The Woman in the Photograph (30 page)

She carefully arranged a choker on a dummy, delighted at its ingenuity. The comet's star was nestled on one side of the neck; its long tail—six thick diamond strands—wrapped around the back of the neck, then shot down the chest, leaving the throat bare. Lee moved a mirror behind the mannequin to catch its reflection, then turned the body to a better angle; she added a tiara, then critically looked at the shot.

“Could you please find me a strapless black gown?” she asked the assistant. She covered the mannequin's breasts tightly with her navy jacket, trying to get an idea of the look. “It doesn't have to be from this season. Hell, it doesn't have to be a real
dress. I just want some black satin to hang this brooch from. Right here.” She jabbed her jacket. “Then the picture will be complete.” She fished her cigarette case out of the jacket pocket and lit one. “When did Mademoiselle Chanel say she'd be back? In an hour? Let's move along, then.”

Waiting for the assistant to find something suitable, she set up the next shot: two bodiless mannequin arms. Remembering the zinc tray at the Sorbonne medical school—the one used for discarded parts—she arranged a pair of black opera gloves alongside them with a smile. This was much more elegant than cutlery. To decide which jewelry to lavish on the wax hands, Lee tried it on: platinum bracelets, dazzling with five-pointed stars, a chic gold ring tied up in a bow, diamond fringe, hanging finely off her wrist. It was exquisite, all of it. She admired herself in the mirror, making histrionic high-society gestures to make the gems sparkle—ooh, it had been too damn long since she'd dressed to go out!—and then slid her favorite rings onto the lifeless fingers. She looked through the viewfinder and added the star bracelet. No, better, the fringe.

After finishing the hand shots, she took a close-up of the mannequin's head, looking calm and demure in her tiara, an obscene display of diamonds in these Depression years. Lee got on a chair to take a shot from above, to emphasize the riches and make the mannequin's eyes humbler, more downcast.

How easy it was to work with these mannequins—so quiet and complaisant—with their motionless hair and perfect wax teeth. Most people, even some professional models, felt uncomfortable in front of the camera. Trying to look their most attractive, they twisted their mouths, stretched their necks, or stared
until their eyes bulged. Lee had to relax them, to coax away those unnatural grimaces. Man had always made it look so easy. Standing there without a word, he distracted his sitters with his indifference. Then there was George, who intimidated them with his moody temper. Her sessions tended to be much more difficult. Perhaps, having modeled herself, she was too understanding.

She looked at her watch. Fashion designers were often worse than models. Living off of high levels of stress and tobacco, they were perfectionists by nature. They usually hovered behind her during a shoot and insisted on redoing it, even before they'd seen the results. Hopefully, Coco Chanel would be pleased. At least she'd felt confident enough to let her work alone—for a few hours.

After a long day shooting diamonds—various combinations and rearrangements, with and without Miss Chanel—Lee was happy to get home and soak in her tub. When she'd announced her return from London at the end of summer, her agenda had immediately filled; famous fashion houses wanted her to shoot their winter collections, and portrait sittings were booked weeks in advance. She'd thrown herself into work, giving herself no time for creative pieces, very little time for
Vogue,
and the bare minimum for her waning relationship with Man Ray. Lee was trying to maintain the independence she'd had in London, keeping her own schedule instead of behaving like half a couple. Work provided the perfect alibi for her absence. It was the only one he respected.

Suddenly she heard the studio door open, the sound of a man's shoes. He would have walked by and seen her lights on. She breathed out, making bubbles in the water.

“Lee?”
Man called.

“I'm in here.”

“Ah, that's how I like to find you—in the buff!” Man smiled as he plunged his hand into the water and squeezed her upper thigh. “I've brought—”

“Stop.” Lee cut him off, pulling his hand out of the water. With a pitiable look—a boy who'd just been scolded—he let his arms fall to his sides. “Look, I've had a long week.” She softened her tone. “I'm just trying to relax.”

“I know you've got a lot of work, but that's a good thing nowadays. Lucky, even. You've been over at Chanel, right?” He remembered her assignments almost as well as she did.

