The Woman in the Photograph (25 page)

“That's right. I read an article about him in the
Herald Tribune
. Didn't he say human flesh tasted like veal cutlets?”

“He says all kinds of outrageous things.” Man snorted. “Not
only is he an avowed cannibal, but he's into the occult—he's pals with Aleister Crowley—and loves to brag about being a Satanist.”

“Do you know him?”

“We met a while back—he's American, but he's in and out of Paris—and here lately I've been doing some work for him.”

“What, a portrait for his dust jacket, tucking into a nice rump roast?”

“No,” Man said slowly, then stalled a minute to light a cigarette. “I've photographed his fantasies.”

“Let me guess . . . Did you have to hire nuns and a billy goat?”

“Nearly.” Man chuckled, pinching a bit of stray tobacco off his lip. “He's a sadist. He explained to me what he wanted—shots of women in high heels and leather, torturing a naked woman, binding her in leather straps—and he was very satisfied with the results. Of course, no one was hurt. It was just pretend.”

“Damn! What mischief you've been up to. I bet you loved every minute.” She shoved his arm and he collapsed onto the covers.
This
was the Man Ray she was attracted to—the fearless photographer who did daring work for famous patrons—not the sniveling baby who wanted to argue. “You'll have to show me the prints.”

He sat up, pleased with himself. “Anytime.”

“So what does this Willie Seabrook have to do with today?”

“He's asked me to go to his hotel tonight,” he said. “He's at that luxury place on Grande Chaumière. He specified from eight to twelve.”

“
Is it a dinner engagement?”

“Nope,” he said. “That's the thing. He and his wife are going to a banquet in his honor. He just asked me if I could watch something at his place—it could be an alligator, for all I know. You want to go? Of course, he'll treat us to anything we want from room service.”

“I wouldn't miss it.”

•  •  •

That evening, Seabrook met them at the hotel room door. Despite his reputation, he looked like most of the other journalists Lee had met in Paris: brown moustache, a bit jowly, tweed jacket. He gave Man a firm handshake and nodded politely at Lee.

“So glad you both could make it tonight.” He opened the door wide and ushered them into their extravagant two-story suite. “Marjorie will be down in a moment.”

As Lee looked expectantly toward the stairs, she saw her. There, at the foot of the staircase, a young woman was chained to a post, like a martyred saint or the spoils of Viking warfare. Nude except for a soiled loincloth, her hair long and stringy, she sat awkwardly on the floor, her hands bound behind her back. She gave Lee a look of passive resignation, but didn't speak.

“Ah, yes,” Seabrook said, following her gaze. “This is why I want you here.” He went over and patted his captive on the head. “I've hired her temporarily. She's docile and willing and, really, she needn't bother you. I just didn't want to leave her all alone.” He spoke in a kindly tone; Man and Lee looked at each other. “Release her only in the case of an emergency.” He
handed Man the small key to her padlock. “A fire, that sort of thing.”

At that moment, his wife, the writer Marjorie Worthington—a handsome woman, elegant and slim—swept down the staircase. She didn't seem to notice the woman in chains.

“Good evening.” She greeted them with a thin-lipped smile painted blood red. “Man, nice to see you again—”

“And this is Lee Miller,” he broke in on cue.

“Delighted. Now, I must find my gloves.” She walked into another room and her husband went back to business.

“Please order anything you'd like from room service—champagne, lobster, caviar—but under no circumstances is this girl to eat with you. If she gets hungry, cut up some food and put the plate on the floor next to her, like you would for a dog.”

Marjorie joined him at the door, gloves in hand, and they put on their coats.

“Nice to be fawned over by the press,” Seabrook said. “They're usually such a despicable lot. See you at midnight.”

Lee and Man stood in silence, listening to the rattle of the elevator. As soon as it stopped, Man picked up the house phone and ordered dinner for three. As he spoke to the kitchen, she watched him. Man had a sadistic edge himself, which sometimes came out in his work. With Lee, he generally emphasized her beauty—striking portraits, romantic postures, solarized profiles—but, on occasion, he had her do awkward, uncomfortable poses. He seemed to delight in rolling her body into a tight ball, having her strangle herself, ensnaring her in a trap—whether she was in the mood or not. In the darkroom, he took things even further; she'd been decapitated, cut into
fragments, deprived of limbs. She usually agreed with his aesthetic choices—he had an unerring eye—but sometimes found them unsettling. Outside of photos, however, Man was rather shy around women. Was he on board with this game? It was one thing to photograph make-believe torture scenes, but quite another to be an accomplice to slaveholding.

