The Woman in the Photograph (7 page)

Man barely glanced at the menu. “I always get the same thing here. Onion soup, then roast chicken. It's so good, I've never bothered changing.”

“Sounds fine to me. And let's get some red wine.”

When they'd ordered, they sat back, sipping wine and smoking.

“After dinner, we can go downstairs and dance,” Man said. “They have great jazz combos and—”

He stopped short, his attention suddenly absorbed by a trio at the bar. Lee turned and immediately recognized Kiki's reflection in the mirror. From the dozens of photos in Man's studio, Lee knew her features well: the straight black bob, the milky skin, the dramatic eyes and bow lips. She watched her laughing at the bar with her two companions, a Japanese man with round glasses and a pasty-faced man in a white scarf and bowler hat. The barman and a few patrons looked on in amusement. The Queen was holding court.

“
La soupe à l'oignon pour madame et monsieur
.” The waiter served them ceremoniously, then disappeared at once.

“That's Kiki, isn't it?” Lee almost whispered, as if anyone could hear over the din of the crowded room. “Who's she with?”

“
Foujita and Pascin. They're painters here in Montparnasse, and Kiki's modeled for both of them.” He picked up his spoon and chipped at the cheesy crust floating on the soup while Lee stole another look at the artists. Foujita, short but fit, was wearing hoop earrings; Pascin was telling a story with such grandiose gestures, it was obvious he was talking about bullfighting. “They're serious painters,” Man added, “but they're also very serious about parties, picnics, and masquerade balls.”

Although nervous, Lee was curious about Kiki, the well-loved neighborhood royal who used to sleep on her side of the bed; she also wanted to meet some of the unconventional painters that made Montparnasse famous. “Could you introduce me to them?”

Man took a tentative bite of soup—it was still hot—and looked into Lee's expectant face. “Well . . .” he began slowly.

He took a glimpse back at the bar and saw that Kiki had spotted them in the crowd. She was heading toward their table, her friends close behind her. Man stood up and greeted her with a light kiss on the mouth. “Kiki,” he murmured, then faced the other two and shook their hands. “Foujita, Pascin. I'd like for you all to meet Lee Miller.”

Pascin swept off his bowler hat to reveal sparse, uncombed hair, then leaned over the table to deposit a sodden kiss on each of Lee's cheeks. “Lovely,” he managed. Foujita bowed politely. “Delighted.”

Kiki looked Lee over—her Nordic good looks and elegant style—and when she caught sight of the gold chain binding her to Man Ray, she raised a thin, pencil-drawn eyebrow. “Tell me, then,”
she said in French, turning to her former lover, “does she whittle a good pipe?”

Pascin broke out in drunken giggles, and the gasp from the provincial parents at the next table was audible.

Man's face clouded. “Kiki, that's enough.”

“I'm sorry, I don't understand.” Lee looked around uncertainly. Was she being insulted? She stood up to be on even ground with Kiki. “My French isn't very good.”

Kiki turned back to Lee, her dark eyes filled with spiteful mischief. “I asked, honey, if you knew how to suck cock.”

For a second Lee stood dumbstruck, but quickly curled her lips into a confident smile. “You'll have to ask Man that,” she said sweetly, refusing to be browbeaten. “It shouldn't be too hard for him to remember. We had a wild rough-and-tumble first thing this morning.”

Pascin twittered through his fingers, but Kiki looked at her with surprise. A waiter carrying a large tray filled with heavy plates tried to push his way through. “Excuse me. Yes, a thousand pardons,” he said drily. “Perhaps you could all sit down?”

“I'll be singing downstairs later,” Kiki said. “Maybe we'll see you then.” With a painter on each arm, she turned and left.

Disappointed, Lee slid back into her chair and took a sip of wine. She'd hoped to be instantly accepted as one of them, not ridiculed in public. But when she looked up at Man's troubled face, she started to chuckle, shaking her head.

“She's really something else,” Lee said.

