The Woman in the Photograph (23 page)

Cocteau produced a pump and arranged it under Enrique's dinner jacket. When he squeezed it, the lapel moved in and out.

“I'll signal you when you should start pumping. Slowly, methodically.
Bum-bum, bum-bum.
That's right. And then, finally, staring into the face of your muse, you pull a gun from your pocket and shoot yourself in the head. Unlike the suicide behind the mirror—safe in the world of dreams—this time, you will die. It's a silent shot. The heartbeat stops. Your head falls onto the table, onto the bad hand you were dealt.”

Cocteau made another sweeping gesture, then ran his hand through his thick hair.

“Questions?”

Although the scene was only five or six minutes long, Cocteau had such a clear idea in his head that he demanded take after take.

“Cut! Enrique, what is this seductive look all about? I can accept wariness or even ennui—but we are not flirting, here! She is not some pretty girl you want to sleep with. She is deadly, man, deadly!”

“Spades? Cut! Lee, you have one line! One! It is the ace of hearts, not spades! I don't care if it's going to be redubbed, get it right this time.”

“Féral, my angel, look otherworldly. Mysterious!
Putain
, don't smile! Cut!”

“Cut, cut, cut! Lucien! You are dead, goddamn it! Dead!”

“Pump, Enrique! Pump! No, no, I see your hand!
Merde!
Cut!”

After the nineteenth take, Enrique looked Cocteau in the eye and began ripping the cards in two.

“Christ, Jean!” he shouted. “You mean to edit it, don't you? Surely you'll find enough good acting in all those miserable takes to piece together this one goddamn scene!”

Cocteau glared at him. “Fine! Let's move on to this young man's
death,
shall we?”

Enrique had just shot himself for the fifth time when Zizi walked in. He stood silently in the shadow, fascinated.

“Cut! That one will do. Now let me paint on your bullet wound.”

On Enrique's temple, Cocteau painted a five-pointed star, a smaller version of the one he'd put on his scar. With the film
rolling, he dribbled on more red paint. Even though Enrique was older and had more experience than poor Lucien, he, too, struggled to remain still as the liquid dripped down into his eye.

“Cut! We are finished for today! Finally.”

Zizi applauded the few minutes he'd seen. Cocteau glanced over and gave him a short bow.

“Now, Lee,” he continued, “your final scene is tomorrow. I'll need you here early for makeup. Say, eight o'clock? Enrique, your contribution is over. A magnificent job!” The actor briefly stopped wiping blood off his face to shake hands with the director, their spat forgotten. “As for the crew—
à demain
.”

Before going over to welcome Zizi to the set, Lee took Enrique's hand. “Perhaps we'll see each other again.”

“I certainly hope so.” He squeezed her hand with a glance at the older man, watching them from the sidelines as if they were still playacting. “It's been a pleasure working alongside you,
corazón mio
, even if you were my undoing.” He made a gun with his hand and pointed it at his temple, still red from the paint. He kissed her twice on the cheeks. “
Hasta siempre
.”

Lee watched him leave the set, off to his dressing room, then called out to her friend—“Zizi!”—motioning to him to join her.

Cocteau's head shot up at her exclamation. “Lee?” he asked curiously, wondering why she seemed to be calling the gentleman by his penis. Lee made quick introductions.

“We've met before, Monsieur Cocteau, I believe it was
chez
Charles de Noailles.”

“Of course, Monsieur Svirsky.” Cocteau patted him on the shoulder. “Dear Charles.”
Just the name of his nearly excommunicated producer made him visibly nervous.

“I've taken the liberty to make dinner plans for Lee. Would you care to join us?”

“Maybe some other time, my good man, but now I must be off. Don't forget, Lee—eight sharp!” With a brisk wave at them both, he turned and left.

Alone on the set, Lee took Zizi's arm. “Walk me to my dressing room and tell me all about our plans. What are we doing tonight?”

“We're dining with Tatiana and her
vicomte
. He used his connections to reserve a table at Maxim's.”

“Fabulous. But without making a trip back home, I don't know what I'll wear.”

She wrinkled her nose; she didn't like the idea of going back to her studio in Montparnasse. Man was probably waiting for her, eager to hear about the film and criticize the director.

He held her out at arm's length and twirled her around. “You can just wear what you have on—a simple white evening gown. No one would imagine you've just walked off a film set. What am I saying? It's such a fantastic story, you must tell everyone!”

“No, this dress has to be perfect for tomorrow. It wouldn't do to wear it for a night on the town. What if I spilled a glass of burgundy down the front? Or at the end of the night, fell asleep in it?” Lee imagined Cocteau's intense stare, his bushy hair on end, as she came in for her last day's shooting in the gown, now a Crusoe-rag, stained, wrinkled, and torn. “He'd kill me.”

“I sincerely hope I'll be able to tempt you out of your
clothes before you nod off tonight, my love,” he said lightly, as he strolled into the dressing room behind her. “At any rate, there must be something here you can use.”

He rifled through the clothes rack and pulled out one of the surplus white gowns. “Try this one on. You can still claim it's the costume for the film.”

She coyly went behind the partition to change dresses. She stood naked, carefully hanging the dress for the next day, when she felt Zizi's hands on her waist. “Reservations aren't until half-past seven,” he whispered.

Lee turned around and kissed him hard. After the high emotions on the set—the worries, tension, and nerves—she could use a little nookie. They quickly made a pallet on the floor from the wardrobe on the rack. After they lay down, she covered them up with an old bear costume, made from a real skin. Falling into the rhythm of sex, her mind—so cluttered before with the film, her director, her mentor, and muses—went deliciously blank. She was a body, pulsing and alive, in the moment—and nothing more.