“I can't believe you're worried about dinner,” she said in a nervous whisper, shaken by his nonchalance. Lee knew she couldn't eat a meal while a bound woman licked from a plate on the floor. “What are we supposed to do about her? You don't mean to follow Seabrook's instructions?”

“Hell no,” he said, handing the key to Lee; she gave him a peck on the lips, relieved.

Lee undid the padlock. “Are you all right?”

“A little stiff.” The girl rubbed her wrists. “But not bad.”

“Would you like to go to the bathroom?” Lee asked. The woman's face and hands were filthy. “And maybe take a bath?”

“One of his conditions is that I not wash. But I will take a wee.”

Lee watched her saunter off to the toilet, then turned to Man. “What the hell?”

“Well, I knew Seabrook enjoyed images of bondage, so it doesn't shock me that he keeps a
tableau vivant
here at home.” Man offered Lee a cigarette. “When we were devising the fantasy photographs, I asked him when he'd become interested in sadism. He explained that when he was little he was coddled by five doting aunties.” He shrugged. “Somehow, that gave him the desire to torture women.”

“What a wicked boy.” Lee blew a long stream of smoke
out as the captive—now with a small blanket draped around her shoulders—strolled back into the room. She didn't look upset or worried; it was as if she were a model from a life-drawing class, allowed to take a break and stretch her limbs. Lee couldn't understand it. “What's your name, honey?”

“Oh, you can call me Nana.” Lee wondered how long it had been since she'd used her real name.

The bell rang and a waiter in a white coat and slicked-back hair entered, pushing a cart laden with domed dishes. Without registering the slightest surprise at the sight of a dirty, half-naked girl, he gave them a servile nod, then set the table for three. He uncorked a bottle of red, leaving the champagne on ice for later, then retired without a word.

Around the table, Man poured wine for everyone as Lee uncovered the various dishes: shrimp bisque, stuffed quails, prime rib. Lee served herself some soup, then looked over at their guest; obviously hungry, Nana was stacking her plate with thick slices of beef. The three of them began to eat, casually passing the salt, pouring more wine, cutting bread, as if the situation at hand were normal.

“Have you been working for Mr. Seabrook long?” Lee asked, finally breaking the silence. Though Lee always liked to appear at ease, absolutely unshockable, the Paris underbelly—the outskirts of bohemia—never failed to fascinate her.

“For about a week,” she mumbled, then finished chewing her bite. “It's an easy job. He just likes to look at me. With a glass of whisky, a book, but mostly at his typewriter. He likes to see me there, chained up and miserable-looking. At night, he leads me to the bedroom and ties me to the bedpost. I sleep on
the rug next to him. Sometimes he pats my head, but besides that, he doesn't touch me. I don't think he can, you know.” She looked at them with big eyes and lowered her voice. “Do it, that is. As clients go, he's not too bad. And he pays well. But I don't see how his wife puts up with it.”

“He doesn't beat you, then?” Man asked.

“Oh no,” she said. “Other clients are much worse. I have a German businessman who comes to Paris for a week every year. He brings one suitcase just for whips and straps. I lay down on his bed and he chooses a whip. Sometimes it takes him a good five or ten minutes just to decide.” She stopped for a quick gulp of wine. “With that whip, he gives me a single blow, then puts a hundred-franc bill on the table where I can see it. Then he chooses another. Watching the bills pile up, I can take more blows than I ever thought possible.”

Although the girl seemed pleased at the idea, a hush fell over the table again. Lee shivered, wondering at how some people made their living. She glanced at Nana—a brunette with fine features and a nice figure—and tried to imagine what had brought her to this: being a professional object of men's fantasies, no matter how twisted. Was she orphaned? Abused? A hophead? And Lee herself? What if she was poor and alone? How many lashings would she be able to endure?

“Champagne, everyone?” Man pulled the bottle out of the ice bucket, interrupting Lee's train of thought.

