by Dana Gynther
“George!” She hugged his neck. “What are you doing here?”
“Michel thought that since you’re taking time off to do this film, Vogue should get something out of it. We’re doing a reportage on our girl’s participation in The Blood of a Poet. I’m here to take photos.” He lifted her chin with his palm, then ran his fingers through her limp hair. “I don’t know whether to use soft lights or extremely harsh ones.”
“I went out to dinner last night with Zizi, Tata, and her title,” she said, as an explanation for the morning’s looks. “Bottomless bottles of champagne at Maxim’s accompanied by a few prawns and a wee bit of confit de canard. Then it was off in search of cabaret acts and dancing.” Although she was suffering for it this morning, she’d had a wonderful evening. It was so easy to be with Zizi; there were no intense emotions—possession, jealousy, love—to muck up the works. At five in the morning she’d fallen into his bed; this morning, after sharing a pot of black coffee, he’d driven her back to the studio. “I only slept a couple of hours, so don’t take any pictures until the makeup’s been plastered on,” she said. “Where’s Jean?”
“He’s in the dressing room. We’re to meet him there.”
She grimaced, hoping Cocteau hadn’t noticed the makeshift bed on the floor behind the screen. George gathered up his equipment—“Shall we?”—and Lee grabbed a stray light on her way.
“Good morning, Lee,” Jean said. He was making trials with base makeup, dabbing different shades of white on his hand. When he looked up at her, he frowned.
“Well, at least the dress is in perfect shape,” she said in answer to his stare. “Will the makeup hide these dark circles?”
“Yes, you lucky cow. Can you believe this, George? This is my beautiful muse.” He took a deep breath. “So, the Zizi kept you awake all night? Maybe I should have joined you two—and gotten you in at a reasonable hour.”
Lee couldn’t tell if he was truly annoyed with her or just joking. Behind the screen, she took off last night’s dress, kicking the bearskin out from underfoot.
“I’m going to cover you with white powder.” Jean Cocteau could have hired a makeup specialist, but he liked doing these things himself. It was rather like painting a human canvas. “Oh, and you’ll wear the papier-mâché wig again, but I think we’ll forgo the butter.”
In the pristine white gown, Lee sat down on the bench in front of the mirror. Cocteau began coating her face a pure white, hiding the lines and shadows, erasing the night out. As she began to disappear and George to take photos, she wondered if Man had spent a sleepless night in her studio. On occasion, he stayed at his own place, working in the darkroom or on a painting, or indulged in a late night out with friends, to exhibitions, shows, or clubs. No, she thought, looking at herself in the makeup mirror, he was there. She could almost feel the weight of his presence—compact but heavy, like a ball of lead—waiting in her flat. Uncomfortably guilty, she fidgeted in the chair. She hated the constraints and limitations of being in a relationship.
“The most important part of the look is the eyes.” Jean was talking to George, not to her. “I’m going to paint eyes on the lids. They’ll appear huge, dark, unblinking. She’ll move as if in a trance.”
“Wait a minute,” Lee interrupted. “You don’t mean I’m going to do it with my eyes closed?”
“Yes.” His face glowed. “This scene—the final scene of the film, you understand—will be its coup de grace. When it’s done, the audience will wonder at what they have witnessed.”
She thought of all the takes they’d made the day before to perfect expressions, gestures, the one line. Then she’d been using all her faculties. She could only imagine how many takes would be necessary today, especially working on very little sleep and a champagne hangover.
“You’ll be barefoot—that’ll help your balance—and at the very end, you’ll be walking alongside a bull. You can hold on to its horn. It’ll guide you.”
“A bull? Jean, are you serious?” Lee grabbed her cigarettes out of her bag and lit one.
“A real, live bull?” George, uneasy, put down his camera and took a cigarette for himself.
“Oh, it’s not dangerous. They’ll be bringing it over from the abattoir in a few hours. It’s just an old ox that we’re saving from the slaughter—for a day, anyway.”
