The Woman in the Photograph (5 page)

Back at the blanket, they lounged in the sun. To Lee's delight, Man strung his finds onto a strand of seaweed to make her an ephemeral charm bracelet, a mermaid bangle, and hung it precariously on her wrist. She was just about to fall asleep when she heard him grumbling beside her. She opened an eye and peeked at him through her sunglasses. His brow was furrowed.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, propping herself on an elbow to look around.

“Every damn wolf on this beach is staring at you,” he said. “
Your legs, your bust. Hey!
Va-t'en, mec
!” Man barked at one. “Scram!”

“Oh, who cares about them?” She took her champion's hand, touched by his protectiveness.

“I do!” He continued, obviously still piqued.

“Come here, you,” she said. She wrapped him in her arms and kissed him hard, breaking the little bracelet in the process. “That should make things clear. Now, relax. You're the only man I'm interested in.”

As she said it, Lee realized with surprise that it was true.

•  •  •

That night, after a flawless dinner at the palace, the foursome strolled over to the casino. The ceilings dripped with chandeliers, stained glass and mirrors decorated the walls, and palms and statuary set off the solid-oak playing tables. The international crowd was impeccably dressed. Man, comfortably elegant in a midnight blue suit, and Lee, at her ease in a sleeveless burgundy gown with long black gloves, fit in beautifully. With a hint of apology, the Wheelers abandoned them for the baccarat tables.

“Are you a high roller?” Lee asked, wrapping her arm around his.

Unlike most of the men she'd been with, she knew very little about Man's background, his habits, his financial situation. It was obvious that he was affluent. His tailored clothes, his leather trunk, his address—as well as his reputation—guaranteed a certain amount of money. She had no idea, however, whether he was generous, tight-fisted, or a spendthrift. Not that it mattered.

“A
highbrow, high-class high roller, that's me. Say, would you care for a highball?”

“Sure thing.”

Armed with a bourbon and ginger, they meandered around the tables, then stopped at the roulette wheel.

“How old are you, kid?” Man pulled a few chips out of his pocket.

“Twenty-two,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows—was that younger or older than he'd expected?—and put the chips down on the number.

“And you? Aren't you going to bet on your age, too?”

“The wheel doesn't go up
that
high,” he said with a crooked smile.

The croupier spun the wheel. “
Et le nombre est . . . trente. Noir.
”

Man shrugged. “Ehh, forget it. With you on my arm, I'm the biggest winner in here.”

They collected the Wheelers, who had run out of chips, and the two couples moved on to the ballroom, where the orchestra was playing a quickstep.

“Shall we?” Man led her out onto the floor and, with perfect rhythm, smoothly swept her into the dance.

Lee was bowled over. Man had the body of a bull, solid and compact, yet he was light on his feet, as graceful as he was natural. She'd rarely had such a good partner—and the ones she'd had could hardly rival him for wit or talent.

“Damn, Man,” she said, with a laugh. “You are a fabulous dancer.”

“Just add it to my list of accomplishments,” he said drily.

And what a list, indeed.

That night, wide awake, Lee lay against Man's warm sleeping body and peered out the open French windows into the night sky. She couldn't stop smiling. Lee had often mixed with wealthy socialites in New York, she'd met writers and actors and dated men of accomplishment. But here, she was completely intoxicated by this combination of seaside, Frenchness, and the avant-garde, personified by Man Ray himself.

They spent a month in Biarritz with the Wheelers, sometimes socializing with their hosts and other guests, but most often on their own: at the beach, dancing, or on picnics in the hills. They went on drives in the two-seated Speedster, racing through the back roads, laughing and shouting as they skirted past herds of sheep. They took long siestas in the afternoons, clinging to each other, hardly ever sleeping. They were content together; they needed no one else.

•  •  •

On the northbound train, they sat in the restaurant car side by side, legs pressed against each other's. Lee let out a sigh, drowsily full, and pushed away the last of her lemon mousse.

“I can't remember a better holiday,” she said softly. “But you know what? I'm really looking forward to being back in Paris. To starting my lessons and working at your side.” She picked up his hand and stroked his open palm with her fingertips. “This is only going to get better.”

He shivered next to her.

“I've been thinking, Lee. Since we're going to be spending so much time together, workwise and . . . otherwise.” He
raised his pointy eyebrows suggestively, then broke into a grin. “Well, why don't you just stay at my place?”

She dropped his hand and stared into his eyes. “You mean, live with you?”

“Until you find something better.” He looked at her nervously. “That is, only if you want to. It's pretty small but—”

“Oh, Man, I'd love to!” She kissed him on the mouth.

The thought of a new place in Paris—a boardinghouse or a hotel? Left or Right Bank?—had been in the back of her mind for the past week, but it was a problem she'd been avoiding. And now it was solved! She could stay with him—learning the craft, meeting his friends, going out on his arm: the two of them together, at work and at play—until she found the perfect place. Which, of course, could be never.

“Wonderful,” he moaned, kissing her back. “You'll love Montparnasse.”

“I don't know how you get any work done, surrounded by all those cafés and bars.”

“Oh, there'll be plenty of work to do when we get back. After a vacation, there's always a backlog of sitters and developing, too. And, along with the photography work, I'll need you as my secretary and receptionist. Are you still up for it?”

“Of course I am.” She beamed at him, then turned to the waiter. “
Garçon! Une bouteille de champagne, s'il vous pla
î
t
.”

She raised her glass to him. “To the new boss of me.”

Man laughed. “I can't see that anyone could be the boss of you, Lee Miller. You're headstrong, impulsive, hedonistic . . .” He tweaked her knee under the tablecloth, then let his hand
glide upward a few inches, inside her skirt. “And I'm absolutely crazy about you.”

