The Woman in the Photograph (9 page)

“Fabulous,” she said.

Lee had been confident that de Brunhoff would hire her on as a model, but was pleasantly surprised that he was open-minded enough to even consider the idea of her working on the other side of the camera. Man had needed more convincing.

“Why don't you come in tomorrow around ten? You should visit our coiffeur first—you could use some marcel waves—then be fitted for some evening dresses. Oh, Miss Miller,” he added. “As far as
Vogue
is concerned, there has been no Crash. Luxury, money, and good times—that's what we sell.”

•  •  •

The next day, Lee sat comfortably in hair clips, waiting for the hair lotion to dry, while a chatty young woman painted her nails a bright red. A tiny barrel-chested woman with stick legs poked her head into the dressing room. “
Vous êtes l'américaine
?”

“
Oui, c'est moi
.”

“I'm Jeanne. I'll be doing your makeup.” Standing, she was
face-to-face with a seated Lee; she stared at her with a professional's gaze. “My goodness, child, you've let your eyebrows grow wild.”

“Please don't pluck them too much,” Lee said, thinking of Kiki and her absurd penciled brows. “I like a more natural look.”

“Natural for evening wear?” Jeanne gave the manicurist a knowing smile. “It doesn't exist. But I can try.”

An hour later, with dramatic eye shadow, dark lipstick, and perfect finger waves, Lee went through the rack and chose a jeweled gown, which glittered like sapphires. Finally ready, she crossed the hall and waited at the door of
Vogue
's studio. Unlike Man's corner chair, it was big enough to make a motion picture in.

She watched the photographer, a tall, slim man in his late twenties with a long face and a receding hairline. Elegant in shirtsleeves, he stood behind a large camera aimed at a black-haired woman in a backless dress posing on a brilliantly lit pedestal. His beautiful hands made impatient gestures: he came out to adjust her chin, toss her hair, tilt her shoulder, then twisted his fingers like an angry spider. His high forehead looked down at her in disdain. This had to be the Russian aristocrat.

“Are you ill?” he snapped at the model, moving the camera even closer. “You're supposed to be seductive, yet you stare at me like you're going to be sick. I can't take this picture.” He looked up to implore the heavens.

Lee smiled to herself. She couldn't help comparing his way of working with that of Man Ray. Not only did Man keep his
distance and rarely speak to sitters, this photographer's gaze was absolutely devoid of desire.

Man had once told her that, as a young artist, if a woman was modeling for his life-drawing class, he'd become too nervous and excited to work. That emotion—that longing in his large, round eyes—could still be read on his face whenever he photographed attractive women. The exasperated man before her did not look at this model as a sexual being; there was no hint of seduction, no tension. He could have been shooting photos of livestock. This could be a refreshing change.

When the photographer's gaze fell back to earth, he saw Lee in the doorway. “Come in, come in. Don't just stand there.”

She strode in with an unabashed smile. “You must be the Baron Hoyningen-Huene,” she said, stretching out her hand. “Delighted to meet you. I'm Lee Miller.”

“Ah, the New Yorker,” he said in American English, a legacy from his mother. He shook her hand while sizing her up. “You're Man Ray's lover.”

“Well, to my face, I'm usually called his assistant,” she said, “but yes.”

“He taught me the basics of photography when I first arrived to Paris. He's a good man with a good eye. But, to my mind, he can't really compare to Edward Steichen. You worked with him, too, didn't you?” The envy in his voice was genuine, but good-natured.

“The Colonel?” she asked, deliberately using his pet name. “I modeled for him at
Vogue,
but he also showed me some darkroom techniques. ‘Faking,' he calls it. Hopefully, I'll have a chance to show you one day.”

“That's a date!
But today you seem to be dressed for other things. Here, let's take a few shots. You,” he said, pointing to the dark-haired model sulking on her pedestal. “You can go.”

Hoyningen-Huene took a dozen photos of Lee in various poses: looking over her shoulder, half-reclined, perched on a classical column, looking serious, innocent, haughty or sensual, but none with smiles. Lee had never been too keen on her teeth; slightly crooked, a bit too big, they were her worst feature. When posing, she kept her mouth closed, emphasizing her full lips, perfectly shaped and painted red. And besides, she liked to exude power when modeling, not sweetness. There was no reason to smile at the camera like a tourist on holiday.

“What depth,” the photographer exclaimed. “Depending on just a look, you can be a vamp or a virgin.”

“A virgin? Looks can be deceiving, can't they?” She jumped down from the pedestal.

“Well, your talents are sorely needed here. Welcome to
Frogue.
”

“
Frogue
?”

“That's what all us staffers call
French
Vogue
. A Brit probably thought that up, wouldn't you say? Hey, and call me George.”

Lee looked at her watch. “Do you fancy going out to lunch, George?” she asked him.

“If that includes a gin fizz or two, you're on.”

“Ah, a man after my own heart.”

•  •  •

After the new year, Michel de Brunhoff called Lee into his office. George Hoyningen-Huene was already there, seated comfortably with a cigarette in his hand.

“
Lee, George told me about your session in the darkroom yesterday. He says you're competent, organized—and that you were even able to give him a few pointers.”

“Tricks of the trade,” Lee said breezily, but was delighted with the praise.

“We've decided that you'll be his new assistant.” Her mouth fell open. “You'll help with the shoots and in the darkroom, but if he needs you to model, you'll do that, too. Questions?”

“So, I get to take pictures?” she asked.

“Soon enough,” George said, smiling at her wide-eyed surprise.

She hugged them both. Although she was still a man's assistant, it was her first real photography job. Lee was chosen not because of looks or romance, but because they thought she would do a good job. She was on her way to becoming a professional.

