The Woman in the Photograph (26 page)

“Truly impressive,” he said, obviously delighted with his handiwork. “Damn it, I don't have my camera. Can I use yours?”

His eyes lit on the tripod, already set up for the sitting. Seeing
the relish on Man's face, Lee knew at once that he'd want to do a full series. She'd need to get used to the idea.

“Take pictures later.” Speaking was difficult; it was like slow strangulation. Skin prickling, she clawed up at the choker and tried to unclasp it. “Get it off me.” With a chuckle at her panic, he took it off. She let out a gust of air. “It
is
a torture device.” She rubbed her bare neck affectionately. “Do you think Marjorie will like it?”

“I think she'll like the attention. She can't stand the women Seabrook hires, but, then, she's not willing to take their place either.”

“Neither would I.” She started flipping through the mail. “I wonder if Nana's still there.”

“Nana or someone like her.” He looked over her shoulder onto the letters. “Anything good?”

“This one is from Elsa Schiaparelli.” Too excited to think, she waved the letter—a personal, handwritten note from one of the most important designers in Europe—in front of Man. “She wants me to photograph her summer collection. She says I know more about fashion than any other photographer in Paris!”

He said nothing.

“Oh, Man.” She patted his hand, then grabbed his cigarette case and lit one for herself. Lee knew this was sensitive ground; to his mind, she was still his novice assistant, not yet ready for prime jobs. But this assignment was ideal for her; there was no way she was going to hand it over to him for the sake of his fragile ego. “You must admit, after all these years at
Vogue
—as a model and photographer—I know a thing or two about fashion.
She probably wants a woman's point of view. As well she should!”

“Right,” he said shortly, knitting his eyebrows. “And I'm just a stupid sap. I don't know a damn thing about women.”

“Well, you know how to get them hot and bothered—that's the important thing.”

She laughed and went back to the mail, ignoring his sulk. There was nothing more to say about the Schiaparelli collection. Bills, a couple of unremarkable portrait requests, and, at the bottom of the pile, a large envelope made of thick, expensive paper. The return address was penned in a secretary's careful hand: Duke Vallombrosa. Man looked at her expectantly as she read its few lines.

“It's an invitation to a New Year's Eve party.” This was the event Zizi had told her about that rainy day in the car, the seasonal to-do he'd been hired to decorate. He was expecting her there as his guest. She put the card down and looked at Man. The news of the Schiaparelli collection had completely doused his excitement about the silver collar. “Shall we ring in 1931 with the duke?”

“Are you sure I'm included?” he scowled softly.

“Aren't I Madame Man Ray?”

She was pleased to see his smile again. She'd nearly made a joke about him being Monsieur Lee Miller, but had decided against it.

On December thirty-first, as Man and Lee were ushered into the duke's mansion, they were struck by the smell of juniper and pine. It was as if, attracted by light and music, a forest had decided to join the festivities. Garlands of greenery were draped along the walls; branches and boughs, woven with silver strands of tiny bells, were artfully arranged on tabletops and mantels, with thin white candles and colorful nesting dolls—unstacked for the occasion—tucked into the foliage. Freshly picked wreaths of holly, laurel, fir, and ivy covered every door.

Lee breathed in. “It's like we're in the middle of the woods. We're like Hansel and Gretel.”

“
They
were brother and sister,” he whispered in her ear, grabbing her waist as she took off her coat. “No, Lee. I'm the Big Bad Wolf.”

“If only I'd brought my red riding hood,” she joked back, but removed his hands and walked into the main hall alone.

Lee saw Tatiana, spectacular in silver satin and surrounded by admirers. Someone had just made a toast, and they were all popping back shots of vodka. The circle immediately opened to include Lee; Man wandered off, looking for refreshments and familiar faces.

