The Beautiful American (13 page)

“Even Jamie is too busy,” she complained one afternoon. “He used to take me out for coffee in the afternoon after he finished in the studio. Only for ten minutes,” she added. “He was always in such a hurry to get back to his rooms with you.”

Lee decided to make use of her free time. The year before, she had acted in Jean Cocteau’s film
The Blood of a Poet
. Was “act” the correct word? Mostly she wandered around like a statuesque sleepwalker in a Grecian robe, a strange effect made stranger by having eyes painted on her closed eyelids. That winter, 1931, Lee decided to step behind the camera. She accepted a job with Paramount to film an English version of
Stamboul
. Lee was not to act or even model in it, but to film the set backgrounds and other images, and take publicity photos. It required her to spend a good part of that winter in London, and when she did come back to Paris, all she wanted to talk about was the film, not communism or surrealism or Sade.

Part of the plan was to get away from Man as well, to have a little freedom across the Channel, as she put it to me one day. We were in Man’s studio, in the small bedroom alcove, waiting for Man to finish a sitting and for Jamie to come back. He had been hired to photograph an anniversary party. Lee was just fresh from a week in London, doing the publicity shots for Margot Grahame, the platinum blonde who played the countess in the movie.

“She’s actually quite lovely,” Lee said, loudly enough for Man to hear through the closed door. “Even if she does bleach her hair.” Lee’s hair was naturally blond. Almost white when she was a child, it had darkened to a streaked honey. She had wanted to lighten it, and Man had accused her of being bourgeois and vain.

“Well, I am. Bourgeois and vain,” she said to me, drinking straight from the bottle of whiskey Man kept in the studio. It was a very cold afternoon and the studio wasn’t well heated, so we had thrown all the bedcovers over us and we lay there, still shivering and trying to steal a little warmth from the whiskey.

“That’s how I’ve made my progress in this world, by being bourgeois and vain,” she said, knocking back another large gulp and then shaking her head the way a dog does when worrying a bone. “Why does he throw it up to me now? Do you think he would have taken up with me if I had been plain and simple and shy? Or even poor? Daddy’s money helps support me, you know. Man can boast all he wants about paying the bills.”

It was the longest complaint she had ever made about Man. There was a thud from the other room, Man banging something, and the sound of the sitter’s voice, a woman, asking in French, “What is she saying?”

“Nothing,” Man said.
“Rien.”

Man finished the portrait sitting, Jamie came back from photographing the anniversary party, and we went out to dinner, the four of us, back to the Jockey, where we had met the winter before.

That evening Lee was full of chatter about London and the film and the people she was meeting, the gowns and the bedroom gossip, the budgets for the shoots, the new designers setting up fitting rooms in Harrods.

I could see Man getting tenser by the moment. When the waiter came, Lee ordered steak and asparagus. “It costs a fortune,” Man complained. “Can’t you wait till spring—you have to have imported asparagus?”

“What will you have?” Lee asked me, ignoring Man.

“I’m not that hungry. Just some soup, I think,” I said. Jamie and
I never knew when Man would pick up the check or when we would be paying on our own, so we had learned to order very cheaply, just in case. We usually filled up on bread before going out.

“On me, tonight,” Lee said. “I’ve been paid for the publicity photos. Have a steak, Jamie. You look a little thin. Nora, don’t you take care of this man of yours?” It was going to be a rough evening, with claws unsheathed.

“She takes great care of me. And I don’t want a steak,” Jamie said, putting his arm around my shoulders.

“How sweet,” Lee said. “Look at them, Man. Two little lovebirds.”

Man slammed his glass down on the table, spilling his wine. “Lee, can’t you talk a little less and listen a little more? Be more like Nora.”

Damn, I thought. Just when Lee and I were actually starting to get close. No budding friendship could survive a comment like that. I inhaled and didn’t exhale, waiting to see what form Lee’s revenge would take.

She sipped her wine, but her fingers were tapping on the table.

“Tell me, Nora,” she said after a thoughtful moment, “did you accept Pablo’s invitation?”

Jamie looked at the white tablecloth and cleared his throat. “What invitation?”

“Didn’t Nora tell you? Pablo told me he was going to ask our little Nora here to pose for him. To be his model. To see inside his studio . . .”

“We get it,” Man said. “Shut up, Lee.”

