by Dana Gynther
Lee breathed in. “It’s like we’re in the middle of the woods. We’re like Hansel and Gretel.”
“They were brother and sister,” he whispered in her ear, grabbing her waist as she took off her coat. “No, Lee. I’m the Big Bad Wolf.”
“If only I’d brought my red riding hood,” she joked back, but removed his hands and walked into the main hall alone.
Lee saw Tatiana, spectacular in silver satin and surrounded by admirers. Someone had just made a toast, and they were all popping back shots of vodka. The circle immediately opened to include Lee; Man wandered off, looking for refreshments and familiar faces.
“Darlink.” Tatiana embraced Lee, then swept her away from the others, leading her toward the fire. “Isn’t this beautiful? We Russians are all getting very nostalgic tonight. New Year is the biggest celebration in Russia—well, it was until the blasted Soviets abolished it last year—and Zizi’s decorated the place in a traditional way. Well,” she said, eyeing the enormous wreath over the fireplace, “in my family, we never cut down this much trees.”
“It’s gorgeous. I love the smell.” Lee looked around. “Where is Zizi?”
“I don’t know. Dancing, perhaps? He was so pleased with himself when he told me you were his guest for party. He’ll be disappointed that you didn’t come alone.”
“Yes, well.” Lee shrugged.
At that moment, Jean Cocteau, elegant in gray pinstripes and juggling three glasses of champagne, joined them.
“I saw you ladies over here, empty-handed.”
“Thanks, Jean.” Lee took a glass. “You know Tatiana?”
“We’ve met.” The three clinked glasses and took a sip. “I’ve just seen your friend Zizi and given him a good scolding.” He turned to Tatiana. “For her last day of filming, Lee dragged in like she’d spent the night manning the trenches on the Western Front.”
“As bad as all that?” Lee wrinkled her nose prettily. “Tell me, Jean, is there any news about the film?”
“Well, there’s good and bad. The good news is I’ve finished filming the confounded thing.” He blew out, wiping his brow. “But the bad news is that Charles de Noailles is postponing the premiere indefinitely.”
“What terrible luck, Jean.” Although nervous about seeing herself on film, Lee had been looking forward to the pomp and glamour of a premiere. “Just because of the other film? Has he even seen yours?”
“Not even snippets.” Jean sighed. “But he’s afraid of another scandal. Hopefully, in another six months, he’ll have found his backbone.”
“If not, couldn’t you at least show it at a private party? Something like this?” Lee asked. She gestured to the well-dressed crowd. Aristocrats and Russian émigrés mixed with celebrated figures from the stage—opera singers and ballerinas—as well as a generous peppering of the Parisian avant-garde. She wondered how many of them were prepared to see a film like Cocteau’s.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” he said.
“Bon soir, Jean.” It was Man, back from inspecting the place. “I see you’ve got the monopoly on the most beautiful women here.”
“Nice to see you, Man,” he said, shaking his hand. “Are you taking photos tonight?”
“No.” Man glowered at Cocteau. “I’m not always the hired help.”
“Of course, of course.” Cocteau smiled uncomfortably. “Well, if you’ll excuse me. . . Lee, Tatiana.” And he made his exit.
“Do you believe the nerve of that guy?” Man was just getting started, but Lee, who’d finally spotted Zizi hovering over the hors d’oeuvres, broke him off.
“It’s nothing worth getting riled up about. You know, you often do take pictures at these things.” She kissed his cheek. “I’m going to get a bite to eat. Do you two want anything?”
Tatiana had also noticed Zizi at the table. “You go ahead. I wanted to talk to Man about taking a special portrait for my vicomte.” She inched toward him until he could smell her perfume. “Unless it bothers you to talk businesses?”
“You could talk to me about anything, Tata. Your favorite buttons, Russian square-dancing, Léon Blum’s mustache . . .”
Lee headed to the long dining table at the edge of the ballroom. Candles and braided greenery wrapped around platters of bone china, where artfully arranged finger foods, both Russian and French, were constantly replenished. She sidled up to Zizi, who was piling red caviar on a blini.
