by Dana Gynther
“You’ll have a grand time,” Tata said, reapplying her lipstick before getting out of the taxi. “Zizi knows everyone. I’ve told him to find me a title to marry, but I think he’s too fond of me to get serious about it.”
As soon as they entered the salon, Tata was swept off by a group of elegant émigrés; Lee went in search of the powder room. In one corner, a trio of black jazzmen—Americans, surely—played banjo, saxophone, and stand-up bass while an international crowd danced, chatted, or simply decorated the colorful rooms. Walking to the rhythm of the beat, her shoulders bobbing and hips swinging, Lee took in the eclectic collections of exotic rugs and statuary, antiques and Art Deco, modern paintings and naïf tapestries. Warm and worldly, innovative and chic, it made the Bal Blanc palace—with its rococo walls and pre-Revolution gilt—seem ridiculous.
Lee smiled graciously at several attentive young men—each one trying his best to latch on to her—before she finally found the lavatory. Waiting outside the door was a man of about fifty. Tall, fair, and impeccably dressed, he was not especially handsome, but looked vigorous and fun. Crow’s feet danced around his blue eyes; a thin mustache twitched with contained laughter.
“I don’t know if we’ve met,” he said. His bow was formal yet slightly farcical. “Welcome to my home.”
“You must be Zizi.” Lee’s smile was mischievous, but charming nonetheless. “Your home is one of the most beautiful I’ve seen.”
Drinking vodka cocktails, she spent the rest of the evening with her host. He had none of Man Ray’s gloom or temper; in fact, silly and carefree, he seemed his opposite. Lounging on the smile-shaped divan, he made her laugh with his frivolous talk and only became serious when discussing fashion and design.
“I’ve never met a model with such an eye for aesthetics, Lee,” he said finally. “I’m impressed.”
“I’ve studied art.” She was tipsy enough to just come out and say it. “I’m more than just a model at Vogue. I’m a photographer.”
“Now I’m doubly impressed. Beauty and talent both.”
Lee took his hand in hers, tempted to tell him about the Surrealists’ journal. About their adoration for his Stalinized country, about Man’s fuming photo of her, and, most of all, her impressive bell jar photo, published under his name. No, she took a drink. To hell with that. And to hell with Man Ray. Leaning back on the cushions, Lee breathed out and looked at her host. She liked this Zizi. When the guests began to leave, and the son of a French viscount escorted Tatiana home, she stayed.
Later, when they got into bed, she blindfolded Zizi with her scarf. It excited him, but that was irrelevant. She didn’t want him looking at her anymore. She pushed him down and got on top of him. This man would be the raw material to power her creative arts. For tonight, anyway.
• • •
“Lee, baby!” Man let himself into her studio, rushed in and embraced her. “I got in last night, but you weren’t home,” he said. His hands—one carrying a gift, a richly scented package—clasped around her. “I was beat, though, so I went back to my place. God, I missed you!”
She unwrapped his arms and stepped back. “I can barely look at you right now. You should probably just go.”
“What are you talking about?” His face filled with dread; his voice quaked. “What happened while I was gone? Did you meet somebody? Are you with someone new?”
“No, but that sounds like a good idea. I need a person I can trust, Man. Someone who respects me.”
His brow lifted and his smoking eyes began to clear. “Jesus, kid, I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I wasn’t with anybody else down in Cannes, I swear.”
She looked at his mouth, tight but smug, resisting a smile—and wanted to slap him.
“I don’t give a damn if you sleep with other women. But sneaking behind my back, playing me for a fool—”
“What the hell? I have no idea—”
“This is what I’m talking about, you son of a bitch.”
She threw open the journal—she’d bought a copy for herself at the newsstand—and watched his face. He dropped his parcel on the table—colorful cakes of soap from Provence spilled everywhere—and grabbed the magazine. After giving the photo a cursory inspection, he looked back at Lee, his eyebrows arched in confusion.
“This is what you’re all worked up about?”
“How could you put your name on my photo?” She felt like spitting.
