The Woman in the Photograph (10 page)

“Damn, it's hot in here,” George said, stuffing his gloves into his hat and throwing his coat over his arm. He nodded at a couple of girls dancing in silky slips, their wool dresses in piles on the floor. “They've got the right idea.”

Lee wanted to peel her dress off, too, but remembered the long row of buttons in the back. It had taken Man a good five minutes to fasten them that morning.

“The courtyard must be cooler,” she said, edging toward the door.

They wandered out into the night air where the music man was grinding out a foxtrot. A pair of boys asked Lee to dance, sandwiching her between them, each one holding her tightly against him. Laughing, Lee did one turn around the courtyard with them, then cast them off, tired of their sweaty smell and obvious excitement. She was turning to George, still standing on the sidelines, to see if he wanted to dance, when one of the slip girls lunged out of the flat and vomited next to Lee's shoes. With a disgusted screech, Lee jumped back and grabbed George's arm.

“Christ, I haven't been to student party in ages,” she said. “We'd better get out of here before the walls start crumbling down.”

“Or the natives decide to make a ritual sacrifice.” He stroked his neck lovingly in mock panic.

“Shall we go back toward l'Étoile?”

George led her through the gate and hailed a taxi. “I've got a better idea.”

Lee sat back in drunken contentedness, happy to rest her feet, off on a new adventure.

“What a dump that was,” George said, his words a cranky slur. “Dammit, I hate being the oldest one in the room. You'll love this next place.” He gave her hand a lopsided pat.

While the cab rolled down the long boulevard from the
Bastille to the Gare du Nord, Lee smoked a cigarette and peered out the window, wondering where he was taking her. Solitary cats prowled around the trash bins as beggars and lovers vied for the empty street benches. Prostitutes stood on corners, serious and immobile, ignored by the cops in their kepis and capes. The taxi climbed the hill up to Montmartre, then stopped alongside a windowless shopfront with a closed door.

With a mischievous smile, George rang the bell; it was immediately answered by a dumpling of a little man, his cheeks spotted with rouge.

“George! How delightful! It's been ages!” he cried, ushering them in.

The large paneled room glowed dimly with low-burning gas lamps, yet everyone was dressed to the nines. As they fumbled to their table in the semidarkness, Lee glanced around—was she underdressed?—feeling strangely unsettled. The men, decked out in white tails and tuxedos, were unusually baby-faced—short and plump, for the most part—while the women were tall and homely, lavishly dressed in feathers, beads, and fringe. The waitresses, in contrast, were all bare to the waist.

“We'd like a bottle of champagne,” George ordered as soon as they'd fallen into their chairs. “And bring me a good cigar, too, darling.”

“How 'bout you, honey?” the waitress asked Lee suggestively. “Do
you
need a big, fat cigar?” She made a lewd gesture with her fist and let out a low cackle.

Lee's mouth dropped open and she looked up, shocked to find the big, rounded breasts in front of her were made of rubber.
She blinked. Under the face paint, Lee could see the waitress's five o'clock shadow, the ungainly Adam's apple. As the he-woman spun around to fetch the champagne, Lee turned to George.

“What is this place?” She grinned in wide-eyed wonder and peeked about, eager to take in the strangeness around them.

“It's the world upside down,” he said, sweeping his hand around the room, “where the men are women and the women, men.”

After guzzling down a glass of champagne, they hit the dance floor; a transvestite with a bad Louise Brooks wig immediately cut in.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, not bothering to heighten his voice.

Lee turned toward him, but he had already whisked George away, winking at Lee with a blue-caked lid. At that moment a slim young man in a velvet smoking jacket swooped Lee up.

“We can't have you out here alone, my dear.”

Lee fell into a fast waltz and scanned her partner's swirling face: the short hair slicked back, the freckles dotting hairless skin, the innocent eyes, the shy smile. Was this a woman? Wildly curious, she tried to focus on him or her, thrilled by the decadence of it all. Was this even legal?

Through occasional bursts of giggles, Lee danced five more numbers, new partners cutting in every few minutes. Some held her close, while others gazed into her face. When she asked their names—her wily investigations into their private lives—they all answered with initials or nicknames: “I'm J.B.” or “Call me Gutsy.” And when the orchestra started in on the Charleston, a threesome in top hats lifted Lee up onto a table.

“Go, Legs, go!”

She kicked front and back, fanned her hands at the knees, and then jumped down (the table was too unsteady to risk it any longer) to vigorous applause. She took a short bow, then put her arms straight up and, with a wink, waved her fingers. Out of breath and rather dizzy, she found George at the table, smoking a cigar. He filled her glass.

“You see, Lee, here the people can hold their liquor. And you don't have to dance sandwich-style.” Lowering his voice, he added, “though I'm sad to say that all my partners—these ravishing ladies here—kept sticking their tongues in my ear.” He raised his glass to a passing group in blond wigs, giving them a gentlemanly smile. “At least we can agree that, here, I am the most handsome man in the room. More champagne!”

Halfway through the next bottle, however, George began nodding off. It was time to head home. With the help of the muscular blondes, Lee was able to usher him into a cab. She bid heartfelt farewells to her cross-dressed companions—waving good-bye from the car window till the end of the street—then headed back down the Butte. George was nestled in the corner of the cab, snoring lightly.

“Where we going, lady?” The taxi driver was unamused, his French hasty.

Lee tried to remember the name of her street but, drawing a complete blank, she told the driver to leave her on the boulevard Montparnasse. He dropped her off in front of la Coupole and drove off with George sleeping in the back. Lee was stumbling back to the studio when she heard a bicycle bell.

“Mademoiselle!” A young gendarme straddled his bike next to her. “What is wrong? Do you need assistance?” His big brown
eyes were wide with concern.

