The Age of Light

by Whitney Scharer

  “I’m so glad you wrote to me,” Man whispered into her back. “I was so angry when I left. But it was terrible being away from you. I’ve never been so lonely in my life. Did you feel the same?”

  “Yes,” Lee said into the darkness, but even that one small word she had to force out of her mouth.

  The next day, Lee took Man back to the studio and explained what she was thinking about the Bal. She showed him the film of her hands and stood in the beam of light from the projector so that he could see how the images looked as they moved across her body.

  “Ah, it’s so good, Lee,” he said, his voice full of admiration. “How did you learn to do it all so quickly?”

  She told him about all her plans for the party, about the Pecci-Blunt mansion, the swimming pool and the solarium, where the films would be shown, and he nodded and made notes in the small notebook he always carried in his back pocket.

  There are a few things Lee does not tell him. She does not tell him about his package from the Philadelphia Camera Society, which she has taken outside and thrown in a rubbish bin a few blocks from the apartment, digging with her bare hands until it is buried under the wet stink of other trash. Lee does not tell him about her fourth film, the love poem she made for him, which she has unwound from its reel and pitched into the studio’s metal sink and lit on fire, the nitrocellulose igniting so quickly she was almost scared for her safety, the hot blue flames rocketing up to the ceiling and reducing the film to a twisted lump. And she does not tell Man about what she did the afternoon before he arrived, the hours she spent plotting how to hurt him, what to do to make him feel the worst. How on impulse she hired a cab to take her to the Palais Garnier with a note she’d written clutched in her hand, Antonio Caruso written across the front in big dark letters. When the cab got there, she asked the driver to wait for her as she ran over to the building, through the side door, and down the narrow dark hallways behind the stage. It was hours before the night’s performance, so there were few people there, but when Lee bumped into a skinny, surprised-looking dancer in the hallway, she pushed the note into the woman’s hand and asked if she knew who Antonio was and if she could deliver the envelope to him. The ballerina nodded, agreed, and when Lee got back into the cab she rested her forehead against the cold leather seat, trembling and almost nauseated from what she had done. All these things she keeps to herself.

  Now, Lee looks around the party space and thinks that truly, she has thought of everything. Even her outfit—at the sight of which Man raised his eyebrows, saying, “You’re wearing that?”—is perfect: a trim white sailor top and white shorts. She didn’t even need to look in the mirror to know it was right. Effortless and modern. Standing in the verdant, sweet-smelling solarium, Lee looks as though she is on a pleasure boat, and as she puts all the pieces of the party together, she tries to channel that feeling, to empty herself of the anxiety and anger that jangle around her like a suit of chains.

  It’s only half an hour until guests are scheduled to arrive. Heat lamps are lit. Waiters in crisp white tuxedos are lined up at the side of the room, chatting among themselves. The projectors are ready. The bar, a shining creation made entirely out of ice—a last-minute idea of Lee’s—is stocked with gin and vodka and white wine, the only drinks that will be served all evening long. Collins glasses rest upturned on the ice counter like rows of crystal soldiers. And Mimi has emerged to survey the space, dressed in a floor-length white column dress covered in white paillettes that quiver and shimmer as she moves around the room.

  “Miss Miller has done a tremendous job, don’t you think?” Mimi asks Man, and he nods in agreement. “Are you taking over from here?”

  Before Man can respond, Lee interjects, “No, he’s helping me run the projectors. That’s it.”

  Mimi looks a bit startled at Lee’s tone. Man stays silent. When Mimi is pulled away by a caterer, Man looks at Lee with a mild expression. He is being so patient that Lee almost wishes she wasn’t angry at him. But there’s nothing to be done. Her anger is like the cellulose fire: it cannot be extinguished.

  Man goes over to one of the projectors and fusses with it, testing things Lee has already tested, and then asks her what else he can do to set up.

  “I think everything is ready,” Lee says, and even she feels a little surprised.