“Darlink.”
Tatiana embraced Lee, then swept her away from the others, leading her toward the fire. “Isn't this beautiful? We Russians are all getting very nostalgic tonight. New Year is the biggest celebration in Russia—well, it was until the blasted Soviets abolished it last year—and Zizi's decorated the place in a traditional way. Well,” she said, eyeing the enormous wreath over the fireplace, “in my family, we never cut down this much trees.”

“It's gorgeous. I love the smell.” Lee looked around. “Where is Zizi?”

“I don't know. Dancing, perhaps? He was so pleased with himself when he told me you were his guest for party. He'll be disappointed that you didn't come alone.”

“Yes, well.” Lee shrugged.

At that moment, Jean Cocteau, elegant in gray pinstripes and juggling three glasses of champagne, joined them.

“I saw you ladies over here, empty-handed.”

“Thanks, Jean.” Lee took a glass. “You know Tatiana?”

“We've met.” The three clinked glasses and took a sip. “I've just seen your friend Zizi and given him a good scolding.” He turned to Tatiana. “For her last day of filming, Lee dragged in like she'd spent the night manning the trenches on the Western Front.”

“As bad as all that?” Lee wrinkled her nose prettily. “Tell me, Jean, is there any news about the film?”

“Well, there's good and bad. The good news is I've finished filming the confounded thing.” He blew out, wiping his brow. “But the bad news is that Charles de Noailles is postponing the premiere indefinitely.”

“
What terrible luck, Jean.” Although nervous about seeing herself on film, Lee had been looking forward to the pomp and glamour of a premiere. “Just because of the other film? Has he even seen yours?”

“Not even snippets.” Jean sighed. “But he's afraid of another scandal. Hopefully, in another six months, he'll have found his backbone.”

“If not, couldn't you at least show it at a private party? Something like this?” Lee asked. She gestured to the well-dressed crowd. Aristocrats and Russian émigrés mixed with celebrated figures from the stage—opera singers and ballerinas—as well as a generous peppering of the Parisian avant-garde. She wondered how many of them were prepared to see a film like Cocteau's.

“Let's hope it doesn't come to that,” he said.

“
Bon soir,
Jean.” It was Man, back from inspecting the place. “I see you've got the monopoly on the most beautiful women here.”

“Nice to see you, Man,” he said, shaking his hand. “Are you taking photos tonight?”

“No.” Man glowered at Cocteau. “I'm not always the hired help.”

“Of course, of course.” Cocteau smiled uncomfortably. “Well, if you'll excuse me. . . Lee, Tatiana.” And he made his exit.

“Do you believe the nerve of that guy?” Man was just getting started, but Lee, who'd finally spotted Zizi hovering over the hors d'oeuvres, broke him off.

“It's nothing worth getting riled up about. You know, you often
do
take pictures at these things.” She kissed his cheek. “I'm going to get a bite to eat. Do you two want anything?”

Tatiana had also noticed Zizi at the table. “You go ahead. I wanted to talk to Man about taking a special portrait for my
vicomte.
” She inched toward him until he could smell her perfume. “Unless it bothers you to talk businesses?”

“You could talk to me about anything, Tata. Your favorite buttons, Russian square-dancing, Léon Blum's mustache . . .”

Lee headed to the long dining table at the edge of the ballroom. Candles and braided greenery wrapped around platters of bone china, where artfully arranged finger foods, both Russian and French, were constantly replenished. She sidled up to Zizi, who was piling red caviar on a blini.

“Wouldn't you like some sour cream on that?” she said in his ear.

“Lee!” He abandoned his blini and took a step back to admire her. Elsa Schiaparelli had loaned her a fluid black dress that was deceptively simple: sleeveless, nearly backless, but not lacking a train. “You're ravishing. Pity you'll be taking that gown off so soon.”

“Not so fast, you little lecher,” she said with a laugh. “Did I mention that Man's here?”