With a light frisson, she kissed him again, but slowly. “And I, you.”

By the time they arrived back to Paris, tanned and rested, they were more than lovers. They were a couple.

On Campagne-Première, Lee and Man walked together to his large Art Nouveau building, the one where she had stood at the door, so disappointed, just a month before. Hand in hand, they passed through the iron and glass gateway, under the muse, and into the courtyard. He unlocked the door and, with a dramatic sweep of his hand, invited her inside.

Lee looked around the well-lit salon. The walls were covered with his esoteric oil paintings and extraordinary photographs, and every available space—except for the somber corner with the posing chair, backed by a white screen—was filled. Mannequins, masks, chessboards, gramophone records, arrangements of cubes, cones, and pyramids, a grown-up's building blocks. Near the door, a steep, narrow staircase led up to the bedroom.

“These studios are some of the best in Paris,” he said, watching her look around. “We've got gas, electricity, telephone, radiators, a toilet—pretty high-class for the art world. The darkroom's in here.” He showed her a nook that used to be a balcony.

Although Lee was surprised to see his darkroom was so small—was her father's bigger?—she could see he kept everything
in meticulous order. This was where those magical transformations took place: chemical light painting.

“It's swell, Man,” she said, putting her arms around him tightly. “The whole place. I love it. You're an angel for having me here.”

“You're welcome to stay as long as you want.” He slid his hand up her bare back—she was wearing a halter in the Parisian summer heat—up to her neck, clasped her short hair, and kissed her. “Let's go to a café. I want to show you around your new neighborhood.”

“I'd like that. When I lived in Paris before, I hardly ever came to this part of town.”

“Are you kidding? It's hard to imagine anyone—anyone worth knowing, that is—living in Paris without spending most of their time in Montparnasse. Where were you, then?”

“Here and there. When I was eighteen, I had a Polish countess as a chaperone. That may sound grand, but she was completely broke, which was why she was with me. She booked us rooms in the Place Clichy, and from the very first day I thought there was something fishy going on. I mean, every time you passed through the hall, different men's shoes were lined outside all the doors, innocently waiting to be shined. It took the countess a full week to realize we were staying in a whorehouse!”

Man burst out laughing, prompting her to grin. She loved the rich sound of his laugh, the way his eyes half closed.

“Afterward—when I'd ditched my chaperone—I spent most of my time in Montmartre, studying lighting, costume, and stage design with László Medgyes. We'd go to the big
theaters on the Right Bank, too, mostly to criticize their old-fashioned ideas. In the world of stagecraft, Medgyes is a genius.”

“I've heard of him. Hungarian, isn't he? They say he's quite the ladies' man.” Man glanced over at Lee, then nonchalantly picked up his hat.

“Medgyes claimed to admire my intellect,” Lee breathed, “but what he really liked were my tits.” She watched as Man's brow began to furrow, then clapped him on the back with a laugh. She'd discovered his jealous streak at the beach and sometimes liked to tease him. “Oh, come on, lover boy. Let's go.”

They took a right and began strolling toward the boulevard, Lee hanging on his arm. Thrilled to be staying with him, she was delighted to find Man every bit as pleased. Giddy as a child, he was eager to both impress her and show her off. He pointed out the small flats of poets and painters she'd never heard of, and then, as they neared the end of Campagne-Première, he stopped quite suddenly.

“This is where the bistro Chez Rosalie used to be,” he said, gesturing to a pair of boarded-up windows. “She was a real Italian mamma, a hot-tempered old softie. She'd feed poor artists for sketches that she'd tack up on the wall. Of course, she'd feed stray dogs for nothing. Rats, too, for that matter.”

Lee scanned the splintery wooden planks, just as happy they wouldn't be eating there, landmark or not. When they rounded the corner, Man paused again. This façade was covered with stylized cowboys and Indians whose faded paint was chipping.

“And this is the Jockey Club,” he said with a flourish. “It was the first real nightclub in Montparnasse and was jam-packed
every night. We spent a lot of time here, Kiki and me.”

It wasn't the first time Man had mentioned his former lover, the woman in the photographs that had mesmerized Lee. They'd been together for six years before splitting up the year before, and she still played a role in his life—though
what
role was unclear. At the Wheelers, her name had come up often in nostalgic conversations about summers past and the film
Emak Bakia,
which she appeared in: driving his car, dancing, stretching on the beach. In the last few weeks, Lee had also learned that, apart from being Man Ray's muse and main subject for years, Kiki was famous in her own right. She was a singer, a model, an actress, an artist—hell, she'd even published her memoirs earlier that year. And for her magnetic personality—endearingly provocative, upbeat and saucy, generous to a fault—she'd been crowned the Queen of Montparnasse.

As Man's former girlfriend, Lee knew that Kiki had been extremely passionate. Over cocktails in Biarritz, they'd told hilarious anecdotes about her smashing plates, screaming obscenities, and awarding brisk slaps; privately, Lee guessed that it was also thanks to Kiki that Man was so well schooled in bed. On the whole, Lee found her legendary predecessor intimidating. Not only was Kiki beautiful and versatile and the leading lady in scads of charming stories, but she was an important part of the Paris that Man loved. An essential player on the Montparnasse scene. Whenever he mentioned her name, Lee made a point of appearing cool and unruffled while, on the inside, she deflated a bit.

“So, is the Jockey Club still a good place for a night on the town?”

“
Not really. People go to bigger, flashier restaurants and bars nowadays: le Dôme, le Select, la Coupole . . . They're open all night with food, music, and dancing. You never know who you might see there—sometimes the most interesting folks in town, sometimes just poseurs or tourists. So, what are you up for? Seafood? Eggs? A steak?”