The Woman in the Photograph

by Dana Gynther

  “It’s swell to see you, too.” She managed a big smile as she pushed him away.

  He chattered happily en route to her studio on rue Victor Considérant, deaf to her silence. In the tiny elevator, he took her by the waist. “Ah, it’s so great to have you home. Your place is just the same as you left it.” He opened the door and set her bag on the floor; her trunks would be delivered later. “I sometimes slept here while you were gone. The bedsheets are dirty, I’m afraid.”

  “Man?” What had he been doing in her studio?

  “They still smelled of you.” He gave her a sheepish look. “I couldn’t bear to wash them. Now that you’re back, though, I’ll change them. I don’t have to rely on any sad pillowcases anymore. I can smell you anytime I want.”

  She drew water into a vase for the bouquet. An exuberant, unlikely mix of pink, tiger, and calla lilies—not all funeral flowers—which he had doubtlessly put together himself. “It’s gorgeous. Thanks again.”

  Why couldn’t she be satisfied with this man? For all his abilities, for all his adoration, why couldn’t she just love him? If not him, who? Would she always be unable to return affection—the Snow Maiden, the stony, destructive Venus—drifting from one set of arms to the next? She bit her lip. And when she was no longer desirable or attractive, when her beauty could only be found in old photographs—what then? Why was Man Ray not enough?

  As she arranged the flowers, he came up from behind and nuzzled her ear. He unzipped her dress and led her to the sofa. He combed her hair with his fingers, then let them slide lovingly down her neck to her back. He wanted to greet each part of her—her shoulders, breasts, stomach, thighs—and welcome it home. She closed her eyes, yielding to his warm, silky touch. Not one of her lovers in London had taken such care.

  • • •

  During her first days back in Paris, she felt as awkward and green as she had that first week in London. On her own, she made the rounds to see her friends to find that almost everyone she knew was off on holiday. George was in Deauville, presumably doing a shoot of beach fashions; Tatiana was planning her wedding at her viscount’s chateau; Zizi was in Geneva, reportedly infatuated with a new, younger beauty; Cocteau was in Provence. Most of Man’s friends were also away, except for Kiki, who was still holding court at the Montparnasse cafés, now filled with foreign tourists. It seemed that Man was the only person who had eagerly awaited her return. The only one who had missed her.

  Stay or go? Trying to make a decision was giving her a serious case of the blue jitters.

  Unconsciously avoiding him, Lee began going to bed early, quickly rapt in restless sleep, and rising at dawn. She quietly dressed and slipped out, leaving Man alone in her bed. She stole away from Montparnasse and had coffee among early-morning workers—omnibus drivers, vegetable vendors, pre-mass priests—then ambled the warm, waking streets, the song “Love for Sale” stuck in her head. She stopped at parks and squares and leafed through newspapers or novels, scarcely reading a word. Through strangers and unknown quartiers, after a week she felt once again like she belonged in Paris. But where, exactly? And with whom?

  One morning, after coffee and brioche in the din of les Halles marketplace, Lee slowly strolled across the river and up the long boulevard Saint-Michel to the Luxembourg Gardens. Past statuary and fountains, she made her way to the pond and fell into an iron chair, slightly softened by innumerable coats of thick green paint. She propped a book open on her knees. Man had loaned her William Seabrook’s The Magic Island, about his adventures in Haiti; Lee flipped through it, stopping only for illustrations, grotesque charcoals of voodoo rituals and zombies. In one, hollow-eyed natives walked in a trance. Was that what she looked like this morning? She dropped the book on her lap and glanced around her. It was almost eleven and the park was filling with children.

  All around the basin, boys in short pants were prodding model sailboats with long sticks. One boy gave his bright-red craft a vigorous poke; it was caught by the wind and went off to sea. Hands on his hips, he watched as it stalled in the middle of the pond, lost to him. Mildly curious, Lee waited to see if he would burst into tears or take off his shoes and wade in to fetch it. But instead, after a moment eyeing the bobbing red boat, the boy lost interest and, with his pole, began digging around in the pond slime. Lee liked the determination on his round, rosy face, the effort he made as he tried to lift up a bunch of dead leaves plastered to the bottom. How serious he was, dragging the small lake, looking for God-knows-what. Suddenly, Lee’s hands went cold. Harold, she thought. Oh fuck, poor Harold.