“Yep. Her new jewelry collection. Amazing stuff. I could use a few pieces—”

“Is that a hint?” He gave her a wry look. “Speaking of work, I've done a few good pieces myself this week. Solarized self-portraits of me with my camera. In it, I'm adjusting the focus ring, making the viewer my sitter. Clever, huh? It turned out really well. I almost look handsome.”

He helped her into her bathrobe, obviously waiting for a reply, some reassurance. She caught his expectant gaze. “I'd love to see them,” she murmured.

“Reminds me of the day we discovered the technique.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “If the walls of that darkroom could talk . . .”

“If your rats could talk, you mean.” She gave his arm a sisterly punch and strolled out of the bathroom. “Can I get you some coffee? Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

Lee had taken to treating Man like a guest, not a roommate,
in an attempt to establish some distance. She'd still not found the right words to end their relationship, but was trying to let him know in every other way.

“No, doll, make some coffee. Look what I've brought.”

A pink pastry box sat like a birthday present in the center of the kitchen table.

“Have you been to that new bakery on Raspail?” he asked. He snipped the ribbon, opened the box, and swept it under her nose. “Their chocolate éclairs are to die for. Here, try one.”

The last thing she wanted was sweet gooey pastry, but she daintily extracted one from the box. Man watched her chew a small bite.

“So? What do you think?” He beamed at her. “Do you think they're as good as the ones we had in Biarritz? On the Wheelers' terrace? I thought I'd never find a better éclair until I tried these.”

“I think that was less about chocolate and more about the view.” Lee shrugged, but understood this sudden enthusiasm for pastries.

Since she returned to Paris, he'd been harking back to the beginning of their relationship, to that honeymoon stage when, with fairy dust in their eyes, they couldn't see each other's faults. He'd been waxing nostalgic about Biarritz as well as their first six months in his studio: their outings, art poses, nights together, the darkroom—the éclairs, she thought, were a bit far-fetched. It seemed Man was trying to lull her back to the time when she depended on him, when she was smitten with him, when she wanted him. These reminiscences did nothing, however, to make her feel closer to him. On the contrary,
she felt mollycoddled and manipulated—and annoyed past patience.

“Man, I'm going to get dressed now.” She was walking him to the door, her hand flat on his back, the coffee unmade. “I've got plans for tonight, but I'll see you again soon.”

“What is this?” He jerked around. “Are you kicking me out?”

“It's not that.” She racked her brains for a plausible plan, something innocent, but not a place where he could tag along. Nothing occurred to her. “I've got things to do.”

“Busy, busy Lee.” He spit out. “You've always got things to do. And, these days, it appears I'm never included.”

“All I do is work.” It wasn't even a lie.

“Let
me
take you out, then. Damn it, you're
my
girl!” His eyes pleaded. “Come on, Lee, we could dress to the nines, have dinner out, go dancing. It'll be fun. Like old times.”

“Old times.” She swallowed hard. “I can't tonight, baby, but real soon.”

When he'd finally left, she went back to the bedroom, took off the robe, and snuggled under her covers. She had a ton of developing to do in the morning.

•  •  •

“Miss Miller? I was wondering if you'd have time to do my portrait this week. My name's Charlie Chaplin.”

Lee's mouth dropped open and she gazed into the phone. After a second, she shook her head and responded, surprised to find her usual voice, warm and confident. “Of course I have time. When would you like to come by the studio?”

“I was hoping you could come to my hotel. I'm over at the Scribe. Does tomorrow morning work for you?”

“Yes, it
does. Shall we say half past ten?”

The next day, Lee dressed carefully, but not extravagantly, in velvet trousers and a pearl-gray jersey. She chose flat shoes, remembering his stature. She'd caught glimpses of Chaplin at several New York soirées and had even been introduced to him once. But usually at those affairs he'd be clowning around, center stage, putting on a little act while Irving Berlin played impromptu refrains on the piano. Either that or he was besieged by his hosts or the evening's other shining stars: Dorothy Parker, George Gershwin, the Vanderbilts. She wondered if he even made a connection between the Paris-based photographer he'd called yesterday and the tall blond model from those Manhattan parties.

