The Woman in the Photograph (32 page)

“It's finally showing!” She'd told him on the phone, their first conversation since the awkward meeting three days earlier. “Jean's asked me to invite all my friends. The
beautiful people.
” She said this last imitating Cocteau's nearly unintelligible English, making them both chuckle. “I thought, since you're my oldest friend here, you should accompany me.”

“You know, Breton's
boycotting it, so the Surrealists won't be there,” he said, obviously torn, but flattered, hopeful. “But, don't worry, Lee. I'll be there, at your side.”

Lee and Man made their way through the packed theater. Aware of the Surrealist ban, Cocteau's friends had come out in full force. Lee spotted Picasso, André Gide, and weren't those the musicians from the Boeuf sur le Toit?

In slinky beige silk with scalloped fringe, she glided down the aisle like a bride, nodding and smiling at everyone she knew. Her
Frogue
family, friends from the émigré community, influential clients, neighbors from Montparnasse, the actors and crew members, all their faces were aglow with encouragement and anticipation. She was walking at a luxurious pace, savoring the moment, but nearly tripped when she saw Aziz Eloui Bey. Handsome in tails, he was seated on the groom's side, an amused look on his face. She shot him a longing glace, wondering if the wrong man was on her arm.

She sank into her chair as the theater went dark, reliving the experience while seeing something new. When she came onscreen, she barely recognized herself, especially with the redubbed voice. A beautiful, powerful muse? Hardly! She was hideous, really, with no arms, albino-white skin, and a mouth like a lipsticked monkfish. Lee fidgeted in her chair, watching her own image—its sniveling smile, its failed attempts at stony stillness—and wondered what the others thought.

When the poet fell into the mirror, she lost herself in the picture, in all of the mysterious scenes behind the hotel doors. But when her likeness returned toward the end of the film, she bit her lip, doubting her performance again. She seemed so
uncomfortable, so wooden, especially compared to Enrique, a real actor. Lee glanced around—she peeked over at Cocteau, Man, the others—but no one was frowning or stifling laughter. They were completely engrossed in the film, the artist's suicide.

She turned back to the screen—it was the final scene—and saw her form gliding along with large, painted eyes. She didn't stumble or look nervous, but was commanding, hypnotic. It was a miracle. She
was
a Cretan goddess able to tame a beast. A triumphant muse who had left her artist behind. Lee stared at her image on the screen. That was exactly what was happening with Man. What was she still doing with him? She needn't destroy him nor leave him cold and lifeless, but she had to go. And she didn't need a bull to guide her.

When the screen flashed
FIN,
Lee breathed out and the audience roared with applause. “
You
were amazing,” Man said into her ear, hugging her close.

She murmured in assent—in the last scene, it was true—surprised to find Man so cheerful, so pleased. Hadn't he understood? Didn't he see what happened?

At Cocteau's urging, Lee took a bow with the other actors—the crowd jumped to their feet—and dipping down, again and again, she suddenly felt free.

At the party after the film, Lee went from one group to the next and was kissed, toasted, and fêted wherever she turned. At one point, she turned from a group of admirers to see Man and Aziz standing next to each other by chance. Each was silently watching her with a drink in his hand. Aziz, casually elegant in his formalwear, raised his glass to her, his smile shining
with wonder and delight. Man stood uncomfortably erect, his chest swollen, his mouth a thin line of nervous disapproval.

Perhaps he was beginning to understand after all.

At the end of the party, after midnight and plenty of cocktails, Lee ushered Man into a cab and slid in after him. She gave the taxi driver instructions to go to rue Campagne-Première.

“You want to sleep at the studio?” He smiled with surprise. “You haven't—”

“No, I'm taking you home.”

“You're getting rid of me? Then what, you're going out with that Egyptian guy? I saw you flirting with him and—”

“No, I'm going to my place.” She gave him the key to his studio. “I'd like my key back, too.”

“What the hell are you saying?” The words came out slowly as his large eyes nearly closed in anger. “You're leaving me? Why? What haven't I done for you, Lee? I've given you everything.”

They'd had this discussion before. With a brisk nod, she interrupted him before he started counting things off on his fingers.

“I know, Man. And now it's time to give me up. It's time to say good-bye.”

“Here you are, milady.” He yanked her key off his ring and pressed it hard into her open palm. The cab pulled up in front of the looming Art Nouveau building; its doorway looked nearly Gothic in the dark. “Don't expect me to wait around for you. I might not be here when you come back.”

As the taxi circled back to her place, she stretched her arms across the back of the seat, taking up the entire space. How simple it had been. Why hadn't she done it six months earlier?

•  •  •

“Lee, are you there?” Man pounded on the door to her studio. “Lee!”

She froze in her chair. When was this going to stop? It had been two weeks since their last cab ride together. Despite his bravado that night, Man had not taken the breakup well.

“Lee!” He tried the locked door; it jangled frantically. She stared at the knob—would it open? Although she wasn't really afraid, his bellowing made her heart race. His shoes scuffed outside. What was he doing? She imagined him on his knees, peeking under the door—would he be able to see anything through the crack?—and silently drew her feet up onto the chair, out of a mouse's-eye view. Suddenly, a paper slid under the door, a white stain on her wooden floor. She heard the pounding of his feet, the rattle of the elevator, and blew out. She let a few minutes go by, then picked up the paper, as quietly as possible.

My dearest Lee—

I know that your infatuation for the Egyptian will soon fade away, like it did for all the others before him. When it does, I'll be waiting for you. I am here for you. I love you.

Yours always,

Man

She squeezed the paper, crushing it soundlessly, then let it drop into the bin.