“Wouldn’t you like some sour cream on that?” she said in his ear.
“Lee!” He abandoned his blini and took a step back to admire her. Elsa Schiaparelli had loaned her a fluid black dress that was deceptively simple: sleeveless, nearly backless, but not lacking a train. “You’re ravishing. Pity you’ll be taking that gown off so soon.”
“Not so fast, you little lecher,” she said with a laugh. “Did I mention that Man’s here?”
“No,” he drew the word out, scanning the crowded room for her lover. Finding him, his face fell. “But no matter. You’re still going to have to take it off. You see, I want you to help me put on a little show. I would ask Tata—she’s the logical choice, being Russian and all—but I thought it would be fun if we did it together.”
Eyebrows raised, her gaze held an air of suspicious good humor. “Did what, Zizi?”
“Dress as Ded Moroz and Snegurochka!”
Her brow did not fall. “And who are they?”
“They are the traditional New Year’s characters, Grandfather Frost and the Snow Maiden. We’ll go around in costume giving out little presents. The duke loves the idea.”
“Does he?” This was the kind of acting Lee really enjoyed: dazzling the elite (all potential clients) on the arm of a gallant courter. Man would survive without her for a bit. “Well, I suppose we should do it, then.”
Zizi led her down a corridor; he’d stored the costumes in a ground-floor bedroom.
“Tell me, then,” Lee asked, “who is this snow maiden?”
“In Russian folklore, she’s the daughter of winter and spring. She is young, beautiful, and blond.” He swept his hand before her. “La voilà. Some say she was raised by a human couple who weren’t able to have children. They were told to keep her inside, but she fell in love with a boy she saw from the window. In his arms, she melted away after just one kiss.”
“That’s sad,” Lee said. “It reminds me of The Little Mermaid.”
“Yes, who can understand why these beautiful creatures want to be with lowly humans?” He stopped in front of the bedroom door and grazed her cheek with his. “Are you human, Lee?”
“I haven’t melted yet.”
Inside the bedroom, he pulled her close and kissed her, caressing her naked back. Although her body was tingling in delight, she thought of Man, a corridor away, gruffly charming as he mingled with the upper crust, the privileged rich who always made him ill at ease. This was not the time for a tryst. She gently pushed Zizi away.
“And our costumes, Grandfather Frost?”
“You sure you don’t want to . . . ?” he whispered in her ear. She nodded and he shrugged, graciously accepting defeat. “Some say the Snow Maiden is Frost’s granddaughter. Best not to cross family lines, I suppose.”
He opened a wardrobe and pulled out two floor-length robes, both elaborately embroidered and trimmed in rabbit fur, and handed her one of silvery blue. Lee shed her silky black gown and stepped into the robe, buttoning it up to the fur collar, then looked in the mirror. Zizi stood next to her, all in red, hooking a long cotton beard on wires over his ears.
“And this is for my beautiful maiden.” He crowned her with a five-pointed silver tiara, encrusted with fake pearls. “Counterfeit jewels, fit for a Romanov.” He doffed a round cap and picked up a velvet bag filled with party favors. “Well? How do I look?”
She kissed his cotton-lined lips. “Santa Claus is eating his heart out.”
The valets silenced the orchestra, then flung open the doors, ringing handbells to get everyone’s attention. When Zizi
and Lee marched into the great hall, smiling and waving, all the émigrés in the room burst into cheers and applause. Lee basked and beamed, enjoying the spotlight. Arm in arm, they made their way around the woodsy ballroom, giving Cuban cigars to the men and handkerchiefs to the ladies, and wishing everyone a happy new year. The delighted guests laughed and joked with the storybook characters, but the Russians were moved; most of them insisted on kissing them both. Tatiana was teary-eyed when they finally rejoined her and she gave Zizi a warm embrace.
“Your Russian New Year is ruining my makeup,” she said, dabbing tears of kohl away with her brand-new handkerchief.