He shrugged. “It’s not such a big deal, Lee. Breton wanted to use a name people know. It’s like the Old Masters and their workshops. Rubens, Rembrandt, Velazquez—they all had apprentices learning from them, painting in their style—”
“It’s not the same. I’m not just making copies of your work or filling in the background. That photo was my idea—that’s my print! How are people ever going to recognize my name if you sign my work?” Exasperated, Lee lit a cigarette and pulled on it hard. She didn’t understand how he could act so faultless and unsympathetic. “And this title? ‘Homage to le Marquis de Sade’? It’s the stupidest thing—”
“The title’s mine.” He looked pleased with himself. “And the group loved it. I mean, suffering is the first rule of sadism and here we have a woman’s head, trapped in a jar, unable to breathe. It’s surrealistic sadism. Perfect, really.” His manner was so cool that she had a mind to practice a little sadism herself—a nice cigarette burn should get his attention. “Why, what did you want to call it?”
“That’s not important.” Lee clenched her fists and glowered. She had to force herself not to raise her voice—Man stopped listening when the volume went up—because he needed to hear this. “What is important, and just wrong, is that we have two sets of rules here. It seems you can take my work and publish it under your name, but if I so much as rework a plate that you’ve thrown in the trash, you slit my throat.” She took another long drag off her cigarette. “I won’t have it, Man. I won’t.”
“I’m sorry, baby.” He slowly walked toward her and put his arms around her. “I didn’t realize it meant so much to you.”
“Thank you.” She kissed his cheek. It seemed he finally understood. She wasn’t just his model or assistant anymore, but a fellow photographer. It was her profession, her ambition, too.
“But, really,” he added with a knowing smile, “you should be glad. Everybody’s just crazy about that photo.”
“You bastard!” She pushed him away. His apologies were empty, just a quick way to end a row; he still didn’t see any harm in what he’d done. She grabbed a handful of lavender soaps and started pelting him with them.
He ducked behind a chair. “What the hell? Stop it!”
“You treat me like a child. When are you going to realize that I’m a photographer, just like you?” Soap bounced off the chair and clunked on the wooden floor. “We’re colleagues, you idiot!”
He waited until she’d exhausted her supply, then put his hands up in surrender.
“I think I get it now, Lee.”
XIX
It was Man’s idea to go to the cabaret le Boeuf sur le Toit that night.
“Clement is going to be playing the songs from the new Cole Porter musical. I can’t wait!” He attached his left cuff link, then looked over at Lee. “You ready?”
Lee looked up from blowing on her nails—she’d just painted them a brilliant crimson to match her lipstick—and nodded. She’d always like the Boeuf, the half-restaurant, half-nightclub where all kinds of people met and the latest music played at the loudest volume.
When they stepped into the crowded room, the maître appeared at once, exclaiming, “Monsieur and Madame Man Ray!” and the barmen, vigorously shaking their latest creations, called out hellos. As they were escorted to one of the coveted tables next to the piano, Lee dodged champagne buckets and waving cigarette holders, smiling at her various acquaintances. They quickly whispered their drink orders as everyone settled into the semidarkness, waiting for the first set. A saxophone player, his face nearly covered by a
fedora, helped a scrawny French girl to her feet. She teetered in front of the microphone, then grasped it with satin gloves and, with her eyes closed, crooned “Love for Sale.”
Her heavy accent in English and her youthful innocence—her thin body swaying artlessly, her lipstick a dull pink—made the lyrics even more tragic. A prostitute peddling her wares, a nighttime salesgirl. Lee shivered at the idea of a young girl using her body as currency. Love for sale, indeed.
When the combo took a break, Jean Cocteau came up to their table. Lee liked Jean, such a talented and charismatic man, but knew he got on Man’s nerves. Artistic groups in Paris were always breaking into fractions and, currently, André Breton couldn’t stand Cocteau—he called him an unctuous dandy—which had undoubtedly influenced Man’s opinion.
“Good evening, Man, Lee.” He bent down and kissed her hand. “Great music tonight, wouldn’t you say?”
“Delicious,” Lee said. “Lovely to see you, Jean. Won’t you sit down?”
