The Woman in the Photograph (24 page)

“Let's take a break for lunch now,” Jean said. “We have to wait for the ox anyway. Lee, could you stay in costume? I really don't want to redo all that makeup.”

“Fine,” she said, “if you and George will join me at that place on the corner. I'd like to shock the waiters.”

Although she was chilly and uncomfortable in the street with her costume on, she enjoyed the startled reactions from the passersby, who stared in confusion at her long gown, the plaster wig, and thick makeup. Even on the street, she looked otherworldly.

She ordered lunch with her eyes closed, then covered herself with a large napkin to eat.

“You should have seen the expression on the waiter's face.” George chuckled.

“That's the problem with this gag. I can't.”

In a moment, the waiter was back to pour their wine. When he'd gone, Lee opened her eyes and raised her glass to Jean. “To the complete artist—painter, poet, novelist, film director.”

“To every man's muse,” Jean said, toasting her in turn. “By the way, how is Man carrying on without you?”

“He's fine,” she said, her smile mechanical. “Jean, tell George about the other scenes in the film. It's going to be a grand success.”

“I'll
have to swear you to secrecy!” Cocteau cocked an eyebrow, reconsidering. “Well, I'll tell you which teasers you can print in
Vogue
. Now, in the beginning of the film . . .”

Barely listening, occasionally nodding, Lee nibbled at her food, catching the odd word about dreams, the unconscious, chance. It was no coincidence, of course, that her character was a muse; she'd been chosen for her statuesque beauty, after all. But, the muse in this film—an indestructible being, out for blood—seemed far removed from the roles she'd played in real life: Daddy's girl, fashion icon, the photogenic model willing to do any pose. This muse goaded her artist along, led him to his worst fears, dealt him a deathly hand, then watched coldly as he took his own life. What exactly did she do for Man Ray? Beyond excitation, passion, ire, and exasperation—was there anything more?

She was fed up with the muse role, its trumped-up responsibility, its creative tar pit.

When Jean had concluded his exposition, she smiled brightly at the two of them, tired of her own thoughts. “It's brilliant,” she said. “Even the Surrealists won't be able to resist it.”

“
If
it shows, they'll come, of course. To heckle.” Cocteau made a quick gesture to the waiter. “My treat, everyone. We must be getting back to the set. The ox should be there by now.”

Arms linked, Lee in the middle, they returned to the studio. The two men were still having a lively conversation, but she walked in silence. Lee was uneasy about the scene with the animal, but also about the one she'd have with her own stubborn ox when she got home.

The animal was waiting for them when they arrived. An
errand boy from the abattoir had delivered it, tied it to a pole, and left it in the care of the cameraman Philippe and two burly crew members. They stood a few yards from it, eyeing its enormous bulk. One horn missing, it was slowly rubbing its huge head on the wooden post; it had several mangy patches along its flank.

“What kind of half-rate ox is this?” Jean threw up his hands. “
Mon Dieu
! It's going to need more makeup than Lee.”

He sent a crew member for a bucketful of asbestos snow while he went to look through the rubbish for cardboard; he immediately began shaping a horn from some thin packing material.

“Rub this snow on him. It should give him a mythical glow.” Jean held up the paper horn next to the ox, tore off the end, and resculpted it. “Philippe, bring me some tape. Now, I've got to come up with something to hide this rash.” He began pacing in front of the animal, staring it dead in the eye; it shifted on its feet—did the asbestos fluff itch?—but looked back at the director. “Bullfighting, the Minotaur,
toro bravo
, Taurus, the rape of Europa . . .” Cocteau stopped. “Europa. George, be a dear and run down to the stationer's shop—it's two blocks up, one block over—and get me all the maps of Europe they have. This will be perfect.”

“Lee,” he said quietly, taking her by the elbow. “It's going to take me a good hour to get this bull ready for shooting. Why don't you take a little nap? In the dressing room, there's a little pallet behind the screen. I daresay you noticed it when you were changing? You get some rest. I'll wake you up when it's time to touch up your makeup.”

Too exhausted to blush, she squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Jean.” He was as kind as he was clever. Why did Man Ray and his friends dislike him so?

•  •  •

When she and the bull were finally ready for filming, she stood in her spot, waiting for her cue. The animal was decked out in leathery-looking maps, the edges burnt to resemble the spots of its breed. When Cocteau called for action, Lee beckoned the ox—making a long, arrogant gesture in her black glove—but it did not move. She was lacking in mythical know-how, she could not control the beast.

“Cut, damn it! Get me some wire. I'll find a way to make him move.”

They began filming again. This time, when Lee summoned the bull, the husky crew members pulled sharply on the thin wire from offstage. As it tightened across the animal's thick neck, the old ox let out a full-throated bellow. Lee's eyes flew open in time to see it buck and charge. It ran by her, bashing her arm with its flank, and knocked her over. It stopped in the corner, panting hard and eyeing them all furiously.

“
Putain de merde
!” Cocteau ran over to Lee. “Are you hurt?”

“I don't know.” She stood up slowly, blowing out, rattled. Lee stroked her upper arm—it would bruise nicely—but found she was all right. “I don't know if I can do this, Jean.”

“
Pauvre petite.
Sit down for a moment and collect yourself. Philippe! Get a herder from the abattoir. Someone who knows how to control him.”

Lee gathered the long dress, now smudged, and tumbled into the director's chair. Shaking her head, she lit a cigarette
and took a long drag. Why had she thought acting would be fun? Between Jean's perfectionism, the hot lights, the fleas, the plaster arms, and blinded eyes, and now a charging bull? It was very hard work and yet not very rewarding. Having someone else—the creative one—tell her where to sit, how to walk, which way to look, while she, covered in makeup and extravagant clothes, listened obediently and did as she was told? It was modeling all over again. To hell with that.