They smoked in silence as Cocteau fixed the hard, white wig onto her head. He then pulled out a small palette and some very fine paintbrushes. Sitting still, she lost track of time as he dabbed paint on her lids with cool, damp strokes. It was almost hypnotic. She temporarily forgot her grogginess, acting, even the bull.
“Absolutely amazing,” George said. “He’s completely transformed you. Lee, I wish you could see it.”
“Me, too.” She opened her eyes to thin slits, trying to catch the effect. “I suppose I’ll have to wait until opening night.”
Jean put away the brushes, pleased with his work, then turned to her. “All right, it’s time.”
As George set up his tripod in front of the empty façade, Lee sat at the table under the chandelier.
“Pick up a hand of cards as if the game had just finished,” Jean instructed. “I don’t think Enrique tore all of them, damn him. When we start rolling, I want you to throw the cards into the air—a theatrical gesture—then stand up. Always, always with your eyes closed.”
“Jean, you understand I’ll be moving around like a blind person,” Lee said.
“That’s exactly what I’m looking for,” he said. “Now, I’ll be guiding you with my voice, telling you exactly where to move. Rely on me.”
They took several takes of her throwing the cards until they made a pleasing arc, then, finally, she got to her feet. Nervous, she lifted her skirts and turned gracefully, and bumped straight into the stool.
“Ow!” Lee opened her eyes and blew out; she didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. “Sorry!”
When she was able to maneuver past the table, Jean called out instructions, directing her toward the door and down a few steps. Again, many takes were needed, as he wanted her to look as if she were gliding, an inhuman object, a mysterious presence who left no footprints behind.
“Let’s take a break for lunch now,” Jean said. “We have to wait for the ox anyway. Lee, could you stay in costume? I really don’t want to redo all that makeup.”
“Fine,” she said, “if you and George will join me at that place on the corner. I’d like to shock the waiters.”
Although she was chilly and uncomfortable in the street with her costume on, she enjoyed the startled reactions from the passersby, who stared in confusion at her long gown, the plaster wig, and thick makeup. Even on the street, she looked otherworldly.
She ordered lunch with her eyes closed, then covered herself with a large napkin to eat.
“You should have seen the expression on the waiter’s face.” George chuckled.
“That’s the problem with this gag. I can’t.”
In a moment, the waiter was back to pour their wine. When he’d gone, Lee opened her eyes and raised her glass to Jean. “To the complete artist—painter, poet, novelist, film director.”
“To every man’s muse,” Jean said, toasting her in turn. “By the way, how is Man carrying on without you?”
“He’s fine,” she said, her smile mechanical. “Jean, tell George about the other scenes in the film. It’s going to be a grand success.”
“I’ll have to swear you to secrecy!” Cocteau cocked an eyebrow, reconsidering. “Well, I’ll tell you which teasers you can print in Vogue. Now, in the beginning of the film . . .”
Barely listening, occasionally nodding, Lee nibbled at her food, catching the odd word about dreams, the unconscious, chance. It was no coincidence, of course, that her character was a muse; she’d been chosen for her statuesque beauty, after all. But, the muse in this film—an indestructible being, out for blood—seemed far removed from the roles she’d played in real life: Daddy’s girl, fashion icon, t
he photogenic model willing to do any pose. This muse goaded her artist along, led him to his worst fears, dealt him a deathly hand, then watched coldly as he took his own life. What exactly did she do for Man Ray? Beyond excitation, passion, ire, and exasperation—was there anything more?
She was fed up with the muse role, its trumped-up responsibility, its creative tar pit.
When Jean had concluded his exposition, she smiled brightly at the two of them, tired of her own thoughts. “It’s brilliant,” she said. “Even the Surrealists won’t be able to resist it.”
“If it shows, they’ll come, of course. To heckle.” Cocteau made a quick gesture to the waiter. “My treat, everyone. We must be getting back to the set. The ox should be there by now.”
Arms linked, Lee in the middle, they returned to the studio. The two men were still having a lively conversation, but she walked in silence. Lee was uneasy about the scene with the animal, but also about the one she’d have with her own stubborn ox when she got home.
