The Woman in the Photograph (27 page)

“Aren't you cold out here?” She gave him a lighthearted smile and adjusted her tiara. “For a snow maiden like myself, it's fine, but for you—”

“You are the cold one.” He gave her a sharp look. “He's your lover, isn't he?”

“What?” Lee was taken off guard.

“I heard Cocteau teasing him about keeping one of his actresses out late. I was too stupid to think it was you—that you'd spent that night with him—until you walked in together, all cozy in your matching costumes. I can't stand the thought of
you becoming one of those pathetic, ornamental women that flitter around Zizi Svirsky.” He threw his cigarette butt down and rubbed his arms. “I know you sometimes see other men but, Jesus, Lee, he's older than I am.” He paused. “And he'll never love you like I do.”

His voice broke and he stopped talking; he stared at her, his chin trembling, his eyes wet. She returned his gaze in silence. She didn't know if she liked being loved with such intensity; the depths of his emotion, his visceral passions, were hard for her to understand. In fact, when confronted by the power of his love and desire—their crushing weight and stormy force—she felt their lack. An unpleasant emptiness. Lee had never been able to love like that; she doubted she was capable of it. The thrill of infatuation, urgent desire, simple fondness, yes, but love? Sometimes she wondered if there was something wrong with her. Maybe she was an ice princess, afraid of melting.

“Let's go home,” he said, reaching out for her hand.

She did not take it. “Man, it's not even midnight. Let's stay and ring in the New Year—” But he had already turned around and was walking away. “Man,” she called once, but didn't move.

Lee watched his inflated form as it retreated, barreled its way through the French windows and the crowd inside. She sighed, rooted to her spot on the terrace. She tried to work out her feelings for him—that familiar hodgepodge of affection and frustration, security and sameness—but couldn't deny the facts at hand. She had let him go.

When she walked back into the ballroom, Zizi immediately joined her.

“What's this long face?” He caressed her cheek. “There's a
saying in Russian: ‘As you meet the New Year, so you will spend it.' You must enjoy yourself tonight—or you risk spending the rest of the year unhappy.”

“That certainly wouldn't do.” She put on a smile but wondered what 1931 would bring; would it be better? Worse? Because change, she knew, was coming. “More champagne?”

Dressed only in her kimono bathrobe, long, satin, and bamboo-green, Lee slipped down to the ground floor to fetch the morning post. Two thin letters were aslant in the box. Shivering with cold, she got into the lift; on the bumpy ascent, she took a quick look at the envelopes. She recognized the handwriting on the first one, though the casual characters were tighter than usual. It was from Man Ray, whom she hadn't seen since the New Year's Eve party. Today was January third.

In the warmth of her flat, she lit a cigarette and slit open the envelope. The letter was one long typewritten block, a series of half-finished thoughts outlining a list of reasons why he was a far better partner than Zizi. His passionate love, his position as mentor, the efforts he'd made toward her development. Lee pursed her lips, annoyed. He sounded like a whiny Adam reminding Eve about his missing rib. Man's letter babbled on: Zizi clearly did not care about her thoughts, achievements, or work; he just wanted her for her youthful energy, the way she looked on his arm. That Russian phony would use any means necessary to draw her in: diversions, introductions, money.

She read the letter twice, three times. However true his observations about Zizi might be, really, they were apt descriptions
of Man himself: he, too, offered her financial help, contact with the best people, amusement. But his claim of a mentor's love, justified by her progress and capabilities? The interesting ideas he brought out in her? His Pygmalion hand in creating her? She shook her head, a twitchy feeling in her throat. She felt duped. It seemed that Man Ray, the man she'd been with longer than any other, wanted her as a complement to himself. Instead of loving her for who she was—with that huge passionate fire of his—he thought of her as his finest confection: his lover as his work of art.

She made a pot of coffee, stewing over the letter; it had certainly brought them no closer to reconciliation. Should she write him back? And say what?
As you meet the New Year, so you will spend it.
Did that mean that she and Man would spend the year angry with each other?

Back at the table, she swirled sugar into her coffee and picked up the other letter. It was from Elstree Studios, the British branch of Paramount Pictures. She opened it with a frown, uncomfortable with the idea of acting again. She skimmed the page—they didn't need an actress, after all—then read it again. The studio was looking for a photographer, and Michel de Brunhoff had recommended
her
. She grinned down at the paper. He'd called her an intrepid professional with a keen eye and excellent darkroom skills; he'd also mentioned her recent participation in a film, her insider's understanding of studios, sets, cast, and crew. They needed publicity shots of actors and stills of their new feature film,
Stamboul
, and would be delighted if she joined their team. Would it be possible for her to leave Paris for a few months to work in London?

She twirled around, then kicked out her legs, a ten-second Charleston. Yes! Here was a job offer, not for Man Ray's assistant, nor George Hoyningen-Huene's apprentice, but for a trained photographer, a professional in the field. An excellent career move, it also offered her the perfect escape hatch.

Lee had never liked decision making; in fact, she generally left things to work out on their own. And here was the perfect solution to her problems with Man Ray: time and distance. She could flee to London—far from him and these tiresome dramatics—and establish herself there as a photographer in her own right. Not Madame Man Ray, his muse and minion. With money coming in from Elstree Studios, she would no longer need his help. And perhaps, after being separated by the Channel for several months, they could start anew, relishing each other's company and collaborating on exciting projects. Working together as equals. Then again, after a long absence perhaps they would naturally drift apart. Lee had never liked messy breakup scenes. Up to now, when bored with a companion, she'd merely ignored him or behaved badly until he'd eventually gotten the message. With Man, she was sure that such subtlety would never do. She drained the last sips of her coffee, then nodded decisively. Either way, her stay in London would give her a new perspective; with time apart, her problems would fix themselves.