Kiki had held up her reputation as bawdy and jealous, but Lee was not terribly impressed. Far prettier in photos, her looks were now passé. She was too full-figured—her fringed
shift fit awkwardly around her big, maternal breasts and ample behind—and her makeup made her look more like a circus performer than a woman out on the town. Somehow, Lee felt relieved.

“Don't mind Kiki. She's all bark, no bite,” he said. “I don't know why she acts like that. She's been living with her accordionist for months.”

“I'm not worried. I can take care of myself.” She pulled at the chain. “And my little lamb.”

After dinner, they went down to Le Dancing in the restaurant's dark, smoky basement. To the beat of the loud band, chic couples were dancing a sweaty tango on the packed floor. Man and Lee danced a number, then stood to the side to cool off with whisky on ice. Lee's eyes flitted around the room and caught the gaze of a few hopeful young men; she smiled back at them, but when she raised her arm to smooth the feathers on her cheek, she felt the tug of the chain. She was with Man Ray for now; Lee took his hand in hers. They were on their fourth or fifth round—and a bit unsteady—when Kiki swept down the stairs with her entourage. The members of the band called out to her over their instruments, waving drumsticks and trumpet, and quickly finished the number they were playing. The crowd shouted “Sing, Kiki, sing!” as the clarinet player pulled her up on stage.

With a captivating smile, Kiki winked at the piano player, who began plunking out a simple melody. Swaying to the music, in perfect pitch, she belted out a risqué song.

The young girls of Camaret say they are all virgins but . . .

Lee nudged Man in the ribs, a bit harder than intended, and
slurred into his ear. “I think Josephine Baker's much better. I saw her once back when—”

“Shhh.” He hadn't taken his eyes off the stage.

Lee frowned and glanced back up. While she sang, Kiki flapped her skirt, back and forth, lifting it higher and higher over her black hose, up and over her garters. At the end of the number, she twisted around and flashed her bare backside. The crowd whooped and cheered; someone threw her a rose, which she put in her teeth with a bow. “
Encore
!” they began to shout.

“I need some air.” Lee pulled at the chain, tired of being a spectator. “Let's go.”

As they filed past the stage, Kiki called out in swampy English, “Bye, bye, my little Man,” then grinned at him, fluttering her fingers.

“This little Man is mine!” Lee called out. With a large smile and single wave good-bye, she took his arm and added, “See ya later, sweetheart.”

“Well, on the upside,” Lee said, looking around le Dôme's quiet salon, “it's rather nice to be rid of all those affected loafers.”

The stock market had crashed the week before. In a single day the world economy plummeted; fortunes were lost, lives ruined. The exodus of American expatriates, most of whose livelihoods depended on intangible investments, began almost immediately. In Montparnasse, the difference was striking. The restaurants and bars—packed to the seams just days before—stood half-full. No one ordered dry martinis; the Welsh rarebit went uneaten.

“Absolutely.” Man nodded. “A lot of our charming compatriots seemed to be here just for the cheap, legal booze. And I don't miss them one bit. Here's to the Crash!”

Man and Lee touched glasses and exchanged the irreverent smiles of naughty schoolchildren caught in the act of adding cuss words to the Pledge of Allegiance.

However, in the weeks that followed, they realized that even though they owned no stocks, Black Tuesday had affected their lives as well. Fewer sitters came to call, long-standing appointments were canceled, and new projects abandoned. Portraits had long been Man's bread and butter—there was no money
in Surrealism, rayograms, or art photography—and he began stalking the studio nervously, puffing on his pipe. He followed Lee around, unable to work, his bleak presence filling the entire apartment.

Another rainy morning, they sat at the tiny breakfast table in morning muteness. Lee sipped her coffee—slowly waking up—as Man made changing patterns with the tableware, a triangle of knives atop a white plate, an overturned cup in the middle, salt shakers toward the sides, then something new.

“We're going to have to tighten our belts a bit,” he said finally, shooting her the worried look of a man afraid of losing his too-beautiful partner due to lack of funds or prestige. “The French call it
une période de vaches maigres
. A time of skinny cows.”