After the premiere, Lee had begun seeing Aziz Eloui Bey
more seriously, taken by his foreign sophistication, his charming intelligence. Surprisingly broad-minded, he had a lover's passion, yet he never tried to control her. Like her father, he accepted her contradictions and gave her freedom and security both. Man Ray, however, had not given up. As a painter and a Surrealist, he had always been a firm believer in liberty, a staunch advocate for independence. As a lover, however, he could not let go. As Lee tried to begin her new life without him, he stepped into her path at every turn.

Phone calls, impromptu visits, messages stuffed under the door, letters through the post; she ignored all his attempts at communication. Frustrated by her silence, after another month he broadened his campaign, keeping vigil outside her house. Lee peeked out her window before going out. Man was often there, leaning on a street lamp and smoking a cigarette like a Dashiell Hammett private eye. Feeling trapped, she stayed home to avoid him, receiving sitters, working in the darkroom, reading, but mainly pacing. If she had to go out, he would spring to life, often drunk and always glowering, and call out to her.

“Hey, Lee! Come talk to me. You still with that Arab?”

“Man, give it a rest. Go on, now. Go home,” she'd say, gentle but firm. In her mind, however, she was screaming
Get the hell out of here! Leave me the fuck alone!
She was careful around him, wary of what he might do; she had not forgotten the photograph with the slit throat. She hailed cabs to get away, making the beckoning gesture from Cocteau's film, the arrogant goddess summoning the beast.

Neither caution nor panache were enough. Jumpy, stressed, sleepless, dark circles grew under her eyes, she lost her appetite.
Lee began avoiding her studio—and Montparnasse—altogether. Taking time off work, she went on excursions with Aziz, or stayed with him at Right Bank hotels.

One spring evening, finishing dessert at the Ritz, Aziz popped his last chocolaty raspberry into Lee's mouth and calmly said, “You ought to know, darling. I'm leaving Nimet.”

Wide-eyed, she quickly swallowed and blurted out, “Aziz! I never meant for you—”

“Don't panic.” He held up his hands with a smile. “I'm not putting any demands on you. I just thought since you'd left Man, it was only fair. And truly, since you and I have been together, I've found it impossible to be with her. The beauty regimes, the lotus-eating, holding court from her sofa bed. What a waste of time.”

“How did she take it?”

“She actually found the energy to threaten suicide, but she wasn't serious. It's fashionable nowadays. Absolutely de rigueur for jilted parties.” He lit her cigarette, then his own. “She quickly tired of that idea, though, like everything else. I'm not worried about her. She'll have a line of admirers at her door soon enough. She always has. We're getting divorced.”

“So, what does that entail exactly? Do you just say ‘I divorce thee' three times fast?”

“That's for Muslims, you goof,” he said. She smiled at his attempt at American slang. “I'm just a Francophile.”

“So how does your religion handle divorce?”

“There's a bit of paperwork, but not much. Since we never had children, you know.”

“Tell me, how does it feel to be free?” she asked, then
frowned. With Man popping up on street corners, weeping on the telephone, and shouting her name outside her studio, she had yet to experience that sensation.

“Fabulous. It's like a weight's been lifted off me. I feel like I could fly.” He raised his champagne to her. “Thank you, darling.”

“Me? But I—” Lee shook her head vehemently. She had never wanted the responsibility of someone else's breakup. Would he expect her to stay with him forever now?

“Relax,
ma petite
! I know you are a wild colt, ready to run fast and play hard. I love that about you.” He took her hand. “All I meant was that you've made me see what life can be like. The alternatives to a lonely marriage, a dry desert land, to becoming old too young.”

She leaned over and kissed him, suddenly glad he'd left his legendarily beautiful wife for her.

“Of course, I've had to move out of the flat. I bid farewell to Anatole France's lovely house and got new rooms.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Upstairs.” His eyes twinkled. “Would you like to come up to my suite? Have a little nightcap?” He ran a finger along his mustache. “Or shall I take you back to Montparnasse?”

“Are you playing hard to get, Monsieur Eloui?” She squeezed his upper thigh and ran her hand down his leg. “On your first night of freedom?”

“Just giving you choices, Lee. I always want you to have choices.”

“To your rooms, then.”

Lee bounded down the stairs in her kimono, eager to start her day. Before getting dressed, before having coffee, she wanted to check the mail. It was still a novelty that she could look forward to the post, to fetch it without worrying that anyone was lurking in the lobby. Man had finally stopped bothering her. Gradually, as the weather became warmer, he had slowly given up his crusade. Except for the odd late-night telephone call—the emergency in the ring, always startling—she didn't hear from him anymore. He'd abandoned his corner, his scribbling, his door-pounding. For the last several weeks, she'd felt comfortable in her home and in her neighborhood, free from harassment and worry.

She poked her hand in the box and brought out a short stack. A picture postcard from Tanja (she'd taken to sending Lee the worst ones she could find; this one was the First National Bank of Tuskaloosa, the “tallest building on a dirt road east of the Mississippi”), a thin aerogram from her father, various business requests and—yes! A fat envelope with an Egyptian postmark.

When Aziz had been obligated to return to Cairo at the beginning of summer, she was taken aback by her own disappointment. Fortunately, she'd quickly discovered that he was
a wonderful correspondent, a charming letter-writer guaranteed to send at least two long missives a week.

Back in bed, Lee read his letter: his daily news followed by the compulsory entreaties for her to visit (this one included a lovely description of a desert oasis) and, tacked on to the end, an innocent inquiry on whether he should buy a chalet in Saint Moritz. “Wasn't it wonderful? We could spend next winter there.” She sighed. Next winter seemed a lifetime away. Aziz signed off with a simple “I adore you.” Somehow the exaggerated
adore
was less threatening than the homespun honesty of the word
love.