No, Lee wasn't cut out to be an actor. She didn't even think she was very good at it. She looked at the bull—a powerful beast in costume—and wished she had her camera.

Thirty minutes later, an old countryman, stooped and lacking teeth, walked shyly into the film studio alongside Philippe. Hands wedged into pockets, he went over to the ox—wrinkling his brow at the patchwork maps and the prosthetic paper horn—and spoke in its ear.

“Yanked you by a wire, did they?” he whispered, shaking his head. “Hurt you, I'd wager.”

He rubbed the saggy folds under its chin, checking for blood. He did not seem to understand this animal would be sacrificed the following day.

“Now, my good man,” Cocteau said pleasantly, “when I give the signal, I'd like the bull to move forward, just a few steps. You
are
ready to try it again, Lee, darling?”

She gave him a tired nod.

“Marvelous. Then our actress here will join him at his side with her hand on his horn, as if she has the power to control him. Then they will walk away together.” His arm reached out in a lofty gesture, then he turned again toward the old man. “
Could you help me make that happen? Could you do it, say, from over there?”

The ox driver stood on the far side of the set, raised his arm as if he held a switch, and began to grunt, his toothless mouth moving wildly. The bull stared at him and then lowered its great head, as if nodding; slowly, it began plodding toward him. Lee breathed out in relief. Although she was its symbolic master, with bare feet and closed eyes, she was terrified of the animal's size, its unpredictable nature. To the sound of the old man's snorts and groans, they quickly finished the last scene.

“Lee, my dear.” Cocteau kissed her cheek. “I'm so glad we had this opportunity to work together. You've been such a good sport.”

“It's been an interesting experience, Jean. One I'll never forget. And now, I suppose, I must go back to reality.”

“Reality in Paris? There's no such thing.” Jean patted her lightly on the back. “Now, go take a long bath at the hotel.”

After a few celebratory remarks on the closing scene, she gave brief hugs to Philippe and the other crew members. She left with a jaunty “
À la prochaine, les gars,
” though she doubted there would be a next time. She slowly crossed the street to the old hotel.

Makeup removed, hair clean, Lee sat soaking in the uncomfortable little tub until the water became lukewarm. Although it was a drab bathroom, depressing really (and lacking any intrigue without Enrique in the next room), she dreaded leaving, dreaded going back home and facing Man. She tried to add
more hot water, but it came out freezing cold. Shivering, she quickly splashed out, but took her time getting dressed.

When the taxi pulled away from her building, Lee looked up at her studio window. It was dark. She breathed out in relief and took the rickety little lift up, thoroughly exhausted. As she threw her bag on the table, she saw the silhouette, the red glow of a cigarette tip. She gasped, startled, though she knew who it was. Lee turned on the lights, exposing him. He looked like he hadn't slept in days: unshaven, bags under reddened eyes, tousled hair, his shirt untucked and wrinkled. In front of him was a full ashtray, a plate with a discarded sandwich, and a brand-new bottle of whisky, a few fingers missing.

“Hello, Man,” she said softly. She joined him on the sofa and poured herself a glass.

“I waited for you last night.” His voice was gruff, unoiled. “And all day today.”

“I was busy filming until late, then I went out with Tatiana and her friends. I had to be back in the studio this morning at eight, so I didn't bother coming home.” Lee usually opted for the truth, but felt details were unnecessary.

He looked down at his hands, then up at her. “Your beauty, youth, freedom . . . it's what I most admire about you.” He bit his lip, trying to stifle sobs. “I don't want to lose you, Lee.”

She put her arms around him and held him close. He'd expressed those contradictory feelings before: what he loved about her—her headstrong nature, her independence, her sensuality—were the same things that drove him mad. Relieved he wasn't poised for a fight, she still hated to see him so
needy and weak. She rubbed his back with a long sigh, trying to provide comfort, though part of her wanted to bolt out the door. To make an escape from this settled relationship with its duty-bound devotion, its accountability for bruised feelings.

“Listen,” she said, pulling away, “my part of the film is finished now. I can go back to my normal life.”

“So I'm no longer obligated to lend you out to Monsieur Cocteau?”

She frowned. “I thought you just said I was free.”

He took a long drink of whisky. “Right you are. So tell me about the film. What have you been doing?”

“Today was a real nightmare,” she began with a smile, glad to move away from such emotional ground. “I had to do all my scenes with my eyes closed. Jean painted wide-open eyes on my lids—”

“Fucking hell! You've got to be kidding me!” He jumped up and kicked a footstool. “I painted eyes on Kiki's lids in
Emak Bakia.
Doesn't the bastard have a single original idea?”

Lee listened to him go off. Although she was convinced of Cocteau's talent, she didn't bother contradicting Man. They both preferred him lashing out at a third party, however innocent.

It was after eleven when Lee finally roused herself from the bed; Man still lingered under blankets. His passionate rant of the night before had eventually led to passionate lovemaking, their pent-up emotions—guilt, pity, suspicion, frustration—finding physical expression.

“What are you doing today?” she asked, flipping open her appointment book. She was ready to take sitters again and needed to make calls and update her agenda.

“Do you know Willie Seabrook?” he asked.

She marked her page with a bobby pin and sat back down on the mattress; the answer to her question was clearly not a short one.

“Seabrook.” She scrunched her mouth to one side, thinking; she'd never been very good with names. “Why does that sound so familiar?”

“I've got some of his books at my studio. He spends a year or so in far-off places, living with the primitives—Bedouins, cannibals, voodoo worshipers—and then he writes about it.”