by Dana Gynther
“Have you been to that new bakery on Raspail?” he asked. He snipped the ribbon, opened the box, and swept it under her nose. “Their chocolate éclairs are to die for. Here, try one.”
The last thing she wanted was sweet gooey pastry, but she daintily extracted one from the box. Man watched her chew a small bite.
“So? What do you think?” He beamed at her. “Do you think they’re as good as the ones we had in Biarritz? On the Wheelers’ terrace? I thought I’d never find a better éclair until I tried these.”
“I think that was less about chocolate and more about the view.” Lee shrugged, but understood this sudden enthusiasm for pastries.
Since she returned to Paris, he’d been harking back to the beginning of their relationship, to that honeymoon stage when, with fairy dust in their eyes, they couldn’t see each other’s faults. He’d been waxing nostalgic about Biarritz as well as their first six months in his studio: their outings, art poses, nights together, the darkroom—the éclairs, she thought, were a bit far-fetched. It seemed Man was trying to lull her back to the time when she depended on him, when she was smitten with him, when she wanted him. These reminiscences did nothing, however, to make her feel closer to him. On the contrary, she felt mollycoddled and manipulated—and annoyed past patience.
“Man, I’m going to get dressed now.” She was walking him to the door, her hand flat on his back, the coffee unmade. “I’ve got plans for tonight, but I’ll see you again soon.”
“What is this?” He jerked around. “Are you kicking me out?”
“It’s not that.” She racked her brains for a plausible plan, something innocent, but not a place where he could tag along. Nothing occurred to her. “I’ve got things to do.”
“Busy, busy Lee.” He spit out. “You’ve always got things to do. And, these days, it appears I’m never included.”
“All I do is work.” It wasn’t even a lie.
“Let me take you out, then. Damn it, you’re my girl!” His eyes pleaded. “Come on, Lee, we could dress to the nines, have dinner out, go dancing. It’ll be fun. Like old times.”
“Old times.” She swallowed hard. “I can’t tonight, baby, but real soon.”
When he’d finally left, she went back to the bedroom, took off the robe, and snuggled under her covers. She had a ton of developing to do in the morning.
• • •
“Miss Miller? I was wondering if you’d have time to do my portrait this week. My name’s Charlie Chaplin.”
Lee’s mouth dropped open and she gazed into the phone. After a second, she shook her head and responded, surprised to find her usual voice, warm and confident. “Of course I have time. When would you like to come by the studio?”
“I was hoping you could come to my hotel. I’m over at the Scribe. Does tomorrow morning work for you?”
“Yes, it does. Shall we say half past ten?”
The next day, Lee dressed carefully, but not extravagantly, in velvet trousers and a pearl-gray jersey. She chose flat shoes, remembering his stature. She’d caught glimpses of Chaplin at several New York soirées and had even been introduced to him once. But usually at those affairs he’d be clowning around, center stage, putting on a little act while Irving Berlin played impromptu refrains on the piano. Either that or he was besieged by his hosts or the evening’s other shining stars: Dorothy Parker, George Gershwin, the Vanderbilts. She wondered if he even made a connection between the Paris-based photographer he’d called yesterday and the tall blond model from those Manhattan parties.
She gathered her equipment and headed across the river in a cab. Would he be a difficult sitter? At parties, he always seemed like such fun, but she’d learned how unexpectedly demanding some people could be.
At the Scribe, Lee was sent up to his suite. Her knock at the door was immediately answered by a silver-haired man in an elegant suit. She’d almost been expecting the Tramp, but today there was no black mustache, no bowler hat. He kissed her hand with a shy smile—the only remaining part of the character.
“Delighted to see you again, Miss Miller.”
“I’m surprised you remember me, Mr. Chaplin.” She tried not to grin. “And please, call me Lee.”
“I’m good with faces—and yours is not so very difficult to remember.” He led her to the sofa, where a tea service waited on a silver tray. “And you can call me Charlie. Or, here in France, perhaps Charlot is more apropos?” He said this last with a thick French accent, emphasizing the silly rhyme. “Tea?”
