The Woman in the Photograph (3 page)

She stared up at the oval window over the doorway, topped with the sculpted head of a mythical woman (who might have resembled Lee herself, had the chin not been so sharp), formulating the right words to say to the concierge. Four years earlier she'd been fluent in French, but was now quite rusty. She
pulled her cloche hat around her ears, practicing the words out loud, whispering formal inquiries and earnest requests, trying to remember the grammar and decide on the most charming approach. Finally, opting for simplicity, she rang the bell; a stout older woman answered.

“
S'il vous plaît, madame,
” Lee said. “
L'appartement de Man Ray?
”

“
Non, mademoiselle.
” The concierge looked genuinely disappointed for her. “
Monsieur Ray n'est pas là. Il est en vacances. Il est parti ce matin.
”

Lee's face fell.
“Ah, bon?
” She wavered a moment, staring back at the woman before accepting the fact she wouldn't be ushered in.
“Merci, madame.”

As she turned back to the busy boulevard, she heard the heavy clink of the door closing behind her. What blasted luck! How could he be on vacation? It rankled her that she had missed him by only a few hours. Would he be gone long? She hated to think that her plan, as tenuous as it was, had already fallen through. It was time for a drink.

She went into le Bateau Ivre, a Montparnasse café near his studio. She'd heard it was popular with the avant-garde set—and Man Ray himself—and, even now, around noon, it was packed; every table was filled with young, intense-looking sorts engrossed in lively discussions. Lee skirted past loud, smoky tables, their numbers doubled by the mirrored wall, and went straight to the bar.

“A glass of Pernod, please, with lots and lots of ice.” She was pleased to find the French vocabulary for ordering drinks came back to her without a hitch.

A pair of ice tongs in his hand, the bartender gave her a
quizzical look—“
Beaucoup, beaucoup
?”—but she nodded firmly. Lee knew only Americans took such stock in frozen water, but didn't care. She paid for her drink, then scanned the room for an empty table. Pushing off from the bar, she went up the spiral staircase, away from the crowd, to think.

She fell into a chair, then took a quick sip of the icy anisette before taking off her jacket and lighting a cigarette. Blowing the smoke out in a long sigh, she tried to decide her next step. Should she find a different teacher? Or go back to modeling and wait for Mr. Ray to come back to Paris?

A man emerged from an office there on the mezzanine and headed toward her. His thinning hair was carefully parted in the middle, his well-tailored suit made his waist look narrow, almost womanly. His eyes on hers, he straightened his bow tie. An overused gesture, she thought, self-satisfaction masquerading as nerves.

“I couldn't help but notice you come in,
mademoiselle.
This is my place,” he said in French, with a slight sweep of the hand. “I'm—”

Lee didn't catch his name—an unfamiliar jumble of foreign syllables—but didn't care enough to ask him to repeat it. She offered him a patient smile as he sat down, arranging his chair as close to hers as possible, and began to prattle on about himself—but Lee scarcely listened. Her looks attracted men like bears to honey, and she usually found their motivations as empty and superficial as their chatter.

By the second round of drinks, restless and bored, she was waiting for a pause so she could make her excuses and leave. When the circular staircase creaked with the weight of a newcomer,
she turned her full attention to it. A man seemed to be rising up through the floor, floating in a spiral. When he reached the top step, she saw that he was short and stocky yet somehow light, elegant in a loose pair of white flannels. He had a roman nose and, under dramatic pointed eyebrows, his heavy-lidded eyes were large and round. A voyeur's eyes.

Unlike the garden-variety bore beside her—a promising candidate for one of Mr. Porter's dinner parties—
this
man looked interesting.

Following Lee's gaze, the bar owner drew near her, his mouth almost touching her ear, his voice filled with self-importance: “That's Man Ray,” he whispered. “The photog—”

Lee jumped up with a gasp, nearly overturning the drinks. What luck! He was still in Paris! Steadying herself with the back of her chair, she stared at the dark older man, tempted to call out to him. The startled bar owner stood up next to her with an uncomfortable chuckle.

“I'd be happy to introduce you,
mademoiselle
,” he said, pleased at the opportunity to show himself as a man about town. He took her hand to lead her the three steps. “May I present Monsieur Ray?”

“Hello, Mr. Ray,” she said. Reclaiming her hand, she stepped away from the bar owner, marking the distance between them, and stretched it out to the famous photographer. She was surprised to find she was nearly a head taller than him. Somehow, this made her bolder. “I'm Lee Miller. I'm your new student.”

“I don't take students.” His voice—the Brooklyn accent unchanged by years in Europe—was gruff and faintly sarcastic, but his eyes were all over her. Amused, she watched as they
flickered around her face and then moved down, making a complete inspection: the short blond hair tucked under her hat, the clear blue eyes, the elegant neck. Her perfect flapper figure, slim and boyish, accentuated by a crocheted dress that hugged her slight curves and showed snippets of skin. “And anyway”—his voice lingered; was it regret?—“I'm leaving Paris this afternoon. I'm off to Biarritz on holiday.”

Lee couldn't lose him so quickly, not right after finding him. He was here alone, with no woman on his arm; she decided to take the chance.

“So am I,” she said, still holding on to his hand, staring into his dark eyes.

“Is that right?” he said, taken aback. The photographer threw a sympathetic glance at the man behind her. Although the bar owner obviously didn't speak any English—he stood at the side, mute, as the two Americans spoke to each other—he did understand the visual equivalent of “better luck next time.” Man's thin, straight mouth curved into a smile. “Well, then. Shall we be off?”