“He did send a note asking me to pose. A couple of weeks ago. And no, I did not accept his invitation.” I forced a dismissive smile.

“Do you think that was wise?” Jamie asked. His arm dropped
from my shoulders. “Maybe I will have a steak, Lee. Let’s call the waiter back.”

That, I thought, was a particularly mean revenge and I shot Lee an angry look but she ignored it.

We drank a lot, spoke little, and ate even less, once the food arrived. Man was angry with Lee, she was angry with Man and me, I was angry with her, and Jamie was angry with me. Not a brilliant evening.

By the time coffee had arrived, though, Lee had cheered up and was giving Man’s hand affectionate little squeezes on the wine-splattered tablecloth. Jamie’s arm was back around my shoulders, though I felt a little tension in it. There would be a “discussion” once we got back to the privacy of our room.

Just as we rose to leave, half an hour later, in walked the Egyptian couple, Aziz Eloui Bey and his wife, Nimet. He was dressed in a tuxedo and had probably been to the opera. She was in floor-length red satin with an ermine cape. Nimet wore a heavy, flowery perfume that filled the room when she entered, overpowering even the smell of the cabbage and pork the people at the next table were eating. Aziz and Nimet were the core of a large group of people in formal evening clothes, most of whom seemed to know Man, because there were exclamations and shouts of greeting back and forth. This cheered Man immensely. All artists like public recognition, much as they claim to long for privacy.

Aziz came over and introduced himself. He had exquisite manners, emphasizing his delight at the chance meeting with a little bow, and when he shook Man’s hand, he held it for a second, putting his other hand over it in a tight clasp.

Lee gave me a slight poke in the ribs and pressed her lips together, a sign that she was working hard not to laugh.

“Mr. Ray, would you be so kind as to make my wife’s portrait? We would be eternally honored.” Aziz made another little bow, more a nod of the head, and this homage made Man stand taller.

“I think I can fit you in,” Man said.

Aziz stood waiting. He wants you to tell him how beautiful his wife is, I thought. Man, say something. Ingratiate.

“Well,” Aziz said, “we will ring the studio and make an appointment.”

“Yes,” Man said.

“Good evening.” Aziz directed the formality to all of us, his eyes making a quick circuit of our table. But they stopped when they rested on Lee. “Good evening,” he said again, addressing only her this time.

“What a joker,” Lee said, when we were back in the street. “That mustache. Doesn’t that Austrian wear one like it?”

“Hitler. His is shorter and thicker,” Man said.

“God, I hate mustaches,” Lee said. “The only man who looks good with one is James Joyce, and that’s because he has no lips.”

Man was silent and thoughtful.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“O
kay,” Jamie said when we had climbed the four flights of stairs and were in our room. “Tell me.”

I didn’t bother to light a candle. There was a full moon and plenty enough light for undressing by. Besides, quarrels always seem easier in the dark, don’t they? Gentler somehow, for not being able to clearly see the other person’s face.

“Two days after we went to Pablo’s house and met him and Olga and Paulo, he sent me a note. He asked me to model for him.” I rolled down my stockings, slowly. Jamie usually loved to watch me do this, but not that night.

“That much I could figure out from what Lee said.” Jamie pulled at his shirt so hard he popped a button. I picked it up and put it on the table so I could sew it back on in the morning.

“Yes,” I said. “I’d love to know why she said it, though. Man was the one picking on her, not me.” I unbuttoned my dress and let it fall to the floor. We stood face-to-face, Jamie bare-chested and me in just my slip, but he didn’t move to put his arms around me. I felt alone, adrift. He was never angry, never cold and distant. That
evening, he was. Preoccupied, as well. I thought that if he didn’t touch me soon, I would turn to stone.

“Were you planning to keep it secret?” he said, sounding a little too much like Man.

“It was a note to me, not to us,” I said, sounding perhaps a bit like Lee.

“And you said no. Why? He pays his models.”

“Yes. And sleeps with them as well.”

There was a clatter from the alley, cats jumping on garbage bins or perhaps a homeless man—there were more and more of them lately—trying to find a warm sleeping spot for the night.

“Damn cats,” Jamie said, drawing the curtain.

“I thought you liked cats.”

“He could have helped us.”

“You mean helped you.”

“Prude. You can take the girl out of Poughkeepsie, but you can’t take Poughkeepsie out of the girl.”