The animal was waiting for them when they arrived. An errand boy from the abattoir had delivered it, tied it to a pole, and left it in the care of the cameraman Philippe and two burly crew members. They stood a few yards from it, eyeing its enormous bulk. One horn missing, it was slowly rubbing its huge head on the wooden post; it had several mangy patches along its flank.
“What kind of half-rate ox is this?” Jean threw up his hands. “Mon Dieu! It’s going to need more makeup than Lee.”
He sent a crew member for a bucketful of asbestos snow while he went to look through the rubbish for cardboard; he immediately began shaping a horn from some thin packing material.
“Rub this snow on him. It should give him a mythical glow.” Jean held up the paper horn next to the ox, tore off the end, and resculpted it. “Philippe, bring me some tape. Now, I’ve got to come up with something to hide this rash.” He began pacing in front of the animal, staring it dead in the eye; it shifted on its feet—did the asbestos fluff itch?—but looked back at the director. “Bullfighting, the Minotaur, toro bravo, Taurus, the rape of Europa . . .” Cocteau stopped. “Europa. George, be a dear and run down to the stationer’s shop—it’s two blocks up, one block over—and get me all the maps of Europe they have. This will be perfect.”
“Lee,” he said quietly, taking her by the elbow. “It’s going to take me a good hour to get this bull ready for shooting. Why don’t you take a little nap? In the dressing room, there’s a little pallet behind the screen. I daresay you noticed it when you were changing? You get some rest. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to touch up your makeup.”
Too exhausted to blush, she squeezed his hand. “Thanks, Jean.” He was as kind as he was clever. Why did Man Ray and his friends dislike him so?
• • •
When she and the bull were finally ready for filming, she stood in her spot, waiting for her cue. The animal was decked out in leathery-looking maps, the edges burnt to resemble the spots of its breed. When Cocteau called for action, Lee beckoned the ox—making a long, arrogant gesture in her black glove—but it did not move. She was lacking in mythical know-how, she could not control the beast.
“Cut, damn it! Get me some wire. I’ll find a way to make him move.”
They began filming again. This time, when Lee summoned the bull, the husky crew members pulled sharply on the thin wire from offstage. As it tightened across the animal’s thick neck, the old ox let out a full-throated bellow. Lee’s eyes flew open in time to see it buck and charge. It ran by her, bashing her arm with its flank, and knocked her over. It stopped in the corner, panting hard and eyeing them all furiously.
“Putain de merde!” Cocteau ran over to Lee. “Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know.” She stood up slowly, blowing out, rattled. Lee stroked her upper arm—it would bruise nicely—but found she was all right. “I don’t know if I can do this, Jean.”
“Pauvre petite. Sit down for a moment and collect yourself. Philippe! Get a herder from the abattoir. Someone who knows how to control him.”
Lee gathered the long dress, now smudged, and tumbled into the director’s chair. Shaking her head, she lit a cigarette and took a long drag. Why had she thought acting would be fun? Between Jean’s perfectionism, the hot lights, the fleas, the plaster arms, and blinded eyes, and now a charging bull? It was very hard work and yet not very rewarding. Having someone else—the creative one—tell her where to sit, how to walk, which way to look, while she, covered in makeup and extravagant clothes, listened obediently and did as she was told? It was modeling all over again. To hell with that.
No, Lee wasn’t cut out to be an actor. She didn’t even think she was very good at it. She looked at the bull—a powerful beast in costume—and wished she had her camera.
Thirty minutes later, an old countryman, stooped and lacking teeth, walked shyly into the film studio alongside Philippe. Hands wedged into pockets, he went over to the ox—wrinkling his brow at the patchwork maps and the prosthetic paper horn—and spoke in its ear.
“Yanked you by a wire, did they?” he whispered, shaking his head. “Hurt you, I’d wager.”
He rubbed the saggy folds under its chin, checking for blood. He did not seem to understand this animal would be sacrificed the following day.
“Now, my good man,” Cocteau said pleasantly, “when I give the signal, I’d like the bull to move forward, just a few steps. You are ready to try it again, Lee, darling?”
She gave him a tired nod.
