The Woman in the Photograph (22 page)

“I know what I'll call this movie.” He grinned at her. “
Self Portrait
.”

“Does that mean that I am you?” she asked. “Or that you are me?”

Lee found Jean Cocteau in a corner booth at la Coupole, disheveled and bleary-eyed. He had sounded alarmingly urgent (and somewhat intoxicated) when he called from the bar telephone. She was surprised to hear from him—it was seven in the morning and, besides, she wasn't due back on the set for another week—but had dressed as quickly as possible.

She sat down across from him, ordered two coffees, and offered him a cigarette.

“What's wrong, Jean?” Was he back on opium? “Have you had bad news?”

“Haven't you heard? The scandal? The riot?”

“Which one?” In the Parisian art world, weeks were counted by scandals.

“What a dream world you live in, my child.” His eyes flickered slowly for a moment, drifting, till he gave his head a quick shake and focused on her. “Really, I'd have thought Man Ray would have told you all about it.”

“You tell me,” she said.

“
L'Age d'Or
,” he whispered, then wiped his brow with a large violet handkerchief.

“That new film by Luis Buñuel? Yes, of course I've heard of
it. Man said the premiere was a great success. I haven't had a chance to see it yet—”

“And you won't!” He was now fully awake. “Last night, right-wing fanatics, the dreaded Ligue des Patriotes, stormed the cinema, assaulted the audience, and threw ink at the screen.” His hands flittered wildly. “Then they tumbled out into the lobby—decorated for the occasion with pieces by your Man, Dalí, Miró and the others—and destroyed the artwork. They ran off into the night. I daresay they'll never be found. Those types never are.”

“That's terrible!” She grabbed his hand, wondering if Man had been there and if he was all right. “Why did they do it?”

“I'm sure those brutes didn't bother to watch the film—they never do—but they claim it's against all known values and mores. Family, church, society itself.”

Lee broke into a little smile. “Well, knowing Luis, it wouldn't surprise me.”

“Of course not! And who cares? What I'm concerned about is censorship.” He looked at her gravely, his eyes yellowed and slick. “And you know who their producer is? Charles de Noailles. Lee, he's
my
producer! Without him, there is no
Blood of a Poet
.”

She frowned in disappointment. “Damn, Jean. Your first film, stalled by moral outcry—about someone else's work. It isn't fair.” She was also indignant on her own behalf; it was her first film, too. “What are you going to do?”

“There's nothing I can do except work. I'm going to need you back on the set. Say, next Wednesday?”

“I'll be there.”

He patted her arm, got up unsteadily, and headed out the door.

Lee sat in the almost empty bar—the smell of the night's festivities soured by daylight—and finished her coffee; Jean had left his untouched. How precarious the art world was. Filmmakers, painters, sculptors, and photographers kept trying to push the limits, but most of the public just wasn't ready for it. Smiling to herself, she thought of her erotic home movie. What would the League of Patriots make of
that
?

Lee left a handful of centimes on the table, scooted out of the booth, and headed for the rue Campagne-Première. As terrible as it was to have a few of his pieces destroyed, she wanted to make sure that Man himself wasn't busted up. She let herself in to the darkened studio and crept up the stairs to the bedroom; he was curled up in the covers, snoring peacefully. Lee took off her clothes and joined him, looking forward to his expression when he woke up.

•  •  •

The following week, hunched under a half-broken umbrella, the toes of her stockings already damp, Lee was on her way to the metro stop when a car pulled up beside her. The window rolled down.

“Lee?” a voice called from the backseat. It was Zizi Svirsky.

“Zizi!” She leaned in toward the window. “How lovely to see you.”

“Get in. I can take you wherever you want to go.”

She tore open the door, threw the wet umbrella on the
floorboard, and, after giving the address to the chauffeur, sat back on the seat, a veritable sofa. “What a miserable morning. Such luck you came by.” She gave him a fond smile.

“What are you going to do out there?” he asked, surprised at Lee's destination.

“Act!”

As they snaked through the narrow streets and up the crowded boulevards, she told him all about Jean Cocteau's film and his preoccupation after the recent
L'Age d'Or
scandal.

“Sounds fascinating,” said Zizi. “And a far cry from the Spaniard's film. Did you see it? I don't know how it got banned—I didn't understand a thing.” He laughed. “I've always admired Cocteau, his artwork and poems. I'd wager he's one of the most interesting men in Paris.”

“Yes, he's wonderful.” It was a pleasant change to talk with someone who didn't dislike him. She wove her fingers through Zizi's long, fine ones, a pianist's hands. “But tell me, what's new with you?”

“Nothing as exciting as making a film.” He gathered her hand up and kissed it. “I was on my way to the Duke Vallombrosa's house. He's hosting a big New Year's Eve party and wanted some fresh ideas for decorations. Would you like to be my guest?”

“Of course.” Lee beamed at Zizi. “It's been ages since I went to a really good party. I like the Duke. I took his portrait a couple of months ago. Funny, he wanted it made with his hat and overcoat on.”

“He'll need those today,” Zizi said. Outside the foggy windows, it was now pouring. “What time do you think you'll finish
today at the film studio? Shall I come and pick you up? You could drown out there if you're not careful.”

“Thanks, Zizi. Could you come around five? If we're not finished, perhaps you'd enjoy watching for a little while?”

“You know I love to watch.” He snuggled his face against hers and whispered, “That is, when I'm not blindfolded.”

They dropped Lee in front of the studio and she made a dash for the door. When she walked in, she saw a group of people huddling around a large crate.

“What's this?” she asked Philippe, the head cameraman.

“Cocteau ordered a fancy chandelier for this next scene. Says it's crucial. It arrived today,” he paused for effect, “in three thousand pieces.”