“No,” he drew the word out, scanning the crowded room for her lover. Finding him, his face fell. “But no matter. You're still going to have to take it off. You see, I want you to help me put on a little show. I would ask Tata—she's the logical choice, being Russian and all—but I thought it would be fun if we did it together.”

Eyebrows raised, her gaze held an air of suspicious good humor. “Did what, Zizi?”

“Dress as Ded Moroz and Snegurochka!”

Her brow did not fall. “And who are they?”

“They are the traditional New Year's characters, Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden. We'll go around in costume giving out little presents. The duke loves the idea.”

“Does he?” This was the kind of acting Lee really enjoyed: dazzling the elite (all potential clients) on the arm of a gallant courter. Man would survive without her for a bit. “Well, I suppose we should do it, then.”

Zizi led her down a corridor; he'd stored the costumes in a ground-floor bedroom.

“Tell me, then,” Lee asked, “who is this snow maiden?”

“In Russian folklore, she's the daughter of winter and spring. She is young, beautiful, and blond.” He swept his hand before her. “
La voilà
. Some say she was raised by a human couple who weren't able to have children. They were told to keep her inside, but she fell in love with a boy she saw from the window. In his arms, she melted away after just one kiss.”

“That's sad,” Lee said. “It reminds me of
The Little Mermaid
.”

“Yes, who can understand why these beautiful creatures want to be with lowly humans?” He stopped in front of the bedroom door and grazed her cheek with his. “Are you human, Lee?”

“I haven't melted yet.”

Inside the bedroom, he pulled her close and kissed her, caressing her naked back. Although her body was tingling in
delight, she thought of Man, a corridor away, gruffly charming as he mingled with the upper crust, the privileged rich who always made him ill at ease. This was not the time for a tryst. She gently pushed Zizi away.

“And our costumes, Grandfather Frost?”

“You sure you don't want to . . . ?” he whispered in her ear. She nodded and he shrugged, graciously accepting defeat. “Some say the Snow Maiden is Frost's granddaughter. Best not to cross family lines, I suppose.”

He opened a wardrobe and pulled out two floor-length robes, both elaborately embroidered and trimmed in rabbit fur, and handed her one of silvery blue. Lee shed her silky black gown and stepped into the robe, buttoning it up to the fur collar, then looked in the mirror. Zizi stood next to her, all in red, hooking a long cotton beard on wires over his ears.

“And this is for my beautiful maiden.” He crowned her with a five-pointed silver tiara, encrusted with fake pearls. “Counterfeit jewels, fit for a Romanov.” He doffed a round cap and picked up a velvet bag filled with party favors. “Well? How do I look?”

She kissed his cotton-lined lips. “Santa Claus is eating his heart out.”

The valets silenced the orchestra, then flung open the doors, ringing handbells to get everyone's attention. When Zizi and Lee marched into the great hall, smiling and waving, all the émigrés in the room burst into cheers and applause. Lee basked and beamed, enjoying the spotlight. Arm in arm, they made their way around the woodsy ballroom, giving Cuban cigars to the men and handkerchiefs to the ladies, and wishing everyone
a happy new year. The delighted guests laughed and joked with the storybook characters, but the Russians were moved; most of them insisted on kissing them both. Tatiana was teary-eyed when they finally rejoined her and she gave Zizi a warm embrace.

“Your Russian New Year is ruining my makeup,” she said, dabbing tears of kohl away with her brand-new handkerchief.

“I had no idea you were so sentimental, Tata.” Lee smiled at her friend, then glanced around. “Have you seen Man? I swear, we've spoken to everyone but him.”

“I think I saw him go out to the garden,” Tatiana said.

“I'd better see how he's doing.”

Lee found Man alone on the terrace. He was pacing the flagstones, slouched over his cigarette—as if it could warm him—shivering in his dinner jacket. When he caught sight of her, he puffed himself up to his full height and glared. Lee frowned. Lately, every time he felt insecure about other men, he tried to grow a few inches. At the moment, he was nearly standing on his tiptoes.