  “Then let me get you a drink, and we can toast.” Man goes over to the bar and returns with two gin martinis, orbs of onion, skewered with white cocktail picks, balanced on the rims. “To Lee, my love, and to the assured success of this lovely evening,” Man says, raising his glass to hers, and they clink them together. The gin tastes like the forest on an autumn day.

  The sun dips below the roofline of the grand house next door, and the air gets thick and yellow with the final moments of the evening light. And then as the twilight gathers, the cypress trees beyond the glass of the solarium turn black as sentinels and cast thin lines of shadow across the ground. The swimming pool picks up the last of the sun and for a moment reflects it back, a gigantic oval of fire, brilliant and blinding, and then the sun dips a little lower and the pool goes dark, and that is when Lee turns on the projectors, so that the guests will see the films as they arrive. And arrive they do: a great crowd of them promptly at six, dressed even more elegantly than Lee imagined. The women wear elaborately pieced satin dresses with draped cowl necks and trains they have to gather in their fists as they walk down the stairs, white fox stoles wrapped around their shoulders. Their heads hold up tiaras, or little hats delicate as clouds, the tops of their faces beautifully blurred with gossamer half veils, their teeth bright white in their rich, laughing mouths. The men all wear white tuxedos with long coattails, and some of them have white silk scarves thrown over their jackets.

  Lee leaves Man with one of the projectors and kneels at the pool’s edge, lighting milk glass hurricane lamps and sending them out on white rafts; an air current from somewhere pushes them languidly along the surface of the water. Once there are a dozen rafts floating, Lee stands back and surveys her work, watching as the images from the projector make abstract shapes in the water and cast shadows on the white sides of the lamps as they rotate slowly in the pool’s currents.

  It is a crowd that is not simply wealthy, but so wealthy it is of a class that Lee never encounters. Very few of these people recognize Man, and none of them recognize Lee, though she sees the men’s heads turn toward her as they walk by, eyes looking hungrily at her bare legs, and she smiles at them, enjoying both her power and her anonymity. She feels men watching her as they sip their drinks, but she feels wholly untouchable, unapproachable, the person they will later ask about: “Who was…?” “Did you see…?”

  Lee helps herself to a second martini. The little sphere of onion bursts in her mouth with a savory pop. Man—so eager! so solicitous!—is working the projectors, moving between them to rewind the film and reset the reels, so there is actually not much for Lee to do. Every now and then she wanders over to him and asks him if everything is going all right. Together they stand back and watch the crowd.

  “There are a lot of people here who must need their portraits taken,” Man says, his voice conspiratorial, giving her the sidelong smile that used to charm her.

  Lee nods.

  “Do you think you could get the guest list?”

  “Maybe,” she says. She stands beside him for a few more moments, taking it all in—the guests exclaiming as the film of Lee’s hands projects over them; the couples at the far edge of the pool dancing to the jazz; the smell of the cloistered air, scents of lily and gardenia and freesia from the oversize floral arrangements—and then she walks away from Man and over to the bar, where the bartender hands her another martini without her even having to ask.

  A group of four guests approach her. “Mimi says that you’re the one who did all this,” one of them says to her, making a sweeping gesture with his arm.

  Lee stands straighter and smiles. “Yes, all me.”

  “It’s aces,” he says.
“We’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Lee glances back toward the steps that lead into the main rooms of the house and sees a man silhouetted against the light coming from inside. He shades his eyes and looks around, hesitating on the threshold as though he’s not sure he belongs. Lee knows immediately that it’s Antonio. She would recognize him even if he wasn’t the only person dressed in black at the entire party. Thanking the man and excusing herself, she walks over to Antonio, enjoying the way his face lights up when he sees her.

  “You got my note,” Lee says.

  “I did. Figured I couldn’t possibly have gotten the address right when I showed up here. Look at all these rich pips. Wish you had told me to dress.”

  “I didn’t want to scare you away.”