“Damn.” Lee looked over at the crew—three strapping lads used for hauling heavy equipment—and the boys from the snowball-fight scene; they were gently scooping handfuls of shimmering crystal teardrops onto a tarp, trying to organize them by size. “Do they need help?”

“I'm sure they will, but for the moment Cocteau wants to see you in the dressing room.”

She found him and the costume designer looking at evening gowns, all long, white, and sleeveless. “Jean?”

“Lee, darling, how are you?” He gave her two kisses then studied her face. “Divine, as ever. How haggard we all must look to you. Have you heard the latest? De Noailles has been threatened with excommunication by the Pope. For a film! And, as the producer, he's withdrawn
L'Age d'Or
from public exhibition permanently.”

“
Man told me. The Surrealists are up in arms about it. They think he should go ahead and distribute it, no matter what.”

“He claims he wants to avoid any further violence or vandalism, but I think he just wants to go to Heaven. The selfish bastard. How can one eternal soul compare to freedom of expression?” Lee chuckled at Jean's serious mien. “Who knows if our little film will ever be shown,” he continued with a dramatic sigh, “but we must finish it nonetheless. It's been nonstop work here despite our fears.”

“I'm delighted to be back on the job, for what it's worth,” Lee said.

“Wonderful. And this time, I promise you'll be much more comfortable. You can use your own arms, you can wear your own skin . . .” He turned back to the gowns. “Here, help us choose the best dress to mimic a toga. I want to make it clear that you are still the muse, but in human form. After the poet's suicide, you'll revert to being a statue, your purpose fulfilled.”

“That's my purpose?” Lee looked at Jean. “To get my artist to kill himself?”

“Not exactly,” he began, weighing the question. “It's to force him to look inside himself, deep inside. If he can't accept what he sees, it's not the muse's fault.”

“And I revert to the statue then?” Lee winced. “I thought we'd finished those scenes.”

“Don't worry, there'll be no more plaster. The last scene is more of an echo. Instead of the broken arms, you'll wear long black gloves. The gown,” he turned back to the dresses, “must flow like a toga.”

“
Here, why don't I try this one on?” Lee picked up the simplest of the bunch and went behind the screen. “Tell me, how's everything been going? I saw the chandelier. I hope there haven't been any other problems.”

“A few days ago, Féral twisted his ankle dancing. Now we have an angel with a limp. But you know? That's even better.” He shot her a mischievous look over the partition. “People will give it a symbolic meaning it doesn't have.”

“You're terrible.” Lee laughed, coming out from behind the screen.

“Ah, nearly perfect. I love the Empire style. It just needs a bit of altering.” He pinched the fabric into folds, while the costumier put pins into place. Cocteau turned to his watch. “I don't know when we'll be able to start shooting. That damn chandelier!”

“Well, if you don't need me, I'll go help them. I've always liked puzzles.”

She returned the gown to the designer for alterations, then joined the group of young men stringing baubles and hanging glass pendants on the metal frame. They looked up at her and their chatter immediately stopped.

“Good work, boys. What a lamp.” She picked up two large crystal ornaments and weighed them in her hand. “It's so very well hung!”

They fell into titters of blushes and giggles. By lunchtime, the light fixture—a large, tiered structure dripping with prisms—was finally finished. And all of the boys were severely infatuated with Lee Miller.

•  •  •

That afternoon, Lee in her flowing dress met Enrique in white tie and tails on the set. Fluffy white asbestos snow covered the façade of an elegant building; in the street in front of it, the chandelier hung mysteriously over a table and two plush stools.

“Places everyone!” Cocteau clapped his hands.

Lee cleared her throat and sat stiffly on one of the stools. This time, without the plaster and paint, her acting skills—her facial expressions, movements, her
regard
—would be far more important. She looked at Cocteau, his greedy eyes taking in every detail, and slowly breathed out. He'd cast her as a society darling, an artist's muse, a femme fatale—really, how hard could it be?

As Enrique took his place on the opposite stool, a schoolboy, uniformed in short pants and a cape, lay down on the artificial snow next to the table. Cocteau bent down to retouch the blood on his face, then splattered a bit on the powdery ground.

“
Lucien, tu es mort.
Don't budge!” He shook his finger at the adolescent, who clearly found it difficult to remain dead, then turned to the other players. “In the previous scene, this boy was killed in a snowball fight—not that you can
make
a ball with this damn asbestos—and all of his comrades abandoned him. Pretend you don't see him there.”

Lee winked at Lucien, one of her chandelier-assembling pals, as Cocteau began talking them into their roles.

“You two are playing a game of cards and the stakes are extremely high.” His hands exploded in a grandiose gesture. “You're playing for your life. However, neither of you is nervous; if anything, this is a dull game to pass the time. After a few minutes, Lee will look at her cards and announce: ‘You don't
have the ace of hearts, my dear. You have lost.' Completely indifferent to your fate, she pops open her compact and begins to powder her nose.”

“So like a woman,” said Enrique. “In the end, this film of yours is quite realistic.”

“And so very like a man, Enrique, you cheat. Slowly, very slowly, you pull the ace out of the dead boy's jacket. Although you try to outsmart Fate, the boy's guardian angel will come down those stairs—Féral, are you ready?”

The African dancer, his body gleaming with oil, dressed only in a dark brown loincloth and stylized wings, waved from the door at the top of the staircase.

“And will remove the boy—and the winning card.” He whisked the card from one hand to the next. “Lee, you look triumphantly at the camera—I'll come in for a close-up—and Enrique, you know it's all over. Your heart beats wildly. We can hear it, like in Poe's ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.' ”