She watched his graceful gestures as he poured—the motions of a conductor during a pianissimo movement—then peeked up at his face. He was about forty, Man’s age, but his face was completely unlined. No bags under the eyes, no sagging skin; it was as if a young man’s hair had gone white.
“I must say,” he began, handing her a cup. “You’ve come a long way since those get-togethers at Condé Nast’s place. One of the snappiest photographers in Paris?” He raised his eyebrows with a nod. “Impressive. I also hear you acted in a film by Jean Cocteau. When will we be able to see it?”
“Who knows? There’s been this ridiculous public outcry about morality—”
“God, have I had my fill of that.” He breathed out, letting his lips flutter. His divorce a few years before—and the numerous charges of infidelity—had been a tabloid staple, a media sensation. “I hope it comes out soon, though. It’s a Surrealist film, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but it’s not just a bunch of meaningless images. It tells the story of a poet and his muse.” She thought back on that early conversation with Man Ray, when he had proclaimed the death of cinema. How pompous he’d sounded—and how impressed she’d been! What absolute rot. Movies with plots—like Chaplin’s work—were by far the best.
“And you must be the muse.”
“That’s right,” she said, ready to change the subject. “Are you in Paris working on a new film?”
“No, I’m on holiday. After City Lights, I needed a rest.”
“So you came to the City of Lights?” she asked with a little laugh. “I positively loved that picture. How I cried at the end!”
“Me, too! Of exhaustion!” He fell back on the sofa, eyes closed. After a moment, one striking blue eye opened and peered over at her. “I’m curious what kind of portraits you have in mind. I’ve never worked with a Surrealist photographer.”
Lee smiled at him, taken off guard. She had assumed that he would want straight shots—that was certainly what most sitters wanted, to look their best—not anything artistic. She took her camera out of its case while scanning the room, looking for inspiration. Her eyes lingered on the shiny tea service.
“Let’s use this tray as a mirror.” She removed the pots and cups and quickly rubbed it down with a handkerchief. “Hold it up next to you.”
Holding the tray at different angles, he moved his body onto his back, his side, and looked up at her while she took the different shots; she made double portraits in some and let the tray cast an interesting glow in others. Through the viewfinder, she was able to stare at him, study his features, his real face—without makeup. He was handsomer than she’d thought.
“You’re a real natural in front of the camera. Who would have guessed?” she joked. “I bet I could get you a job at Vogue.”
“Evening gowns or bathing costumes?” He turned on his belly, crossed his hands under his chin, and stuck out his bottom.
Lee laughed. “Whatever you want.”
Tired of the tray, she looked around again. “Hey, I wonder if I can get that chandelier to spring from your head? Stand over there. With your imagination, you don’t just have one-light-bulb ideas—you have a half-dozen bulbs at once!”
“How about if I stand on a chair? Like this?”
“Perfect! It looks like you’re balancing it on your head. Talk about your City Lights!” She lay down on the floor and squinted through the camera, then adjusted her settings. “Let me see what it looks like from this angle.”
&nbs
p; He cocked his head to the side and looked at her from the corner of his eye.
“Finished?”
Chaplin jumped down from the chair, joined her on the floor, and planted a kiss on her mouth. It was something she’d seen him do so many times on screen: kissing with that funny combination of bashfulness and determination, that exquisite shy passion. Then he gave her another one. And another.
In the cab back to Montparnasse, Lee couldn’t stop smiling. Chaplin had said that he’d never had such fun at a sitting, that her surréaliste photography was wonderful indeed. She chuckled to herself. Since she’d gone behind the camera, this had been her favorite sitting to date.
XXVIII
“Darling!” Man pulled her into a hug; Lee gave him a series of maternal pats. “Why didn’t you just use your key? This is your place as well as mine.”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you. In case you were busy.”
“Nonsense. I asked you to come.”
He took Lee’s coat, then offered her a drink with a quick gesture. As he chipped the ice, she looked around his studio; she hadn’t been there for weeks. Searching for new work, Lee found little had changed since she’d lived there: early nudes of her were on every wall. He handed her a sweet vermouth, then led her to the sofa. He was almost trembling with excitement.
