You won't regret it.”

Her crazy plan had worked; she would be living in Paris, learning from the master. Man Ray—with his unique, unsettling aesthetic and impeccable technique, his fascinating friends and colleagues, his client list that read like a Who's Who—was to be
her
teacher,
her
mentor. Looking into his face—his bemused eyes, his lips rounded as they formed a smoke ring—she wondered what else he might be.

“I'm sure modeling for you will be much more interesting than for
Vogue,
” she added, then lowered her voice. “African masks, violins; I'd be happy to do whatever you want.”

His eyes darted to hers as he choked on tobacco smoke. Quickly recovering, he nodded. “Don't worry. I won't have any problems thinking of poses for you.”

Over dinner in the dining car, they talked easily, Man's cool reserve nearly gone. They talked about New York and discovered a few common haunts and acquaintances; they discussed the overrun expatriate scene in Paris, the embarrassing Americans living large on the cheap. On their second bottle of wine,
their talk became intimate, passionate. Art and jazz. Poetry and beauty. He lit her cigarette, his dark eyes glistening, then lingered at her hands; she shivered as he gently stroked her skin. His touch—soft, warm, and magnetic—was subtle, but not unclear. By dessert, she was lightheaded.

As he spooned a bite of his chocolate soufflé into her open mouth, she caught a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror behind the bar. Although she felt the smoldering intensity between them, she saw that, from the outside, they looked like opposites: old and young, short and tall, dark and light, serious and gay. But that night in the sleeper car, in his arms, she thought they made a perfect match.

The next morning, the porter followed them down the platform and out the door of the small train station. Lee was stretching in the sunshine, wondering how far they were from the sea, when she heard Man whistle. He was waving at a man with a handlebar mustache and a chauffeur cap.

“Our ride is here,” he said to Lee, motioning the porter to a long silver car.

“Jeez,” Lee said, her eyes wide. “I just realized I have no idea where we're going.”

“We're off to Emak Bakia,” he said, offering her his arm.

“
Emak
what? Come on, that doesn't sound French.”

“This is the Basque country, kid.” He turned to the chauffeur. “
Bonjour
, Aitor.”

“
Bonjour, Monsieur Man Ray, bonjour,
madame
.” The chauffeur tipped his cap with a gloved hand and opened the back door.

She slid across the leather seat, still pleasantly confused, and Man made himself comfortable next to her.

“I usually drive myself down. This time, though, I had something better to look at than the road.” Man took her hand in his. “So I sent a wire saying we'd be taking the train.”

“
Do you mean to tell me what we're doing? Or is it a surprise?”

“How about a bit of both?” He jiggled his eyebrows playfully. “Emak Bakia is the name of a house. In fact, I shot a film there three years ago and used the name for the title. It's Basque for ‘leave me alone.' Really, it was too good to pass up.”

“Have you rented the place?” she asked.

“No, some friends of mine have. An American couple, Arthur and Rose Wheeler. He made a killing on the stock market—the lucky bastard's younger than me and already retired—and they come down every summer.”

“I can see why,” Lee said, peeking out the windows. They were leaving the chic resort town and heading up a hill; the ocean shimmered to their right, the Pyrenees loomed in the distance.

“You'll like them,” he said. “I met them when I took Rose's portrait. Afterward, they insisted on financing a Man Ray film. I told them I'd be happy to make one on their dime if they wouldn't interfere. And they agreed.”

“What was it about?”

“It doesn't tell a
story,
for God's sake. It's a
ciné-poème.
It's a Dada film with surreal elements.”

“Right.” Lee nodded with a slight blush, not entirely sure what the difference might be.

“I used a lot of new techniques—my rayographs, double exposures, stop-motion, soft focus—and put it to Django Reinhardt, tango, and Strauss. It did surprisingly well for a jumble of disconnected images.”

Lee squeezed his hand, excited all over again about being his student. Working with him, she'd be on the outer edge of avant-garde. And cinema!

“Do you think you'll make more films?” She tried not to gush. “I'd love to help you. Really, on either side of the camera—”

“I'm through with film.” Man cut her off. “Sound has killed cinema. Everyone now just makes talking pictures. Before you know it, they'll be in rainbow colors. Or in relief! Who the hell wants to see real life up on screen? No, cinema's dead and there's no use mourning.”

Unsure how to respond, she gave him a pretty half-smile. Lee just couldn't understand his point of view. Rudy Valentino, Louise Brooks, Charlie Chaplin—she loved movies with stories and thought the new talkies were just grand. After two years in New York City, was she still just a hayseed with old-fashioned ideas about art and cinema? She had too much to learn to argue.

The chauffeur shifted to a low gear and the car began chugging up a steep slope. Man crouched down to see out the front.

“Here it is,” Man said, pointing out the window. A butter-colored mansion with various chimneys was coming into view. “ ‘Leave me alone,' here we come!”