  Lee had met him at age nineteen. She’d recently been dragged back from France and was grieving the loss of her Parisian freedoms: the wild parties, sodden with drink; nights dancing at cabarets; the long string of lovers. She was profoundly unhappy back at her parents’ farm in rustic Poughkeepsie, and to make matters nearly unbearable, her childhood gonorrhea had flared up. Her pinch-mouthed mother had begun the daily acid douches again; the cure gave Elizabeth cramps and forced her into a state of chastity. Whenever out, she flirted recklessly—she cared little for those provincial boys’ feelings—and received scores of declarations of love. Harold, however, she liked.

  Like her, he was fun, lively and audacious, and together they took off on all sorts of little adventures. They loved taking the train to New York City to pretend they were part of the avant-garde scene. Lounging around bohemian cafés in Greenwich Village, they acted like poets; they went to art galleries and theater productions. There was a spark between them; although she couldn’t have sex with him, she liked talking dirty to him over the telephone, which never failed to arouse them both.

  In July, on a cloudless summer day not unlike this one, they went rowing on Upton Lake. When they were far enough from shore to enjoy a little privacy, he brought the oars in. After a few steamy kisses, he began to take off his shirt.

  “Harold! What are you doing?” She watched in disbelief as he yanked down his suspenders and shook off his pants.

  “What do you think? I get so damn hot when I’m near you . . .” Stripped down to his underclothes, he bent over and kissed her again. She was about to protest when he stood up in the rowboat and added “that I guess I need to cool down.”

  He balanced himself on the seat, then made a perfect dive into the water. Elizabeth laughed and shouted, “I never told you to go jump in a lake!”

  Chuckling, she scanned the lake’s black surface, waiting for him to pop up. Would he try to push the boat over? She clutched the rim of the boat, grinning down at the water, staring first at one side, then the next. After a minute went by and then another, she grew cold, unable to move, frantically eyeing the water. Where the hell did he go? Was this a joke? Was he hurt? Should she jump in? Could she save him? Finally, she screamed, long and loud.

  Much later, from the shore, her father’s arm around her, Elizabeth watched them dragging the lake. When his body was found, they hauled him in, chalky white in his undershorts, thin, and so, so young.

  She rarely thought back on Harold, on their innocent romance, on that day at the lake, but when she did, her insides froze. It wasn’t so much the picture of his death she avoided—the sudden, achy still of the silent lake, the nightmarish consequence of the harmless prank: the unnatural color of his skin, the odd position of his wiry legs—but the horror of loss. The emptiness that followed. Although she didn’t return his love, he had been her friend. A boy she not only flirted with, but talked to. A playmate whose company she enjoyed.

  Was that what she had with Man? Was he a real friend, almost family? Was he the only person in the city who really cared about her? If she left him, would she regret it? Would she feel that loss, that emptiness?

  Lee wondered if all long-term relationships were like this, filled with highs and lows, enjoyment and animosity, desire and disgust. Her mother, for example, had a complicated tangle of reasons for being with her father—but love was not among them. Did Tanja ever doubt her feelings for her beloved archaeologist?
Did Tatiana sometimes want to run away from her viscount, hide, never see him again? Was it normal, this indecision, this uncertainty? She thought of all the heroines from books and films—the passionate countess from Stamboul—primed for sacrifice, all unshakably convinced of their love. Lee had never been very feminine—in fact, she took it as a great compliment when her detractors said she had a man’s attitude toward life—but this cold inability to love sometimes made her feel half-human.

  She heaved herself out of the uncomfortable metal chair and turned away from the pond, away from the plump, pink-faced boys. Staying with Man made practical sense. That she knew. Not only was he very generous but their work was linked: she often appeared in his images and they shared a similar style. In fact, upon her return he’d announced that they had both been chosen for upcoming group exhibitions in New York, Paris, and Brussels.