Stumbling in the film studio door, out of the morning haze and into the gloom, Lee nearly ran into George Hoyningen-Huene.

“You look like hell, darling,” he said as a means of greeting.

“George!” She hugged his neck. “What are you doing here?”

“Michel thought that since you're taking time off to do this film,
Vogue
should get something out of it. We're doing a reportage on our girl's participation in
The Blood of a Poet.
I'm here to take photos.” He lifted her chin with his palm, then ran his fingers through her limp hair. “I don't know whether to use soft lights or extremely harsh ones.”

“I went out to dinner last night with Zizi, Tata, and her title,” she said, as an explanation for the morning's looks. “Bottomless bottles of champagne at Maxim's accompanied by a few prawns and a wee bit of
confit de canard.
Then it was off in search of cabaret acts and dancing.” Although she was suffering for it this morning, she'd had a wonderful evening. It was so easy to be with Zizi; there were no intense emotions—possession, jealousy, love—to muck up the works. At five in the morning she'd fallen into his bed; this morning, after sharing a pot of black coffee, he'd driven her back to the studio. “I only slept a couple of hours, so don't
take any pictures until the makeup's been plastered on,” she said. “Where's Jean?”

“He's in the dressing room. We're to meet him there.”

She grimaced, hoping Cocteau hadn't noticed the makeshift bed on the floor behind the screen. George gathered up his equipment—“Shall we?”—and Lee grabbed a stray light on her way.

“Good morning, Lee,” Jean said. He was making trials with base makeup, dabbing different shades of white on his hand. When he looked up at her, he frowned.

“Well, at least the dress is in perfect shape,” she said in answer to his stare. “Will the makeup hide these dark circles?”

“Yes, you lucky cow. Can you believe this, George?
This
is my beautiful muse.” He took a deep breath. “So, the Zizi kept you awake all night? Maybe I should have joined you two—and gotten you in at a reasonable hour.”

Lee couldn't tell if he was truly annoyed with her or just joking. Behind the screen, she took off last night's dress, kicking the bearskin out from underfoot.

“I'm going to cover you with white powder.” Jean Cocteau could have hired a makeup specialist, but he liked doing these things himself. It was rather like painting a human canvas. “Oh, and you'll wear the papier-mâché wig again, but I think we'll forgo the butter.”

In the pristine white gown, Lee sat down on the bench in front of the mirror. Cocteau began coating her face a pure white, hiding the lines and shadows, erasing the night out. As she began to disappear and George to take photos, she wondered if Man had spent a sleepless night in her studio. On occasion,
he stayed at his own place, working in the darkroom or on a painting, or indulged in a late night out with friends, to exhibitions, shows, or clubs.
No,
she thought, looking at herself in the makeup mirror,
he was there.
She could almost feel the weight of his presence—compact but heavy, like a ball of lead—waiting in her flat. Uncomfortably guilty, she fidgeted in the chair. She hated the constraints and limitations of being in a relationship.

“The most important part of the look is the eyes.” Jean was talking to George, not to her. “I'm going to paint eyes on the lids. They'll appear huge, dark, unblinking. She'll move as if in a trance.”

“Wait a minute,” Lee interrupted. “You don't mean I'm going to do it with my eyes closed?”

“Yes.” His face glowed. “This scene—the final scene of the film, you understand—will be its coup de grace. When it's done, the audience will wonder at what they have witnessed.”

She thought of all the takes they'd made the day before to perfect expressions, gestures, the one line. Then she'd been using all her faculties. She could only imagine how many takes would be necessary today, especially working on very little sleep and a champagne hangover.

“You'll be barefoot—that'll help your balance—and at the very end, you'll be walking alongside a bull. You can hold on to its horn. It'll guide you.”

“A bull? Jean, are you serious?” Lee grabbed her cigarettes out of her bag and lit one.

“A real, live bull?” George, uneasy, put down his camera and took a cigarette for himself.

“Oh, it's not dangerous. They'll be bringing it over from the
abattoir in a few hours. It's just an old ox that we're saving from the slaughter—for a day, anyway.”

They smoked in silence as Cocteau fixed the hard, white wig onto her head. He then pulled out a small palette and some very fine paintbrushes. Sitting still, she lost track of time as he dabbed paint on her lids with cool, damp strokes. It was almost hypnotic. She temporarily forgot her grogginess, acting, even the bull.

“Absolutely amazing,” George said. “He's completely transformed you. Lee, I wish you could see it.”

“Me, too.” She opened her eyes to thin slits, trying to catch the effect. “I suppose I'll have to wait until opening night.”

Jean put away the brushes, pleased with his work, then turned to her. “All right, it's time.”

As George set up his tripod in front of the empty façade, Lee sat at the table under the chandelier.

“Pick up a hand of cards as if the game had just finished,” Jean instructed. “I don't think Enrique tore all of them, damn him. When we start rolling, I want you to throw the cards into the air—a theatrical gesture—then stand up. Always, always with your eyes closed.”

“Jean, you understand I'll be moving around like a blind person,” Lee said.

“That's exactly what I'm looking for,” he said. “Now, I'll be guiding you with my voice, telling you exactly where to move. Rely on me.”

They took several takes of her throwing the cards until they made a pleasing arc, then, finally, she got to her feet. Nervous, she lifted her skirts and turned gracefully, and bumped straight into the stool.

“Ow!”
Lee opened her eyes and blew out; she didn't realize she'd been holding her breath. “Sorry!”

When she was able to maneuver past the table, Jean called out instructions, directing her toward the door and down a few steps. Again, many takes were needed, as he wanted her to look as if she were gliding, an inhuman object, a mysterious presence who left no footprints behind.