“No, thank you. I’m on a quest.” He looked at them with an air of mystery. “Man, you know a lot of models. Do you happen to know any actresses? I need a real beauty to play a part in a film.”
“You’re making a film?” Man’s look combined condescension and envy. “Have you found anyone to finance it yet?”
“Yes, of course.” Jean’s voice was velvet. “Viscount Charles de Noailles. I believe you made a film for him a year or two ago, didn’t you?” He ignored Man’s clouding brow and continued. “He approached me about backing a film. He wants a talkie this time. I’ve got a marvelous idea, but I need a beauty to play a Greek statue.”
Lee nearly jumped out of her chair. “I’ll do it, Jean!”
Both men stared at her. Jean gently took her chin in his hand and studied her face. “You are gorgeous, Lee. Yes, I think you’ll be perfect.”
“Fabulous.” She kissed him on the cheek. “What’s the title of the film?”
“The Blood of a Poet.”
“Ah, there will be violence?” She jiggled her eyebrows. “A terrible crime?”
“You’ll find out soon enough. I don’t want to spoil anything for you.”
“This’ll be such fun.” Lee beamed, thrilled with idea of being in Jean Cocteau’s first film, to work in his milieu, to meet his crowd. Ever since she’d arrived in Paris, she’d been under Man’s wing; this time, she could fly entirely on her own.
“Shall we meet next Wednesday for a screen test? Give me your number and I’ll call you with the details.”
When he’d moved on to his next group of friends, she turned to Man excitedly, but when she saw his face—the dramatic pitch of his eyebrows, the scowl, furiously sucking on a wilted cigarette—her smile immediately drooped.
“Damn it to hell. What are you thinking, Lee?”
“What’s the matter with you?” She looked into his eyes. “What’s the problem? I told you I wanted to be an actress when I was younger. And this is even better than Hollywood. A Surrealist film—”
“Surrealist! That phony.” He swallowed his drink whole. “Really, Lee, I can’t believe you want anything to do with it.”
She looked out into the crowd. Here we go again! She felt like a small child whose strict father—one very unlike her own—wouldn’t let her play with the other kids.
“I just think it’ll be fun,” she repeated.
Man turned to Lee and exhaled a huff of smoke. She felt his eyes on her, but didn’t look at him. She was sick of it. He couldn’t even share her with another artist, couldn’t let her go her own way. She felt him fuming next to her—would steam start rising from his suit?—and heard his groans and sighs, but ignored him. She glanced around the room, at the high heels on the dance floor, at the Picabia paintings on the walls, up at the chandeliers. After a few minutes’ stalemate, he gently took her hand.
“Do whatever you want,” he mumbled, then stubbed the butt to shreds.
“I will, mon amour.” She closed her hand around his—a concession to his belated generosity—but repeated herself to cast aside any doubt. “I will.”
• • •
Lee checked her watch anxiously. She was running late to the cast meeting. Man had wanted to play around in bed that morning—an amorous form of protest, obviously, as he was fully aware that she was expected by nine—and then pouted in silence when she finally got up. From stop to stop, she watched commuters getting on and off the metro; all of them—although half-asleep, bored, or grouchy—seemed absolutely certain of where they were going and what they were doing. She was neither. In the last few days, she’d begun to doubt her impulsive decision to participate in Cocteau’s film. Did her community-theater roles prepare her for this? Her modeling? Her short stint as a chorus line dancer?
Lee popped out of the metro on the outskirts of Paris—the train’s last stop—and got completely disoriented. Here was that odd, working-class combination of industrial and rural; this Paris was much shabbier than the one close to the Seine. Lee walked several blocks in the wrong direction until, finally, a cartload of farmers—Italian immigrants—gave her a lift to the studio alongside their onions. When she walked in the door, Cocteau had already given general instructions to the strange hodgepodge of characters there—amateurs and professionals, French and international—and many of them were readying to leave.
“Ah, Lee, there you are.” His narrow face broke into a languid smile. “I was beginning to worry.”
“Sorry, Jean.” Nervous about working with a new artist, she breathed out, relieved he wasn’t angry. “I’ve never been out this way before.”