  They look around and Lee is overwhelmed again by all the wealth around them: the pampered skin, the ostentatious diamonds and furs and silks, the stinking excess of it all. Just then a waiter with a small silver tray approaches and offers escargot, and Lee and Antonio look at each other and start giggling. Antonio takes a snail and sticks out his pinky finger as he eats it. Lee looks behind him, and points out a snooty woman making almost the same gesture. Soon it’s all hilarious. Antonio leans close to her and pushes his shoulder against hers as they are laughing.

  Lee glances over at the projectors. She and Antonio are too far away for Man to notice them. She grabs Antonio’s hand and leads him to the bar, where she orders him a drink to match her own. When she hands it to him he sniffs it and shakes his head no, so she takes it back and he orders vodka. Now she has a drink in each hand and alternates sips. With Antonio here the gin has turned to water; she barely notices she’s drinking it. Occasionally, he puts his warm hand around hers and takes one of the glasses from her, stealing sips, and soon enough all three glasses are empty. Lee takes Antonio’s hand again, leading him over to the dance floor, where she knows full well that Man can see them.

  At first Antonio stands at the edge, watching Lee’s word film project across the guests’ bodies. An older couple twirls by and the man’s white tuxedo flashes DARKNESS IN THE WOODS before he turns again and the words disappear. A woman’s silk dress says I SLEPT ALONE; another’s says WITHOUT REGARD TO FASHION. Antonio folds his arms across his chest and takes it in.

  “Pretty incredible,” he says to Lee.

  She puts her hand on his arm. “Dance with me.”

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Just this once?” Lee says, and looks up at him under heavy-lidded eyes. She knows he can’t refuse her. Antonio nods, takes her arm, and leads her toward the other couples, where he sets up for a waltz, moving so gracefully through the steps that Lee says, “You don’t dance. Ha.”

  “Well, I didn’t say I don’t know how to dance.” As if to prove it, he pulls Lee closer and drops her into a deep dip. She is dizzy when he pulls her upright.

  His black outfit and her shorts make them the most noticeable couple on the dance floor, and Lee knows it is only a matter of time before Man sees them. Her head whirls around as Antonio leads her, and she keeps glancing over to where Man fusses with the projector. The film has reached its end; it snaps off the reel and leaves the dancers twirling plainly for a few minutes as he reloads it, and after he gets the projector running again, Lee turns at just the right moment to see him notice her. Man shakes his head, a look of surprise on his face, and then she is turning again, lost within the clockwork of the other couples, held solidly in Antonio’s strong arms.

  They dance through three songs and still Man does not approach. Each time Antonio spins her Lee sees Man watching, still near the projector, his hands at his sides. Lee pulls herself closer to Antonio, until their pelvises touch, and she feels him grow stiff against her through his tight pants. His erection makes her ache, and so she pushes more insistently against him until they must look indecent. Her head is hot, her eyes blurry, and through her fuzzy vision she catches Man’s stare each time she turns. And then—because isn’t this why she asked Antonio here?—Lee stops dancing, and in the silent center of the dance floor, in the stillness she’s created, she goes up on tiptoe and wraps her arms around him, raises her lips to meet his and kisses him for all the world to see.

  As Lee predicted, this gets Man’s attention. He walks toward them, his fists clenched, his body sparking with anger. He comes right to her, grabs Antonio’s arm, and yanks him away from her.

  “Who—the hell—are you?” Man hisses.

  Antonio opens his mouth to say something, but Man has already wound back his arm, which pops out like a spring, his fist slamming into Antonio’s face. It is an amazing punch, and Antonio staggers back from it and drops to one knee.

  Antonio puts his hand to his cheek and looks at Lee accusingly. Immediately, she feels terrible. What was she thinking, bringing him into this?