“I'm sure they'll fatten up soon,” Lee said, trying to be encouraging but wondering how much money he might have saved up. She'd never liked budgets or sensible spending.

“God, everything seems to have changed overnight. All those crazy parties and balls are suddenly a thing of the past—who can afford it? I can't believe I had you holed up in here thinking it would go on forever. I should have taken you out more—”

“Paris is still Paris, Man. There're good times ahead, I'm sure of it.”

He paced behind her as she washed the dishes, then trailed upstairs to watch her dress. When he had to go to the toilet, she slipped into the darkroom to have a little time to herself. She quickly pulled out the trays and chemicals and turned on the red light. With a long stretch, she selected a developed plate at random—a
portrait of Sinclair Lewis—to see how she could alter it in the printing. But already, there was a knock on the door.

“Lee? What are you doing in there? I thought we were all caught up.”

“I'm just fooling around. Recropping and adding shadow. Just practicing.”

“Do you need any help?”

“No, thanks.”

“Well, remember to hold the plates by the edges—you don't want to smudge them with fingerprints.”

“Don't worry.” She shook her head, half-amused, half-annoyed at the perfectionist behind the door. “I know what to do.”

“Call me if you have any questions.”

When she heard his footsteps disappear, Lee looked at the plate carefully. In it, the famous novelist sat on the floor in his overcoat, staring into space, a huge screw from a wine press looming behind him. It was something Man had picked up to use in an art piece—like so many things around the flat. He'd told Lee that Sinclair Lewis was so drunk when he'd shown up for his sitting that Man thought the old wine screw would make a fitting background. Lee flipped the image to make him look right instead of left, then turned the knob to enlarge it. She stared down at his lonely face. Man had been afraid that Lewis would be furious when he saw the print, that he'd rip it to shreds; instead the writer had congratulated him on taking his favorite portrait to date. She put the paper in the developing tray, prodding and swishing it with the tongs, and smiled to herself. Man Ray was like none other.

When she emerged from the darkroom, she found him smoking his pipe in silence, staring out into the soft rain. His eyes, big and round like an orphan's, made her feel guilty for leaving him alone when he was feeling blue.

“Hey, baby,” she whispered into his ear, wrapping her arms around him.

“Did you make any improvements in there?”

“Nah. You'd already found the best angle, the best light. But I enjoyed having the opportunity to look at your work so closely. The Sinclair Lewis portrait is a brilliant shot.” She kissed his cheek. “Listen, I know that things are slow at the moment, but that might be a good thing. Now that you finally have some free time, you could do some painting. Maybe one of your friends could get you a show.”

“I don't know.” He flipped open his lighter, then snapped it shut. “I don't have any clear ideas in my head.”

“You just need to spend some time at the easel. Something will come to you.” She considered adding something about his “subconscious”—to let it take over, or some such rot—but just couldn't. Although Lee was drawn to many of the Surrealists' ideas—alternative visions, the absurd, wordplay—some of them, like automatic writing or hypnotic trances, seemed more akin to parlor tricks than art. “Really, Man,” she continued, “it would probably make you feel better.”

An hour later, he had a canvas set up in the corner of the studio. As “Ain't Misbehavin” blared from the gramophone, the photographer took respite from black and white and filled his palette with color. Lee blew out in relief and climbed the steep
stairs, delighted to have diverted him. She didn't know what to make of this new Man—an insecure ball of nerves with too much time on his hands—or how she could help him.

In the bedroom, she stumbled on one of her shoes and banged her leg on a wooden crate. Man had dragged it in from the street a week ago with the idea of making a new readymade, but there it was, just taking up space. “God damn it!” she muttered, clutching her shin. The flat had been packed full before she'd even moved in; her things were homeless, in piles, or lost amongst his. Grumbling, she flopped on the bed and picked up
Ulysses
. Compared to the chaos of the studio, James Joyce's novel was a beacon of clarity.