She gathered her equipment and headed across the river in a cab. Would he be a difficult sitter? At parties, he always seemed like such fun, but she'd learned how unexpectedly demanding some people could be.

At the Scribe, Lee was sent up to his suite. Her knock at the door was immediately answered by a silver-haired man in an elegant suit. She'd almost been expecting the Tramp, but today there was no black mustache, no bowler hat. He kissed her hand with a shy smile—the only remaining part of the character.

“Delighted to see you again, Miss Miller.”

“I'm surprised you remember me, Mr. Chaplin.” She tried not to grin. “And please, call me Lee.”

“I'm good with faces—and yours is not so very difficult to remember.” He led her to the sofa, where a tea service waited on a silver tray. “And you can call me Charlie. Or, here in France, perhaps Charlot is more apropos?” He said this
last with a thick French accent, emphasizing the silly rhyme. “Tea?”

She watched his graceful gestures as he poured—the motions of a conductor during a pianissimo movement—then peeked up at his face. He was about forty, Man's age, but his face was completely unlined. No bags under the eyes, no sagging skin; it was as if a young man's hair had gone white.

“I must say,” he began, handing her a cup. “You've come a long way since those get-togethers at Condé Nast's place. One of the snappiest photographers in Paris?” He raised his eyebrows with a nod. “Impressive. I also hear you acted in a film by Jean Cocteau. When will we be able to see it?”

“Who knows? There's been this ridiculous public outcry about morality—”

“God, have I had my fill of that.” He breathed out, letting his lips flutter. His divorce a few years before—and the numerous charges of infidelity—had been a tabloid staple, a media sensation. “I hope it comes out soon, though. It's a Surrealist film, isn't it?”

“Yes, but it's not just a bunch of meaningless images. It tells the story of a poet and his muse.” She thought back on that early conversation with Man Ray, when he had proclaimed the death of cinema. How pompous he'd sounded—and how impressed she'd been! What absolute rot. Movies with plots—like Chaplin's work—were by far the best.

“And you must be the muse.”

“That's right,” she said, ready to change the subject. “Are you in Paris working on a new film?”

“No, I'm on holiday. After
City Lights
, I needed a rest.”

“So
you came to the City of Lights?” she asked with a little laugh. “I positively loved that picture. How I cried at the end!”

“Me, too! Of exhaustion!” He fell back on the sofa, eyes closed. After a moment, one striking blue eye opened and peered over at her. “I'm curious what kind of portraits you have in mind. I've never worked with a Surrealist photographer.”

Lee smiled at him, taken off guard. She had assumed that he would want straight shots—that was certainly what most sitters wanted, to look their best—not anything artistic. She took her camera out of its case while scanning the room, looking for inspiration. Her eyes lingered on the shiny tea service.

“Let's use this tray as a mirror.” She removed the pots and cups and quickly rubbed it down with a handkerchief. “Hold it up next to you.”

Holding the tray at different angles, he moved his body onto his back, his side, and looked up at her while she took the different shots; she made double portraits in some and let the tray cast an interesting glow in others. Through the viewfinder, she was able to stare at him, study his features, his real face—without makeup. He was handsomer than she'd thought.

“You're a real natural in front of the camera. Who would have guessed?” she joked. “I bet I could get you a job at
Vogue
.”

“Evening gowns or bathing costumes?” He turned on his belly, crossed his hands under his chin, and stuck out his bottom.

Lee laughed. “Whatever you want.”

Tired of the tray, she looked around again. “Hey, I wonder if I can get that chandelier to spring from your head? Stand over
there. With your imagination, you don't just have one-light-bulb ideas—you have a half-dozen bulbs at once!”

“How about if I stand on a chair? Like this?”

“Perfect! It looks like you're balancing it on your head. Talk about your
City Lights
!” She lay down on the floor and squinted through the camera, then adjusted her settings. “Let me see what it looks like from this angle.”