  The dancers have stopped and taken a few steps back to give them room. The film Man just reloaded is still going, projecting words and phrases from Lee’s poems on their bodies: DELIBERATELY, TEA FOR TWO, LUEUR D’ESPOIR, A GREAT EXPLOSION IN THE SKY. When the words flash on Antonio they disappear in the black of his clothing, but they crawl across from Man to Lee and she can hardly bear to watch them. TAKE A POWDER, L’APPEL DU VIDE, CARESS ME, EXIST FOR NOTHING. This is the exact scene Lee envisioned when she sent the note to Antonio, but now that it is happening she almost can’t believe what she has done.

  “I said, who the hell are you?”

  Antonio stands up and faces Man. “I’m—”

  Man cuts him off. “Never mind. Fuck you. Get out of here.”

  Antonio looks to Lee. She nods once, and mouths that she is sorry, and he throws his arms out in confusion, then turns and goes out the way he came in. Man grabs Lee’s upper arm. His grip is so strong and his hand so hot that she can feel his pulse pumping through his fingers.

  “You are working,” Man says to her. “You are supposed to be working.”

  Lee feels the crackle of her anger. “I’m not worried,” she says. “I know you’re just going to take all the credit for it anyway.”

  Man’s hand is still wrapped around her biceps. “What?”

  Before Lee can say the words she’s practiced, Madame Pecci-Blunt sweeps up to them and puts her arms around them both, pushing them as elegantly as she can back into the house. “Darling,” she says to Lee, “let’s move this wholly inappropriate scene off the dance floor, shall we?”

  Man and Lee let her steer them into the house and down a long hallway, until they’re standing before some sort of game room, with a billiards table in the center and trophies mounted on the walls. With a delicate shove, Mimi pushes them into the room. “Make nice, and do it quickly before anything happens to my party. A little drama will be good for tomorrow’s papers, but I don’t want anything else to go awry.”

  Mimi pulls the doors shut behind her and leaves Lee and Man alone together in the giant room. From this far away they cannot hear the sound of the partygoers; in fact, all sound seems to be swallowed up by the plush carpet and the thick curtains lining the windows.

  As soon as the doors are shut, Man whirls to face Lee. “What the hell was that?”

  “What was what?” Lee says childishly.

  “You. That man. Is he the one who…?” Man makes a sound that is almost a choke and doesn’t finish his sentence. He moves away from her and goes over to the window, lifting one of the curtains and looking out on the grounds below.

  Lee moves forward and leans on the pool table, gripping its felted lip so tightly her fingers turn white. In a loud voice, she says, “You—stole—them. My pictures. My bell jar. You put your name on them.”

  Man turns to face her. “What are you talking about?”

  “What am I talking about? You can’t be serious. You know what I’m talking about. You took my picture—my pictures—and you submitted them to the Philadelphia Camera Society.”

  Man looks genuinely confused. He rubs his hand through his hair. “Ah. The bell jar photos. Ye
s, I did submit those, along with a few others. One of the stipulations of the prize was that the images had to be a triptych. I do so few series, and they’re always coming up with some ridiculous restriction like that, God knows why.”

  “Have you—did it cross your mind that what you’ve done is stealing?”

  “What? Of course not. We did those together. They’re as much mine as yours.”

  Lee’s voice shakes. “We did not do those together.”

  “We did all the solarization together—that’s how I saw it. I assumed you felt the same.”

  Lee’s hands are like claws clenched around the pool table’s rim. “I discovered it. Not you. Don’t you remember? Do you not remember?” It occurs to her that maybe he doesn’t. Maybe the memory that looms larger in her mind than any other from their time together—those weeks when she felt more in tune with a person than ever before or since—maybe they have left Man’s brain like fog burning off in the morning sun.

  Man moves from the window and faces her across the pool table. Above his right shoulder a deer’s mounted head looks down at them. “Lee, it is absurd to be this worked up. What we create in the studio is, ultimately, my work. It’s my studio. You’re”—he pauses, as if suddenly realizing how his words might sound to her, and then says softly—“you’re my assistant.”