  She’d looked up him, ecstatic, her first moment of real enthusiasm since being back with him.

  “Really? Oh, Man, that’s wonderful! My work, in the Surrealists’ shows!”

  “And you know what they’re calling you?” he’d added, grasping her hand, pleased with them both. “A photographer in the ‘Man Ray School.’ ”

  Her smile had faltered. “Does being in your school mean I’m still your student?”

  “Well, I guess it means you were, that you’ve learned my technique. Like ‘in the School of Rembrandt.’ ” He smiled at the thought.

  “Yeah, those people are generally referred to as ‘Anonymous.’ ”

  “Hey, hey, don’t work yourself into a lather. Your name’ll be up there, big as anyone else’s.”

  “It irks me that, even after a half-year working in London, I’m still Madame Man Ray.”

  “Aren’t you, baby?” He looked at her nervously.

  “I’ve got a name, just like you.”

  God, she was tired of being in Man’s shadow, professionally and personally. Paris was bigger than him, his artist friends and Montparnasse. Even if it wasn’t the most practical decision, she had to leave him; she could manage just fine on her own. Lee headed out of the garden gates, thinking again of Harold. He had drowned at nineteen. Had he had any regrets? Was she one of them? Life was too damn short—even if you lived to be a hundred—to spend it with the wrong person.

  Walking back to the studio, she tried to think of the best approach. Nothing too dramatic, nothing too final. Perhaps something about being just friends? Or, she could make a bid for sincerity and explain her inability to provide what he needed. Or warmly tell him that she loved him, but was not “in love.” Whatever that meant.

  She let herself into her flat and heard him in the bathroom; he hadn’t gone back to his place since her return.

  “Where were you, kid?” he called out.

  Man strode into the living room, rubbing the stubble on his face, a cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth. His legs emerged from shorts, as thin and white as Harold’s. She put the zombie book away with a shiver.

  “Where do you keep disappearing to these days?”

  “Disappearing?” she repeated. That was a trick she’d liked to learn. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the necessary words. They were no longer a couple. She wanted to be on her own. He needed to leave. She turned to him and opened her mouth.

  “I’ve just talked to Max Ernst.” He rubbed his hands in delight. “Everyone is back from holidays, so there’s a big Surrealist party this weekend. Costumes, jazz, art, the works! What shall we wear?”

  Her mouth stayed open, but Lee was swallowed again by doubt. In another instant, she managed a quirky half-smile.

  “I think I’d like to be a gypsy. Telling fortunes and predicting the future.”

  XXVII

  “Move that light to the left. Oui, c’est ça.” Lee nodded at her assistant, on loan from Coco Chanel, then looked back through the viewfinder and smiled to herself.

  Sworn to secrecy, she was in a windowless room, shooting Chanel’s first haute joaillerie collection, diamonds dripping in innovative designs: celestial bodies, feathers, ribbons, knots. Lee wanted to take photos that would be as original and startling as the jewelry. As an inside joke—to amuse herself—she decided to use wax mannequins with arms cut in the style of the Venus de Milo.

  She carefully arranged a choker on a dummy, delighted at its ingenuity. The comet’s star was nestled on one side of the neck; its long tail—six thick diamond strands—wrapped around the back of the neck, then shot down the chest, leaving the throat bare. Lee moved a mirror behind the mannequin to catch its reflection, then turned the body to a better angle; she added a tiara, then critically looked at the shot.

  “Could you please find me a strapless black gown?” she asked the assistant. She covered the mannequin’s breasts tightly with her navy jacket, trying to get an idea of the look. “It doesn’t have to be from this season. Hell, it doesn’t have to be a real dress. I just want some black satin to hang this brooch from. Right here.” She jabbed her jacket. “Then the picture will be complete.” She fished her cigarette case out of the jacket pocket and lit one. “When did Mademoiselle Chanel say she’d be back? In an hour? Let’s move along, then.”