“Marvelous. Then our actress here will join him at his side with her hand on his horn, as if she has the power to control him. Then they will walk away together.” His arm reached out in a lofty gesture, then he turned again toward the old man. “Could you help me make that happen? Could you do it, say, from over there?”
The ox driver stood on the far side of the set, raised his arm as if he held a switch, and began to grunt, his toothless mouth moving wildly. The bull stared at him and then lowered its great head, as if nodding; slowly, it began plodding toward him. Lee breathed out in relief. Although she was its symbolic master, with bare feet and closed eyes, she was terrified of the animal’s size, its unpredictable nature. To the sound of the old man’s snorts and groans, they quickly finished the last scene.
“Lee, my dear.” Cocteau kissed her cheek. “I’m so glad we had this opportunity to work together. You’ve been such a good sport.”
“It’s been an interesting experience, Jean. One I’ll never forget. And now, I suppose, I must go back to reality.”
“Reality in Paris? There’s no such thing.” Jean patted her lightly on the back. “Now, go take a long bath at the hotel.”
After a few celebratory remarks on the closing scene, she gave brief hugs to Philippe and the other crew members. She left with a jaunty “À la prochaine, les gars,” though she doubted there would be a next time. She slowly crossed the street to the old hotel.
Makeup removed, hair clean, Lee sat soaking in the uncomfortable little tub until the water became lukewarm. Although it was a drab bathroom, depressing really (and lacking any intrigue without Enrique in the next room), she dreaded leaving, dreaded going back home and facing Man. She tried to add more hot water, but it came out freezing cold. Shivering, she quickly splashed out, but took her time getting dressed.
When the taxi pulled away from her building, Lee looked up at her studio window. It was dark. She breathed out in relief and took the rickety little lift up, thoroughly exhausted. As she threw her bag on the table, she saw the silhouette, the red glow of a cigarette tip. She gasped, startled, though she knew who it was. Lee turned on the lights, exposing him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days: unshaven, bags under reddened eyes, tousled hair, his shirt untucked and wrinkled. In front of him was a full ashtray, a plate with a discarded sandwich, and a brand-new bottle of whisky, a few fingers missing.
“Hello, Man,” she said softly. She joined him on the sofa and poured herself a glass.
“I waited for you
last night.” His voice was gruff, unoiled. “And all day today.”
“I was busy filming until late, then I went out with Tatiana and her friends. I had to be back in the studio this morning at eight, so I didn’t bother coming home.” Lee usually opted for the truth, but felt details were unnecessary.
He looked down at his hands, then up at her. “Your beauty, youth, freedom . . . it’s what I most admire about you.” He bit his lip, trying to stifle sobs. “I don’t want to lose you, Lee.”
She put her arms around him and held him close. He’d expressed those contradictory feelings before: what he loved about her—her headstrong nature, her independence, her sensuality—were the same things that drove him mad. Relieved he wasn’t poised for a fight, she still hated to see him so needy and weak. She rubbed his back with a long sigh, trying to provide comfort, though part of her wanted to bolt out the door. To make an escape from this settled relationship with its duty-bound devotion, its accountability for bruised feelings.
“Listen,” she said, pulling away, “my part of the film is finished now. I can go back to my normal life.”
“So I’m no longer obligated to lend you out to Monsieur Cocteau?”
She frowned. “I thought you just said I was free.”
He took a long drink of whisky. “Right you are. So tell me about the film. What have you been doing?”
“Today was a real nightmare,” she began with a smile, glad to move away from such emotional ground. “I had to do all my scenes with my eyes closed. Jean painted wide-open eyes on my lids—”
“Fucking hell! You’ve got to be kidding me!” He jumped up and kicked a footstool. “I painted eyes on Kiki’s lids in Emak Bakia. Doesn’t the bastard have a single original idea?”
Lee listened to him go off. Although she was convinced of Cocteau’s talent, she didn’t bother contradicting Man. They both preferred him lashing out at a third party, however innocent.
XXIII
It was after eleven when Lee finally roused herself from the bed; Man still lingered under blankets. His passionate rant of the night before had eventually led to passionate lovemaking, their pent-up emotions—guilt, pity, suspicion, frustration—finding physical expression.