That evening, Lee threw open the door to the studio and found Man in front of the easel, his brow rumpled in frustration.

“Guess what, darling?” she said, her face glowing with excitement. “They've made me a photographer at
Vogue
! I'm an assistant for George Hoyningen-Huene. Jeanne and the models were teasing me, calling me the Baron's slave. And you should hear him shouting out orders!” She put on a deep voice and began pointing in all directions. “ ‘Wheel this camera here, raise that one there, readjust those lights, and
please
dab that model's face, she's sweating like a pig!' ”

Man was unamused. He rose from his stool and grabbed his cigarettes. Pacing the track from the door to the easel, he filled
his chest with smoke, then snapped his lighter shut and looked at Lee. His dark eyes glowered.

“I can't believe you took a job with another photographer without asking me first. I need you here, with me. George can find his own slave.”

“Are you crazy?” She shook her head in disgust. “I'm not going to quit. It's a real job, Man. They
pay
me.”

“I pay you, too! Rent, food, clothes, drinks, everything you want, I pay for. And I don't like the idea of sharing you with a fucking baron.”

“Being a kept woman isn't really what I'm after, Man.” She spoke slowly in an effort to keep calm. “And it's a chance for me to learn from someone else. To expand my knowledge. Don't you think that's a good thing?”

“What can you learn from him that you can't learn from me? For God's sake, I was
his
teacher, too.” He rolled his eyes at the absurdity of it. “I want you here, Lee. If you need wages on top of everything else, hell, I guess I can do that, too.”

“Jesus, how generous you are!” She felt like spitting in his face. “But I'm going to do what I damn well please.”

She left him with his half-daubed canvas, stormed around the block, then stopped at the Bateau Ivre and had two shots of cognac in quick succession. At the beginning of their relationship, his nervous jealousy had amused her, but it had gotten old fast. She tapped the zinc bar with her fingernails. What to do with a possessive man? Up until now, whenever a relationship got troublesome, Lee had just moved on to the next one. But she knew she wasn't ready to leave Man; here in Paris, he was the person closest to her: her companion, her mentor,
her lover, her guide. Lee drained the last drops from her glass. Now calm, she paid the bartender and slowly walked back to the studio.

Man greeted her at the door. “God, kid, I'm sorry. You know what a hothead I am.” He pulled her in tightly and gave her a fiery kiss.

“Mmm. Sometimes it's in your favor.”

He smiled back at her. “So the people at
Vogue
have finally figured what a gold mine they've got working there. I'm not surprised.” Obviously relieved the row was short lived, he kissed her again, his hands all over her, taking a quick inventory to assure himself that everything was still there.

She spoke in his ear—“Do you fancy a bit of mining, then? If you dig deep enough, you might strike it rich”—and led him to the bedroom.

•  •  •

Lee began getting up early several times a week—tiptoeing to let Man sleep—to spend the day at
Frogue.
Unlike at the Montparnasse studio, the relationships there were simple, the mood almost always lighthearted. Lee and George shared the honesty and familiarity of siblings, the good-natured rivalry, the bickering and joking. Jeanne was like an auntie, and the models—some delightful, others insufferable—were like cousins. Michel de Brunhoff—puffing on his pipe, encouraging his fold with friendly pats and praise—played the affable father figure. And even though Lee was the Baron's assistant, he was interested in what she could teach him; George never scrutinized her movements, or gave her unneeded, repeated advice. At
Vogue
, she felt like a real photographer, not just the sorcerer's apprentice.

“Great prints, doll.” In the amber light, George examined the photographs Lee was hanging like a row of laundered handkerchiefs. “I especially like the one of Tatiana in the mink coat. Her hands have a life of their own.”

“Thanks. I love this one of yours. Who is that model? He's gorgeous.”

“Come now, Lee. I have to have
some
professional secrets.”

“Fine. Keep your Adonis anonymous. Could you hand me that funnel? I'm ready to put these chemicals away.”

Five minutes later, George turned on the light. Lee blinked, then squinted down at her watch, her vision still adjusting to the brightness.

“Damn, it's after eight,” she said.

“That explains the hunger, but look,” he said, gesturing at the clotheslines of dripping prints, “it's all done.”

“I'm absolutely starving.” Lee reapplied her lipstick. “Hey, let's go have dinner at that place in the Marais.”

“With the fabulous
soupe de moules
? The duck? The profiteroles?” He adjusted the brim of his hat, licking his lips. “Lead the way, darling.”

At the crowded bistro, they were seated next to a staid married
couple who chewed their main course without exchanging a word. By the time their mussel soup arrived, however, the thin twosome had waved away the dessert menu and quietly left, to be replaced by a trio of university students. These three plopped down next to them and introduced themselves with half-drunken grins. By the end of the meal, they were all laughing together, clinking glasses and tossing cream puffs into one another's mouths.

“We're off to a party now if you'd like to go,” said one of the students as he slyly dipped the tip of his friend's tie into the chocolate sauce. “Should be a good one.”

“We're game,” Lee said, giving George a stern look, as if daring him to be sensible and mature.

Arm in arm, they crossed the Île Saint-Louis and stumbled into the Latin Quarter. From a block away, they could already hear music and squeals drifting out of a courtyard. They passed through the iron gates. A monkeyless organ grinder was cranking his heart out while a circle of girls did the Charleston, their arms and legs flailing in every direction. Lee and George made their way into the small, ground-floor flat, the hub of the din. In the middle of the room, laughing and shouting, a group of people surrounded a vat of cheap brandy, taking turns to generously serve themselves, plunging coffee cups and jam jars so far in that they soaked their shirt cuffs. A winking boy handed Lee a dripping mug. She passed it on to George and held out her hand for another. They winced as they drank.