  Waiting for the assistant to find something suitable, she set up the next shot: two bodiless mannequin arms. Remembering the zinc tray at the Sorbonne medical school—the one used for discarded parts—she arranged a pair of black opera gloves alongside them with a smile. This was much more elegant than cutlery. To decide which jewelry to lavish on the wax hands, Lee tried it on: platinum bracelets, dazzling with five-pointed stars, a chic gold ring tied up in a bow, diamond fringe, hanging finely off her wrist. It was exquisite, all of it. She admired herself in the mirror, making histrionic high-society gestures to make the gems sparkle—ooh, it had been too damn long since she’d dressed to go out!—and then slid her favorite rings onto the lifeless fingers. She looked through the viewfinder and added the star bracelet. No, better, the fringe.

  After finishing the hand shots, she took a close-up of the mannequin’s head, looking calm and demure in her tiara, an obscene display of diamonds in these Depression years. Lee got on a chair to take a shot from above, to emphasize the riches and make the mannequin’s eyes humbler, more downcast.

  How easy it was to work with these mannequins—so quiet and complaisant—with their motionless hair and perfect wax teeth. Most people, even some professional models, felt uncomfortable in front of the camera. Trying to look their most attractive, they twisted their mouths, stretched their necks, or stared until their eyes bulged. Lee had to relax them, to coax away those unnatural grimaces. Man had always made it look so easy. Standing there without a word, he distracted his sitters with his indifference. Then there was George, who intimidated them with his moody temper. Her sessions tended to be much more difficult. Perhaps, having modeled herself, she was too understanding.

  She looked at her watch. Fashion designers were often worse than models. Living off of high levels of stress and tobacco, they were perfectionists by nature. They usually hovered behind her during a shoot and insisted on redoing it, even before they’d seen the results. Hopefully, Coco Chanel would be pleased. At least she’d felt confident enough to let her work alone—for a few hours.

  After a long day shooting diamonds—various combinations and rearrangements, with and without Miss Chanel—Lee was happy to get home and soak in her tub. When she’d announced her return from London at the end of summer, her agenda had immediately filled; famous fashion houses wanted her to shoot their winter collections, and portrait sittings were booked weeks in advance. She’d thrown herself into work, giving herself no time for creative pieces, very little time for Vogue, and the bare minimum for her waning relationship with Man Ray. Lee was trying to maintain the independence she’d had in London, keeping her own schedule instead of behaving like half a couple. Work provided the perfect alibi for her absence. It was the only one he respected.

  Suddenly she heard the studio door op
en, the sound of a man’s shoes. He would have walked by and seen her lights on. She breathed out, making bubbles in the water.

  “Lee?” Man called.

  “I’m in here.”

  “Ah, that’s how I like to find you—in the buff!” Man smiled as he plunged his hand into the water and squeezed her upper thigh. “I’ve brought—”

  “Stop.” Lee cut him off, pulling his hand out of the water. With a pitiable look—a boy who’d just been scolded—he let his arms fall to his sides. “Look, I’ve had a long week.” She softened her tone. “I’m just trying to relax.”

  “I know you’ve got a lot of work, but that’s a good thing nowadays. Lucky, even. You’ve been over at Chanel, right?” He remembered her assignments almost as well as she did.

  “Yep. Her new jewelry collection. Amazing stuff. I could use a few pieces—”

  “Is that a hint?” He gave her a wry look. “Speaking of work, I’ve done a few good pieces myself this week. Solarized self-portraits of me with my camera. In it, I’m adjusting the focus ring, making the viewer my sitter. Clever, huh? It turned out really well. I almost look handsome.”

  He helped her into her bathrobe, obviously waiting for a reply, some reassurance. She caught his expectant gaze. “I’d love to see them,” she murmured.

  “Reminds me of the day we discovered the technique.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “If the walls of that darkroom could talk . . .”

  “If your rats could talk, you mean.” She gave his arm a sisterly punch and strolled out of the bathroom. “Can I get you some coffee? Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

  Lee had taken to treating Man like a guest, not a roommate, in an attempt to establish some distance. She’d still not found the right words to end their relationship, but was trying to let him know in every other way.

  “No, doll, make some coffee. Look what I’ve brought.”

  A pink pastry box sat like a birthday present in the center of the kitchen table.