She leaned into him and whispered in his ear, “Officer, could you take me home?”

He coughed as she snuggled into his cape, her arms around his waist, rubbing her cheek against his. “
S'il vous plaît
?” She stretched the words out, her breath hot in his ear.

He looked around helplessly, then yielded. “All right, miss. Up you go.” He gave her backside a push and helped her onto his handlebars. Lee squealed in delight as, for two blocks, they bumped over the cobblestones and nearly fell twice.

She peppered his face with kisses, then dug for her key at the bottom of her bag, pleased with herself that she hadn't lost it. Her mood quickly darkened at the key's stubbornness; it would not let her in. She was about to throw it across the courtyard, when the door swung open. The anxious young policeman faded into the night.

“Goddamn it, Lee, it's four o'clock in the morning!” Man yanked her into the apartment and sat her down on the couch. “And you're drunk!”

“I think the appropriate euphemism here is ‘chipper.' Or ‘merry.' ‘Jolly,' perhaps.” She looked up at Man and slowly processed his fierce glare. “Well, not anymore.”

“Where the hell have you been?” He flipped his lighter open, then slammed it shut.

“George and I went out after work. You'll be happy to hear that I only danced with other women. I swear.” She held up her hand as if taking an oath, then broke into uncontrollable giggles.

“You've
been gone the whole damn day! First at
Vogue,
then off dancing. George spends more time with you than I do. We could've gone out tonight.” He jabbed his chest with his finger. “You and me, here in Montparnasse. I went up to the boulevard looking for you and everybody was there. Things were really hopping.”

“Everybody? You mean
your
friends. The ones that call me Madame Man Ray, as if I didn't have a name. You know, when you aren't around, they snub me.” She sat up, now cross, and lit a cigarette; her giddy drunk had already turned into a dull headache. “Kiki and her set, all those
flâneurs
who have nothing better to do than sit around cafés all day. I guess they think being American makes me a rich snob or that having a job makes me boring. Christ, I don't know what they think, but I know I'd rather be myself with my own friends than be Madame Man Ray with your stuck-up bohemians.”

“Aw, to hell with them.” His gruff voice became soft. “
I
need you, Lee. Here, with me. You're my inspiration, in my work and in my bed.”

“Speaking of bed, that's where I need to be. I'm beat.” She stood up, weaving slightly. After a fun night out with George, she resented coming home to this. Man could be such a killjoy. She was fed up with having to answer to him—to anyone. Lee wanted to be young, in Paris, free. “We can talk tomorrow.”

“Leeee.” His voice was urgent.

She turned to him from the top of the stairs. “What?”

“I love you.”

She produced a frozen smile and nodded. “We can talk tomorrow,” she repeated, though she hoped they wouldn't. Love?
She had never exchanged “I love you”s with anyone except her father. Between them, two practical, unsentimental sorts, the words were rather mechanical, formulas for a pre-good-bye, said unthinkingly on the telephone or at ports and train stations. She had never uttered such a thing to a man. Far too encouraging, the words screamed of indefinite commitment. She crawled under the covers, feeling smothered.

The following day, Lee awoke with her nose plastered into the nape of Man's neck. His curly hair reeked of black tobacco, and from his moist skin came the distinct odor of whisky. Had he been drinking, too? God, she hoped so. With a wave of nausea, she slowly rolled away from him, with her eyes closed but her mouth open in a vain attempt to air it out; it tasted like she'd been licking a speakeasy floor. Man's hand swung over to find her leg, patting out a clumsy greeting.

“Are you awake?” he asked.

“No.” She groaned at his naked back. “I feel like shit.”

He rolled over to face her. “You don't look so good either.”

“Could you get me a glass of water? Please?” she begged.

Man got out of bed. “I suppose you'd like some coffee, too. And breakfast?”

“Maybe after a while.” She smacked her dry lips.

“It's raining,” he announced from the window, then went down to the kitchen. He came back a few minutes later with a highball glass full of water. “Here, kid.”

She sat up creakily and drank in tiny sips like an invalid child; he gently stroked her back. With a sheepish smile, she handed him back the glass and sank back under the covers.

“Thanks for taking such good care of me.”

“
My pleasure, baby. I care about you. That's why I worry.”

She nodded nervously, afraid he was going to launch into an earnest discussion about love. His desires and fantasies, their future together. As for herself, she wasn't exactly sure how she felt about him. It was a cocktail of fondness, admiration, camaraderie, and exasperation, in varying measures and unevenly shaken. Man opened his mouth, hesitated, then snapped it shut like his lighter top. He kissed her forehead and stood up.

“I'm going to paint awhile. Call me if you need anything.”

He clomped down the stairs, and she closed her eyes, relieved to have sidestepped the love talk, glad for some time alone. Lee needed to think. Man was not an easy person to be with. Along with all his positive qualities—he was brilliant, playful, generous, loving—there were his unpredictable temper and oppressive expectations to put up with. And to complicate matters, they shared a profession (and, face it, his tutelage and contacts were still important to her) and a flat. A flat where her things were
de trop
. Was it time to find her own place? Living together was suffocating them—or her, at any rate. Wouldn't they be happier together with separate studios? Or would they drift apart? She put the pillow over her head to drown out her thoughts. With this hangover, making decisions was the last thing she wanted to do.

“Her hair. You really need to highlight her hair,” Lee said. She stood next to Man, behind the camera; Jacqueline, Man's favorite model next to Lee, was sitting on the posing chair, holding a black drape over her breasts. “Women have been bobbing their hair for twenty years now. But take a look at this.” She went over and picked up Jacqueline's jungle of dark, unruly hair, exaggerating its bulk. “It has a life of its own—it makes hair seem like something new. As pretty as her face is, this hair should be the focus.”