“I had no idea you were so sentimental, Tata.” Lee smiled at her friend, then glanced around. “Have you seen Man? I swear, we’ve spoken to everyone but him.”
“I think I saw him go out to the garden,” Tatiana said.
“I’d better see how he’s doing.”
Lee found Man alone on the terrace. He was pacing the flagstones, slouched over his cigarette—as if it could warm him—shivering in his dinner jacket. When he caught sight of her, he puffed himself up to his full height and glared. Lee frowned. Lately, every time he felt insecure about other men, he tried to grow a few inches. At the moment, he was nearly standing on his tiptoes.
“Aren’t you cold out here?” She gave him a lighthearted smile and adjusted her tiara. “For a snow maiden like myself, it’s fine, but for you—”
“You are the cold one.” He gave her a sharp look. “He’s your lover, isn’t he?”
“What?” Lee was taken off guard.
“I heard Cocteau teasing him about keeping one of his actresses out late. I was too stupid to think it was you—that you’d spent that night with him—until you walked in together, all cozy in your matching costumes. I can’t stand the thought of you becoming one of those pathetic, ornamental women that flitter around Zizi Svirsky.” He threw his cigarette butt down and rubbed his arms. “I know you sometimes see other men but, Jesus, Lee, he’s older than I am.” He paused. “And he’ll never love you like I do.”
His voice broke and he stopped talking; he stared at her, his chin trembling, his eyes wet. She returned his gaze in silence. She didn’t know if she liked being loved with such intensity; the depths of his emotion, his visceral passions, were hard for her to understand. In fact, when confronted by the power of his love and desire—their crushing weight and stormy force—she felt their lack. An unpleasant emptiness. Lee had never been able to love like that; she doubted she was capable of it. The thrill of infatuation, urgent desire, simple fondness, yes, but love? Sometimes she wondered if there was something wrong with her. Maybe she was an ice princess, afraid of melting.
“Let’s go home,” he said, reaching out for her hand.
She did not take it. “Man, it’s not even midnight. Let’s stay and ring in the New Year—” But he had already turned around and was walking away. “Man,” she called once, but didn’t move.
Lee watched his inflated form as it retreated, barreled its way through the French windows and the crowd inside. She sighed, rooted to her spot on the terrace. She tried to work out her feelings for him—that familiar hodgepodge of affection and frustration, security and sameness—but couldn’t deny the facts at hand. She had let him go.
When she walked back into the ballroom, Zizi immediately joined her.
“What’s this long face?” He caressed her cheek. “There’s a saying in Russian: ‘As you meet the New Year, so you will spend it.’ You must enjoy yourself tonight—or you risk spending the rest of the year unhappy.”
“That certainly wouldn’t do.” She put on a smile but wondered what 1931 would bring; would it be better? Worse? Because change, she knew, was coming. “More champagne?”
XXV
Dressed only in her kimono bathrobe, long, satin, and bamboo-green, Lee slipped down to the ground floor to fetch the morning post. Two thin letters were aslant in the box. Shivering with cold, she got into the lift; on the bumpy ascent, she took a quick look at the envelopes. She recognized the handwriting on the first one, though the casual characters were tighter than usual. It was from Man Ray, whom she hadn’t seen since the New Year’s Eve party. Today was January third.
In the warmth of her flat, she lit a cigarette and slit open the envelope. The letter was one long typewritten block, a series of half-finished thoughts outlining a list of reasons why he was a far better partner than Zizi. His passionate love, his position as mentor, the efforts he’d made toward her development. Lee pursed her lips, annoyed. He sounded like a whiny Adam reminding Eve about his missing rib. Man’s letter babbled on: Zizi clearly did not care about her thoughts, achievements, or work; he just wanted her for her youthful energy, the way she looked on his arm. That Russian phony would use any means necessary to draw her in: diversions, introductions, money.