The driver passed through the gate and slid the car next to a shiny blue Speedster, parked in front of the door. Before the chauffeur had a chance to open the door for her, Lee popped out of the car to get a better look. The enormous house was riddled with arcaded balconies, offering vistas on every side.
Suddenly a petite woman in a lace dress and long strands of pearls burst through the large wooden doors.

“Man, darling!”

She gave him four Continental kisses, then turned to Lee.

“Rose Wheeler.
Enchantée
.” Young and perky, she kept her eyebrows cocked in studied elegance.

“I'm Lee Miller. The pleasure's mine.”

“Welcome to our home. Arthur's out on the terrace,” Rose chirped, ushering them inside. “We usually like to greet our guests with dry martinis, but at eight in the morning, that seems a bit much.”

They passed through a hallway filled with paintings and went straight out into the soft light of the large balcony. The Atlantic shone through the yellow columns, creating the illusion that they were at sea, on the highest deck of an ocean liner. Lee breathed in, nearly feeling the roll of the waves, and gazed around at the plants and flowers. In the corner, a boyish man in white jodhpurs was arranging pastries on a plate.

“Ah, here you are!” Arthur quickly licked a finger before offering his hand to Man. “Wonderful to see you. And who might this be?”

“This is my new assistant, Lee.”

“Your assistants get better looking every year.” He shook Lee's hand. “I'm Arthur. I like to call myself one of Man's patrons. Sounds better than a retired broker, doesn't it? More Medici of me.” He gave them a wink. “But you must be hungry. I think Aitor bought out the bakery down the hill.”

Two uniformed maids appeared; one poured coffee while the other passed around plates of cream puffs, fruit tarts, and chocolate éclairs.
Hands full, Lee sat back on satin pillows and smiled.

“It's wonderful here,” she said, gesturing around the terrace with an éclair. “Just magnificent.”

“It'll be even better once we get a few of Man's new photos on the walls. Such talent and imagination! I'm sure you're learning a lot from him. How long have you been his assistant?”

“Since yesterday afternoon,” Lee said demurely.

Arthur's mouth dropped open, then he turned to Man and winked again.

After breakfast, they were shown to their quarters—a large pair of adjoining bedrooms, with balconies facing the sea—to freshen up and change. Lee looked around her room: the French windows, the fresh flowers, the bedroom set in the latest design, sleek wooden pieces fanning out at all angles. Her trunk was already propped open, her dresses hung in the closet, her toiletries were aligned on the vanity. She went to the balcony and sighed in satisfaction. Man popped his head out.

“Did I hear a lusty moan? Am I needed in Room B?”

She pulled him to her and kissed him. “I don't know what I was expecting from this trip or from you. But in a few short hours, both of you have outdone yourselves.”

“It's always wise to keep your expectations low,” he said.

“Ah, but mine were extremely high.” She kissed him again, then led him into her room, onto her perfectly made bed. She put her hand on his crotch. “And yours are rising.”

•  •  •

When they had thoroughly settled into their sumptuous rooms, they decided to go to the beach. Lee put on her bathing costume—a
sky blue one-piece suit—then pulled on a pair of loose-fitting trousers. Man came in through the balcony, exuding insouciance in a Breton shirt and a beret, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

“Hello, sailor,” he drawled seductively, pressing a button of her high-waisted pants.

“O Captain, my captain.” She pulled the cigarette from his lips and took a puff. “You ready?”

They found the Wheelers on the balcony, lounging on deck chairs, perusing the
Times
.

“I'm terribly sorry we can't join you for a beach excursion. We have a thousand things to do here,” Arthur said, shaking his head regretfully. With all the hired help, Lee couldn't imagine what. “But Aitor will drop you off at the Grande Plage.”

“I'll have Cook prepare you a basket with sandwiches and wine in case you get hungry,” Rose said. “For this evening, I thought we'd dine at the Hôtel du Palais. They have the most exquisite Basque cooking. Heavens, their seafood dishes are to die for. Then we could hit the casino or go dancing.”

“Or both,” said Arthur, peeking around the newspaper.

•  •  •

The long, sandy beach was tucked inside a large crescent with a quaint lighthouse perched on one tip and the town's most fashionable hotels lining the stretch in the middle. Curious rock formations rose up from the water; waves rolled in to greet bathers. Lee looked around, nearly purring with contentment, while Man spread a cotton blanket out under a large striped parasol.

“Let's take a dip.” She
kicked off her trousers. “Maybe we could swim out to that rock—the one that looks like a half-sunken bridge.”

He twisted his lips to the side, doubtful. “To tell you the truth, Lee, I swim like a typewriter.”

She threw her arms around his neck and gave him a quick kiss—he said the most impossibly charming things. “We can just stroll, then.”

He rolled his pants up to his knees and took her by the hand. They walked along the shore, playful as children. They kicked at the water, splashing each other's legs and making silly faces to get the other laughing. Their absurd conversation centered around implausible conjectures about the other tourists: “In his hometown, that man is known for his ability to hypnotize chickens.” “You see that little girl with the yellow pail? She speaks in tongues.” Man often stooped down to pick up small treasures—shells, sponge, driftwood—and stuffed them in his pockets.