“Is there dessert?” Nana asked. Peering over at the cart, she licked her lips like a little girl.

“Crème brûlée or apple tart?”

“Both?”

When the dirty dishes were stacked in uncertain towers on the cart, Man slowly rolled it to the side and pulled out a deck of cards. “Anyone up for some rummy?”

“What time is it?” Nana asked, looking toward the door. “I wouldn't want Mr. Seabrook to find me away from my post.”

“We've got time for a couple of hands.”

Lee watched Man deal the cards and thought of the game played in
The Blood of a Poet
. Arranging her cards by suit, she peeked over at Nana. Ragged, silent, tied up, she inspired William Seabrook at his typewriter, allowed his words to flow. How different this slave was from the powerful muse Lee had played! Or did Nana also force Seabrook to look inside his psyche? Was he pleased with what he saw?

Before the Seabrooks returned, they chained the girl back up. As a theatrical touch, Man left a plate with scraps next to her on the floor.

“Wonderful,” Seabrook cried as he strutted into the room, finding everything in its place. “You had a good evening, I trust. No trouble out of this one?”

“It was our pleasure,” Man assured him. “The restaurant service here is excellent.”

“Yes, lovely.” Lee studied Seabrook's insipid features as she smiled at him, trying to imagine his inner workings—cheek-pinching aunties breeding an impotent sadist—but soon gave up. “Thank you,” she added.

While Man was helping Lee on with her coat, Marjorie murmured a goodnight and went upstairs. Seabrook quickly came over to them, his eyes flashing at Man.

“Tonight, during dinner, I had a brilliant idea. I'd like for
you to design a collar for Marjorie that runs the length of her neck.” He turned to Lee—“If you don't mind?”—and put his large hands around her neck, as if to strangle her; she grimaced and lifted her chin high, away from his touch, the bristling hairs and reek of stale tobacco. “Something about this size. Something that will constrict her movement—keep her head high and unable to turn—but not prevent her from breathing or swallowing.” He let go of Lee's neck with a courteous dip of the head. “I saw some women in Africa wearing such things and the copper looked stunning against their dark skin. Well, what do you think?”

“I'm sure I could come up with a few designs.” Man said. “You'd want it to work on a hinge?” He opened and shut his rounded hands like a clasp.

“Just so. And I want it to be a real piece of jewelry. Nothing cheap. Silver, perhaps. Like something from the king's own torture chamber.” He was pleased at the idea of such a generous gift.

“I'll see what I can do.” They walked out into the landing and pressed the elevator button. “Good night.”

With a friendly little wave, he called from the doorway: “Thanks again for minding my slave.”

Walking home, Man took Lee's leather-gloved hand and stroked it. “You know, they say ol' Seabrook was completely normal until he got gassed at Verdun.”

•  •  •

Two weeks after she'd finished Cocteau's film, Lee's appointment book was already filling with sitters. She was putting newspaper on the floor as she waited for an English baroness,
adamant about posing with her three greyhounds, when she heard someone bounding up the stairs. There was a quick single knock, then Man let himself in with his key.

“Lee? I've got something to show you. Oh, and I picked up your mail on the way up.” He tossed a handful of letters on the table and handed her a black leather box. Inside sat a large silver choker, a good three inches high, studded with shiny knobs. “I drew the design, then got the silversmith who did my chess pieces to make it. Try it on.”

“Hats off, Man,” she said, removing it from the box. “It looks to be the very finest in slavewear this season.” As she opened and closed the mechanism, which was very like a trap, her smile faded. She looked at him uncertainly. “I will be able to take it off again, won't I?”

“Ha ha. Here, I'll help you.” He fastened it in place, then whistled. “You are stunning. Look in the mirror.”

She looked at herself in the cold, tight brace; since her head was unmovable, she turned her body to different angles to see the effect. Her chin up and neck extended, Lee looked regal and commanding. It was a modern, kinky variant of Queen Elizabeth's starched lace ruff—also said to be extremely uncomfortable—which gave off the imposing appearance of arrogance, strength, and pride. The wearer, however, was on the verge of choking. Despite its grand illusion, Lee frowned at her reflection; she did not like being vulnerable, trapped.