She read the letter twice, three times. However true his observations about Zizi might be, really, they were apt descriptions of Man himself: he, too, offered her financial help, contact with the best people, amusement. But his claim of a mentor’s love, justified by her progress and capabilities? The interesting ideas he brought out in her? His Pygmalion hand in creating her? She shook her head, a twitchy feeling in her throat. She felt duped. It seemed that Man Ray, the man she’d been with longer than any other, wanted her as a complement to himself. Instead of loving her for who she was—with that huge passionate fire of his—he thought of her as his finest confection: his lover as his work of art.
She made a pot of coffee, stewing over the letter; it had certainly brought them no closer to reconciliation. Should she write him back? And say what? As you meet the New Year, so you will spend it. Did that mean that she and Man would spend the year angry with each other?
Back at the table, she swirled sugar into her coffee and picked up the other letter. It was from Elstree Studios, the British branch of Paramount Pictures. She opened it with a frown, uncomfortable with the idea of acting again. She skimmed the page—they didn’t need an actress, after all—then read it again. The studio was looking for a photographer, and Michel de Brunhoff had recommended her. She grinned down at the paper. He’d called her an intrepid professional with a keen eye and excellent darkroom skills; he’d also mentioned her recent participation in a film, her insider’s understanding of studios, sets, cast, and crew. They needed publicity shots of actors and stills of their new feature film, Stamboul, and would be delighted if she joined their team. Would it be possible for her to leave Paris for a few months to work in London?
She twirled around, then kicked out her legs, a ten-second Charleston. Yes! Here was a job offer, not for Man Ray’s assistant, nor George Hoyningen-Huene’s apprentice, but for a trained photographer, a professional in the field. An excellent career move, it also offered her the perfect escape hatch.
Lee had never liked decision making; in fact, she generally left things to work out on their own. And here was the perfect solution to her problems with Man Ray: time and distance. She could flee to London—far from him and these tiresome dramatics—and establish herself there as a photographer in her own right. Not Madame Man Ray, his muse and minion. With money coming in from Elstree Studios, she would no longer need his help. And perhaps, after being separated by the Channel for several months, they could start anew, relishing each other’s company and collaborating on exciting projects. Working together as equals. Then again, after a long absence perhaps they would naturally drift apart. Lee had never liked messy breakup scenes. Up to now, when bored with a companion, she’d merely ignored him or behaved badly until he’d eventually gotten the message. With Man, she was sure that such subtlety would never do. She drained the last sips of her coffee, then nodded decisively. Either way, her stay in London would give her a new perspective; with time apart, her problems would fix themselves.
She threw off her kimono and got dressed. Regardless of what might happen in the next few months, she wanted patch things up as soon as possible. Burnt bridges wer
e of no use to Lee. Especially not with Man. She hid his angry letter away in a drawer and snatched up the one from the motion-picture studio, heading out the door. It wouldn’t be difficult to make up with him. Despite Man’s fears, Zizi had never been a serious rival, but merely lighthearted fun. Really, he was a small sacrifice to allow Man to regain his security, his manhood.
They could spend a last few weeks together, and then—she’d be gone.
• • •
“I’m so proud of you, kid.” Man sat on Lee’s bed, smoking his pipe while she finished packing. “I can’t get over it. Paramount Pictures!”
“It’s just Elstree. Paramount’s kid brother. It probably has buck teeth and pimples,” she said, with a self-deprecating half-shrug. “And we know for sure there’s no California sunshine in North London. Hey, throw me those stockings.”
His pipe in his mouth, he tossed the shimmery stack of silk to her with both hands; she caught them in mid-air, the pile intact. They shared a smile. Ever since they’d made up, their relationship had been easy, with no arguments or accusations. Of course, he was thrilled to win out so easily over Zizi, to hear Lee’s promise not to see him again; their lack of temper was also due to their incessant awareness of the months they’d be apart.
“What kind of title is Stamboul?”
“It’s another name for Istanbul. The film promises to be a real melodrama, a gorgeous historical: a steamy love affair between a German countess and a French military officer set in the land of fezzes, hookahs, and Turkish delight. At least, a big painted backdrop of it.” Lee gave Man an unabashed grin. “I love that stuff.”