“I’ve got some amazing news, kid.”
“What is it?” His mood was contagious. Were they in a new show?
“I’ve heard from Dr. Agha, Condé Nast’s new art director. He’s tired of the Steichen school and thinks my work is the new thing. He says you and I should get ready to take over the U.S. market.”
“Man, that’s fabulous!” She creased her brow. “But what does he mean? Is he talking about exhibitions, or what?”
“He says Americans finally understand my work. They like it.” He was beaming. “It’s time to relocate to New York and open a studio there. You and me.”
“Go to New York? That’s crazy. We can just send our work over by courier. It would be much easier than moving.”
“No, he says now’s the time for my return.” He took her hand in his. “This could be the end of any money problems—ever—and the start of a new life for us.”
She glanced at his hand, perched on hers like a crab, then took a quick dose of vermouth.
“But we both love Paris. We’re happy here.” She faltered at her unfortunate use of the coupling pronoun, took her hand from his, then continued. “I can’t believe you really want to leave Montparnasse and all your cronies. Have you even thought this through?”
“Things could be even better there. Sitters, magazines, advertising, film. We could go to Hollywood, too. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His eyes shone. “We can pool everything together—our skills, resources, connections—and be a team.”
She pulled a cigarette out of her case and packed the tobacco, tapping it deliberately on the tabletop. “Things are going so well for me here,” she started slowly. “The Schiaparelli collection, Chanel jewelry, the new Patou line. Like you said, I’ve been lucky. And I don’t think I’m ready to leave yet.”
“Oh, Lee,” he said, fishing her hand off of her lap and kissing it. “I know you have doubts about such a big step, but we could do it as man and wife. We could get married.”
In wide-eyed surprise, she barked out a laugh; with a fallen face, he popped off the sofa to refresh his drink, to have his back to her.
“I’m sorry, Man. But you know I’m not interested in marriage.”
“Forget about it,” he grumbled. “It was just a thought.”
He turned back around to give her a casual shrug, but his eyes were red-rimmed and watery. Seeing him so dejected filled her with pity, but not enough to make any regrettable sacrifices.
“Listen, why don’t you go to New York first?” Lee suggested innocently. “Test the waters and see how it goes.”
“Nah. I wouldn’t want to go without you. Now is our time. 1932 will be our year.” He sat back down and caressed her cheek. “You know what I’d really like?” He lowered his voice to that lusty whisper, the one she once found so appealing. “For you to spend more time modeling for me. Some artistic shots, erotic poses. Like we used to.”
She looked him in the face—the canine begging in his dark eyes, the hope in his half-smile—then sighed.
“I don’t have the time,” she said flatly. “I’ve got so many—”
“Who the hell do you think you are?” A flash flood of anger washed over him. “What an uppity little b-b-bitch you’ve become! You’re nobody without me.”
“That’s what you’d like to believe. But, the fact is, I’m not Madame Man Ray anymore. People call me. Just last week, Charlie Cha—”
“D-do you think you’d have been included in those Surrealist shows if I hadn’t pulled a few strings? The hell you aren’t Mrs. Ray!”
“You fucking bastard!” She jumped up and grabbed her coat. “My work stands on its own, and you know it. That’s why you’ve put your name on it a time or two.”
“Jesus, will I ever hear the end of that shit? One or two good photographs and you think you’re too good for me. Good luck with that c-c-career of yours.”
She slammed the door behind her and walked quickly back to her own studio, annoyed by his arrogance, but marveling at the fact she had outgrown him. Her mentor, her guide, her companion. Now he seemed to need her far more than she needed him.
• • •
Man immediately sent Lee a long letter—an angry justification bleeding into a nervous apology, with an addendum reiterating the New York plan—but she didn’t reply. The next day, she left for the Swiss Alps to spend the Christmas holidays away from Paris and Man Ray.