Lee shot him a grin, nearly giddy, and grabbed her jacket. She took his arm, the attentive bar owner completely forgotten. The man with the wasp waist watched them disappear down the spiral staircase, his brow crumpled in disbelief, then turned and walked back to his office, straightening his tie.

“Don't be late,” Man grumbled, then slammed the door of the cab.

With arrangements to meet at the Gare Montparnasse at four o'clock, she rushed back to her small hotel to retrieve her trunk. Checking in the day before, Lee had told them that she would be staying indefinitely; in this case, that turned out to mean less than twenty-four hours. As she repacked the few things she'd pulled out since her arrival, she decided against changing clothes; it seemed Man Ray had approved of her new dress. As she reapplied lipstick and powder, she grinned at her reflection, beside herself with excitement. Everything was falling into place. She was off on a whirlwind holiday to Biarritz with the very man she'd been wanting to meet: the photographer whose work had captured her imagination back in New York. All she had to do now was convince him to be her teacher.

By half-past four, she and Man were facing each other by the windows of a first-class railway car. His hat rested on the empty seat next to him, but he left his dark glasses on. The afternoon sun streamed in as the train jogged along; Man Ray looked out at a vanishing Paris—the buildings were becoming sparser—as they headed for the southwest corner of France.

Marveling again at how things had worked out, Lee stole a glance at him. Although he wasn't conventionally handsome, she liked his looks. The high forehead, the black widow's peak, the hawk nose. His dark, manly features made the Yalies she'd gone out with in New York seem like little boys. He was also surprisingly quiet in her company—not what she'd expected from someone famous—though she wasn't sure if he was nonchalant, aloof, or shy. He turned back toward her and caught her staring.

“Well, Miss Miller,” he said with a slight smile. “Here we are.”

“Call me Lee.”

“What kind of name is that for a woman?”

“My name's Elizabeth but my father always had an assortment of pet names for me. When I left Poughkeepsie, I settled on Lee. I think it suits me.” She shrugged, striving to be casual. He was completely unlike the flatterers she was used to, and she didn't quite know what to make of him. “But tell me, what kind of name is Man for a man?”

“Touché.” He laughed but made no revelations. “So, you think you're interested in photography. Have you ever even held a camera?”

She pulled her folding Kodak out of her bag, determined to make an impression. Although Lee had no qualms about a beach holiday with an affluent, well-known artist, she didn't want their relationship to end after a few weeks of sunshine. She wanted him to see her as a promising student, a valuable assistant.

“It's not the greatest, I know, but it does the trick. I've just spent the last few weeks in Florence, in and out of museums
and galleries, copying Renaissance designs for a New York couturier. I was drawing them until it finally occurred to me that I could take photos instead. With this camera, it wasn't exactly simple—the light was bad, and I had to take detailed shots, as close to the canvases as possible—talk about your trial and errors!—but, in the end, I got some swell shots. When I finished the assignment, I decided to study photography properly.” Lee stretched her legs out, grazing his knees with her own. “With you as my teacher.”

Man cleared his throat and shifted in his seat.

“Photography,” he pronounced, “is just light and chemistry. And a camera is, I don't know, an old shoe. You can draw? Wouldn't you rather study fine arts? I'm also a painter, you know. That's my real work.”

“Painting and drawing.” The second word came out of Lee's mouth in a vindictive arch. “They're too damn slow. Really, I can't think of anything more excruciating. Besides, I think I have the knack. My father is an amateur photographer. When I was a kid, he converted a bathroom into a photo lab and has been developing his own pictures ever since. I've been around cameras and chemicals as long as I can remember.”

“Some people think it's the equipment that matters,” Man said, “but they couldn't be more wrong. It's the person who pushes the button.”

“
I'm
that person,” Lee said, in the most commanding tone she could muster.

She tried to see his eyes behind his dark glasses, to read his expression. Giving up, she picked up her camera and looked at him through the viewfinder; Man turned away. He was obviously
far less comfortable in front of the lens than he was behind it. As he pretended to scan the horizon, she focused on his profile, his best angle. Funny, after seeing countless photos of herself over the years, she preferred her own face in profile as well. She imagined them as two cameos on a wall, facing each other, perpetually in profile.

Still looking through the camera, she moved down his shirt buttons to the sturdy hands on his lap, past his groin hidden in flannel, then down to his wingtip softly tapping the carpeted floor. The more she studied him, the more attractive she found him: his long, slender fingers, his sense of style. He turned back to her and she lowered the camera. The train was too shaky for picture-taking anyway. She pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and offered him one.

“Thank you,” he said. He flipped open his lighter and lit hers before his own. “You know, kid, it's nice to be with another American for a change.”

She grinned at him. “Don't get used to these, bud. I only have one pack left. We'll be back to Woodbines soon enough.”

They smoked in silence and, again, she felt him looking her over. Was it professional interest? Or was he attracted to her? He finally took off his sunglasses; his dark brown eyes looked into hers.

“I've had a few assistants—apprentices, you could call them—since I've been in Paris. Two men and a woman. I find they quickly move on and become my competitors.”

“I would never—”

“Not that I really blame them.” He sighed. “You say you want me to teach you. Why me, Lee?”

“
Edward Steichen told me all about you. Your inventions, your success—”

“Steichen!” He looked at Lee in surprise. “He's the highest-paid photographer in the world. You'd have done well to stick with him.”

When modeling for him, Lee had occasionally asked Steichen about his techniques, and he'd been kind enough to show her a few tricks in the darkroom. But she'd been too restless in New York to pursue it. Hell, she hadn't even realized she was interested.