She threw off her kimono and got dressed. Regardless of what might happen in the next few months, she wanted patch things up as soon as possible. Burnt bridges were of no use to Lee. Especially not with Man. She hid his angry letter away in a drawer and snatched up the one from the motion-picture
studio, heading out the door. It wouldn't be difficult to make up with him. Despite Man's fears, Zizi had never been a serious rival, but merely lighthearted fun. Really, he was a small sacrifice to allow Man to regain his security, his manhood.

They could spend a last few weeks together, and then—she'd be gone.

•  •  •

“I'm so proud of you, kid.” Man sat on Lee's bed, smoking his pipe while she finished packing. “I can't get over it. Paramount Pictures!”

“It's just Elstree. Paramount's kid brother. It probably has buck teeth and pimples,” she said, with a self-deprecating half-shrug. “And we know for sure there's no California sunshine in North London. Hey, throw me those stockings.”

His pipe in his mouth, he tossed the shimmery stack of silk to her with both hands; she caught them in mid-air, the pile intact. They shared a smile. Ever since they'd made up, their relationship had been easy, with no arguments or accusations. Of course, he was thrilled to win out so easily over Zizi, to hear Lee's promise not to see him again; their lack of temper was also due to their incessant awareness of the months they'd be apart.

“What kind of title is
Stamboul
?”

“It's another name for Istanbul. The film promises to be a real melodrama, a gorgeous historical: a steamy love affair between a German countess and a French military officer set in the land of fezzes, hookahs, and Turkish delight. At least, a big painted backdrop of it.” Lee gave Man an unabashed grin. “I love that stuff.”

“
Well, it was really swell of de Brunhoff to recommend you—”

“And how!”

“But doesn't he mind losing you at
Frogue
? Seems he'd want to keep his ‘intrepid professional' in situ, working for him.”

“He was just thinking of me.” Fastening her trunk, she didn't look up. What was the Freudian term for what he was doing? Projection. That was it. “Michel thought it was a grand opportunity.”

“Trading Paris for London? If you say so.”

She stood up and clapped the dust off her hands. “I'm done. Let's go up to the boulevard for a drink. But just a quick one—tomorrow we're off!”

The Voisin packed with Lee's gear, they headed due north through the dense winter fogs up to Calais, the tip of France closest to Great Britain where the ferries ran. She was enthusiastic about everything: the low bridges over marshy flatlands, the naked landscape dotted with windmills, the passing architecture that became more Flemish as they went north. But she was especially thrilled about her new adventure and independence.

When they arrived late that afternoon, though the skies were gray and the sea a blackish-blue, they pretended to be on a romantic holiday to the shore. Hand in hand, they checked in to a small portside hotel and climbed the steep stairs to their room.

“How I love an ocean view.” Lee turned around and beamed at Man; he joined her at the window and put his arm around her.

“
This sort of reminds me of our rooms at Emak Bakia, down in Biarritz,” he said. “Without the servants, mountains, and summer, that is.”

“Well, it's the opposite end of the country, but the ocean's the same.”

“And you'll be on the other side of it tomorrow.”

“I'm just crossing the Channel, you dope, not the Atlantic.”

“It's still too far to swim!”

She kissed his cheek. “I know.” Man had been making an effort to be supportive, but she knew it was hard for him.

“You can call me whenever you want, day or night. Just reverse the charges. I'm happy to pay.” He'd told her that a half-dozen times already; she kissed him again. “How long do you think it'll be before I hear from you? A couple of days?” He looked at her anxiously.

“I guess it depends on how busy I am. Don't worry. I won't fall off the map.”

“And remember, you can tell me anything. I know you'll meet some fellas and all that. But you can be up front with me, kid. I'd feel better knowing what's going on over there.”

“Whatever you say.” She nodded, but knew it would be a huge relief for him not to witness her with other men; he didn't need to imagine any rivals. Lee would keep that part of her experience to herself.

He poked his head out the window and looked up the quay. “We need to find a quality restaurant for tonight. Get some good French cooking under your belt before you cross tomorrow. On the other side of the Channel, I hear it's all mushy peas and boiled meat.”

“Mmmm, that's what I grew up on.” She said, licking her
lips and pulling him to her by his tie. “Tell me, what else can I get under my belt before I go?”

After a night of fine dining, champagne, and fondling farewells, they parted on the docks the next morning.

“Remember!” he called out. “I can arrange to come visit whenever you'd like.”

With a brilliant smile, she waved down at him from the rails. Lee was reminded of her great good-bye to her father from the ocean liner decks on her first crossing to France at age eighteen, jumping up and down and waving like a castaway trying to flag a ship. Then, too, she'd been thrilled about traveling away, off on an adventure, (nearly) on her own. What a shame they didn't throw streamers and confetti on ferries. She looked around at the other passengers, the businessmen, soldiers, and students; for most of them, this was routine. At the sound of the horn, Lee headed to the lounge, ready to meet new people, to start her new life. As the ship left shore, however, it began to dip and roll. In just a few minutes, everyone, in varying tones of green, quietly moved to the window seats in desperate search of the horizon line. Lee spent her first hours of freedom begging her breakfast to stay down.

After the rocky crossing and a surprisingly unpunctual British train, Lee arrived at Victoria station in the late afternoon, wrinkled and exhausted. She was almost glad that the film studio had only thought to send a lanky, spot-ridden teen—surely, the lowest errand boy on their staff—to greet her. Straining under the weight of her trunks, he hailed a cab and accompanied her to the hotel. During the long taxi ride, he didn't try to
make conversation, but gave her a note from the film director, Dimitri Buchowetzki. In polite, rather sparse English, he welcomed Lee to London and bid her settle in before coming to the set the following Monday.