“Clever,” I said. “Did you think of that one all by yourself?”

“If only you were a little more like Lee.”

Ah.

It was like a blow, and my knees gave out. I sat on the bed so heavily the springs creaked. Jamie hesitated, then sat next to me.

“Listen to us,” I said. “Like an old married couple. Maybe we should.”

“Should what?”

“Get married.”

Jamie stood up again and ran his fingers through his hair. It reached well past his ears, and curled like a child’s before its first haircut.

“Your timing is incredible. Can’t you see how busy I am, Nora?
Working ten, twelve hours a day to pay the bills”—more of Man’s influence here, I couldn’t help but think—“and trying to find time to make my own art, to take a few good photographs, and you want a wedding.”

“Not necessarily a wedding. Just a husband. A city hall kind of thing.”

“Lee doesn’t demand marriage from Man. Or even want it.”

“I’m not Lee.”

“Did you believe that Egyptian guy? What a creep. Looks like a real wet blanket. I’m tired. I’m going to sleep now.” And sleep he did, so far on his side of his bed he almost fell out, till I reached over and pulled him close and we slept in our usual manner, his arm around me, my head on his shoulder.

The next morning, Jamie slept later than usual and I had to tickle him awake.

“You’ll be late,” I whispered in his ear, throwing my leg over him.

“No work today. Man’s going out of town and the studio is closed.” He shifted his weight so that I was fully on top of him. “Time to play.”

“You’re not angry anymore?”

“Well, let’s just see.” He moved my hand down his belly. “Nope. Not angry anymore.”

For the first time in weeks we had a leisurely morning together, lovemaking and coffee and bread, and a talk, a real talk.

“You
are
working too hard,” I said. “I’m going to get work as well, more work than Huene is giving me. But not as a model. I mean, did you really want me to come home smelling like one of Pablo’s cigarettes?” Do you want me coming home to you from Pablo’s bed? was what I meant, but decided not to say.

“No. I don’t want you to come home . . . like that. But what work can you do?” Jamie looked skeptical, but good skeptical, like when we were in high school together and I had boasted that I was going to get an A on my Latin final. Proud skeptical. Show-me-because-I-love-you skeptical.

“I’ll find something,” I insisted. “And then maybe you can just accept work from Pablo and stop slaving in Man’s studio.” After last night, I had started to think it might be better if we spent a little less time with Lee and Man.

“Impossible. I can’t afford to buy all the equipment I need to set up my own studio, so I need to use Man’s when he allows me.”

“Just don’t spill the chemicals,” I mimicked. That was Man’s mantra in the studio. Jamie had learned immediately what else was not permitted, in addition to not spilling the chemicals: don’t look too hard or too long at Lee. In fact, they didn’t look at each other when Man was around.

“Besides, Nora, Man is an important connection,” Jamie said. “Eventually, he will pass some of the portrait work on to me. Maybe even some of the advertising work he does. He’s going to introduce me to people. Important people. The dough is only half-risen. Too soon to bake it.”

His father said that. Jamie was quoting his father. Talk about taking the boy out of Poughkeepsie.

That afternoon we traced our favorite walk through the city, arm in arm, laughing like schoolchildren, past the luxury hotels near the Champs-Élysées where harried-looking porters and errand boys walked poodles by the dozen, stopping for an aperitif at Fouquet’s, then on to the Luxembourg Gardens.

Jamie had his viewfinder with him and took photographs of facades and iron grilles over windows, of children playing in the
street and an organ-grinder with his monkey. He almost took a photograph of a brown wintering bed of rosebushes in the Luxembourg, then stopped himself. “Too romantic,” he said. “No interesting shadows.”

We had mail waiting for us at the American Express office—a letter from Jamie’s father with the same news we’d been getting from home for months. Times were getting harder. He’d had to lay off two more employees. Jamie’s brothers were working too hard trying to keep the business afloat. Time for Jamie to come home. There was no check with the letter, but we were already used to that. We were on our own.

I had a letter from my mother, the second one I’d received since I’d come to France, and she said pretty much the same thing, adding that her arthritis was making her life a misery. I was not to come back to Poughkeepsie until Jamie had “done the right thing.” “Not that I expect him to,” she concluded. “Why should he bother? Have you been to the Folies Bergère?” she wanted to know.