Charlie Chaplin had invited Lee to join his entourage at the Palace Hotel in Saint Moritz, the most fashionable ski resort in Europe. And she was delighted to be able to live it up in her best clothes and jewels, away from the darkroom and the newfound stutter in Man’s deep voice. Amongst royalty and movie stars, she threw herself into the glamorous social life. Skiing, toboggan runs, and skating filled the days, while at night, the beau monde mingled at chic restaurants and jazz clubs, dancing the latest steps while getting tight on newfangled cocktails. George Hoyningen-Huene was also there, on assignment, happily taking snapshots of his friends while enjoying himself at Vogue’s expense.
One night, Lee and George joined Chaplin for dinner with a group of his friends, which included a wealthy Egyptian couple, Aziz Eloui Bey and his wife, Nimet, a celebrated beauty.
“Good evening, Mr. Bey.” The man on Lee’s right was classically good-looking and elegantly dressed, probably in his early forties. To provoke him slightly, to see what he might say, she decided to compliment his wife. “Nimet is the most beautiful woman in the room.”
“She should be,” he said, his accent more British than exotic, “she spends all her waking hours applying makeup and skin creams.”
Lee laughed; she was already his confidante. “I know she’s sat for George and Man Ray. I wonder if she’d allow me to take her photo?”
“I’m sure she’d be flattered. But you’ll have to schedule a time that doesn’t interfere with her beauty regime: baths in Vichy water, strolls, long naps . . . Truly, I wish you the best of luck.”
“Oh, my darling girl,” Chaplin said suddenly to Nimet on the other side of the large round table. He looked at her teeth through a spoon, then wrapped her head in a napkin. “I’m afraid that molar is going to have to come out. Luckily, I am a graduate of the Grand Canard School of Dentistry.” He pulled up his sleeves and put her head on the table. “Open wide!” Using a pair of butter knives as forceps, he pretended to tug and pull, until he finally extracted a sugar cube from her mouth.
Everyone at the table shook with laughter. Lee peeked over at Aziz. She liked the way his eyes sparkled, his teeth shone.
The next morning, they ran into each other at the door of the coffee shop.
“A pleasure to see you ag
ain, Lee.”
The night before, by the end of dinner, they had insisted on first names; in the daylight, the clipped sound of her nickname caught her by surprise. She took his arm—finally, a man taller than her—and returned his familiar tone.
“And you, Aziz. Would you like to join me for hot chocolate? I recommend it with a touch of Grand Marnier.”
“Sounds delightful.”
They sat together at a window filled with snowy mountains and ordered cocoa and croissants.
“Are you on your own this morning?” Lee asked him.
“As usual. I wasn’t joking about my wife’s strict routine.” He looked at his watch. “At this moment, Nimet must be having her facial. That’s the curse of marrying a peacock, you know. You spend all your time alone.” He gestured to her with his hand. “And you, Lee? A woman as lovely as you surely has a trick or two.”
“Mine is an anti-regime. Late nights followed by a hearty mix of darkroom chemicals, tobacco, and cocktails. Perhaps I should write an article about it for Vogue? It could start a whole new fad.”
“Whatever you’re doing, it’s working like a charm.” He leaned back, allowing the waiter to serve them. “Plus, it leaves you free to have breakfast with me.”
Unlike the scores of ski-resort flatterers, Aziz seemed perfectly sincere. Blowing on her chocolate, Lee watched him drink, his elegant movements, the dapper mustache disappearing behind the cup. He glanced back at her, nearly startled to find her staring at him.
“Tell me. What other things do you do with all this spare time?”
“I’m an engineer,” he began.
“No kidding.” Lee smiled at the handsome Egyptian, warming to him by the minute. “So is my father.”
“I took a degree from Liverpool. Since then, I’ve worked in both business and diplomacy. We usually spend half the year in Cairo and half here in Europe.”
“Is that so?” Lee dunked her croissant in her spiked cocoa and took a bite, trying to imagine Nimet’s life: luxury, travel, and utter leisure. What might it be like to be spoiled by a gentleman—one who gave her room to breathe and money to spare? To be the only artist in a pair? A photographer who didn’t have to do endless sittings, but could concentrate on creative work—for galleries and shows, not rent and electricity. To have complete security, to never worry. It sounded perfect to her, ideal. Nimet was lucky to have such a husband, such a marriage.