He took her by the hand to introduce her to the other main players.
“Mademoiselle Lee Miller,” he said, “I’d like for you to meet our poet, Enrique Rivero. He’s originally from Chile but has been making films in France for the last five years.” Lee looked him over approvingly. Dark and well-built, he had black eyes, a straight nose, and full lips. He shook her hand warmly and gave her a wink. “And this is Féral Benga, the African dancer. He’ll be our angel. Doesn’t he look angelic?”
Ebony-black and muscular, Féral made a quick pose of a saint—eyes to the heavens, hands in prayer—then smiled at Lee with bright, perfect teeth.
“Wonderful to meet you both,” she said, wondering which of the two might be better in bed.
“And Lee will be our statue. Her costume is going to take some work.” Cocteau paused, reflective, then scratched his leg. Lee, who was also feeling itchy, suddenly noticed that most of the crew was absently scratching an arm or a side. Next to her, Cocteau pinched a flea from his white shirt. “What the devil is this?”
“I think it’s coming from those old beds,” said an older man, hired on to work the lights.
“You mean the soundproofing?” Cocteau said as he approached a wall. Discarded mattresses had been hung on the studio walls to block the noise from the street.
Curious, most of the cast walked toward them; they were crawling with fleas and bedbugs.
“Can’t something be done about this?” Cocteau’s shout was unusually shrill.
“We can try fumigating,” said the lighting man. “Not making any promises, though.”
“You do that,” Cocteau said, raising his hands in disgust. “Lee, you come with me. We have to get your costume together.”
He flicked on the switch in the women’s dressing room and bare bulbs blinked on around a large mirror. There was a counter beneath it littered with a few leftover rouge pots and powder puffs, and a small sink in the corner. Behind a changing screen, she could see racks of old costumes—harem pants, petticoats, ball gowns, peasant clothes, even animal outfits—left stranded from other productions. From a cupboard, Cocteau pulled out two plaster arm fragments, one nearly to the elbow, the other little more than a shoulder, and began sizing them up next to her.
“I want the statue to resemble the Venus de Milo, a symbol of feminine perfection. Unfortunately, since we have to hide your arms somewhere, you can’t
have a bare torso.”
He looked at her long, graceful arms with repugnance, as if he’d like to dispose of them, then took out a tape measure and began jotting down various measurements.
“We’ll whitewash you, truss up your arms, then cover you with a toga.” He reached out and touched her short bob. “I’ll make a papier-mâché cast of your hair. We can’t have this moving around. As a matter of fact, you won’t be doing much moving at all. Imagine you are living stone.”
Lee nodded unhappily. She didn’t realize being a statue would be so uncomfortable. Living stone? Would she even be recognizable? Oh, what the hell! At least she was out of the studio, alongside talented people, trying something new.
“I think I can handle that,” she said, game for anything.
“Fabulous.” He gave her a preoccupied pat on the shoulder. “Come back in the morning for a fitting. If we have the bug situation worked out, I’d like to begin filming the next day.”
• • •
Lee stood awkwardly, her balance thrown off, nervously awaiting her entrance. Her arms were bound around her ribs and waist as if she were hugging herself tightly. It was difficult to breathe. Her whole body was painted white, except for dark red lips; the two broken arms and the sculpted hair were smoothed into place with a mixture of butter and flour. Her skin itched all over; she suspected the tenacious fleas who managed to survive the pesticide had found new lodgings in her costume. Trying to ignore it, she peeked out from under her thick, white lids to watch the action. In the first scene, the poet was on his own.
Enrique walked out on set—bare-chested, wearing breeches and a powdered wig—to his place at the easel. Lee admired his looks, a handsome libertine straight out of Les liaisons dangereuses, but when Cocteau caught sight of his naked back, he realized his actor had a huge scar.
“What’s this?” he asked, mildly annoyed but mainly curious. He ran his finger along the deep groove on Enrique’s shoulder blade.
“I was shot by a lover’s husband back in Chile,” Enrique said, his words intensified by his musical accent. “A cuckold can be surprisingly dangerous.”