The deadline for the magazine’s next issue is the following week, and there is always a ramping up of activity and energy as the date approaches. The offices are in their usual chaos when Lee arrives, models and assistants and illustrators running around as if by moving quickly they’ll be able to get their work done on time. A few people say hello to Lee as she passes them in the hall, but she goes straight into one of the dressing rooms and sits in a chair. She can’t believe she has a shoot today—Lee hasn’t slept a minute, and she doubts even George is talented enough to obscure the bags she sees under her eyes when she looks in the mirror.
Man must know exactly where she was last night. He must know that for weeks when she was with him, it was Antonio’s hands she imagined touching her, Antonio’s body she pictured in the dark. Or maybe he doesn’t; maybe he has no idea. Lee seizes on this thought and then finds herself getting indignant—how can he not know? How foolish can he be?
The door creaks open and Horst strides into the room. He takes one look at Lee and says, “You look run over.”
Lee groans and drops her head, rubbing at her temples. Horst sits down in a chair across from her and stretches his legs in front of him, crosses them at the ankle. “Jesus. George isn’t going to be pleased. We’re shooting the hat spread today, I think.” He sits forward and peers at her more closely. “Have you been crying?”
“No.” Lee spits out the word. “And you don’t look so hot yourself.”
Horst looks at himself in the mirror and gives his reflection a toothy smile. “I look marvelous, and you know it.”
Lee is supposed to laugh, but she doesn’t, and Horst turns his attention back to her, a vague look of concern flashing across his pretty features.
“Let’s get this done,” she says.
The shoot goes fine—the makeup artist works what Lee feels is a minor miracle—but after it is over, and Lee realizes she has to go home again, she gets the same feeling she had earlier with Man, as if her tongue is swelling up and choking her.
Horst and George stand chatting in the hallway, flirting as always. Lee waits. Horst usually walks her home, and she wants his company even more than usual, so that she can stop her mind from its endless circling.
When they get outside, the afternoon air is milder than before. The wind has died down, and they walk along Boulevard Raspail, the cafés and bars thronged with people who, like her, Lee thinks, don’t want to go home. The laughter and street sounds set her on edge, and after a few blocks she turns onto a quieter side street, Horst following along behind her. They pass a men’s shop with a window display of wide silk neckties, and Horst pauses in front of it.
“Can you wait a minute? I love that blue one,” he says, and darts into the store. Lee stands on the sidewalk and uses the opportunity to try to slow her thumping heart. Horst is gone for five minutes, then ten. Lee peers through the shop’s murky glass door and sees him gesticulating in front of a mirror, four ties draped around his neck. She sits down on the shop’s stoop. In front of the store is a lamppost covered with a palimpsest of signs and posters. Lost cats, new bistros, advertisements for upcoming films. And there, glued among them, is a familiar face. Lee stands up and goes over to the lamppost. ILSE BING AND CLAUDE CAHUN: OBJECTS AND OBJECTIFICATIONS, it says, with photographs of both women printed beneath the title, and below that, one of Ilse’s photographs of a dancer and one of Claude’s self-portraits. PIERRE GALLERY, DECEMBER 1930–JANUARY 1931.
“Fuck,” Lee whispers. She rips the sign free and shakes it. They’ve actually done it—Ilse and Claude. At the Pierre, where not even Man has had a show. If she had handled things differently, befriended them months ago, perhaps Lee could be there with them. “Fuck,” she says again, louder, and repeating the oath makes her feel better, a valve released.
A few moments later, Horst comes out of the store, two tie boxes under one arm. Lee quickly balls up the paper and tosses it in a nearby bin, and then she puts a smile on her face and walks back to Horst, who shows her his ties and seems content to walk in silence next to her.
They take a shortcut through the Cimetière du Montparnasse, where stately elm trees make an archway over the wide paths. Lee can’t think of a day when she’s felt worse. She crosses her arms and rubs her hands up and down them, trying to warm up.
“You sure you’re all right?” Horst finally asks her.
Lee lifts her chin. “I’m fine.”
He nods. She glances over at him, at his guileless face, at the tie boxes held casually in the crook of his arm, at the little comb marks in his perfectly slicked-back hair, his whole figure radiating self-content and vigor, and she feels a sudden, powerful dislike for him.
“You and George,” Lee says abruptly. “Everybody knows what’s going on between the two of you.”
Horst stops on the path, knits his eyebrows together, and shoves his balled fists into his pockets. “None of their business,” he says. “Besides, nothing’s happening.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone has known for months you want to fuck him.”
Horst takes a step back as if Lee has slapped him. She can tell by his face that she has crossed a line. But saying it releases more pressure within her. “It’s embarrassing. All the gossip. Just do it and get it over with.”
“What the hell? What is wrong with you?”
What is wrong with her? Horst blinks his long eyelashes at her. Horst is nice, one of the nicest people she’s met in Paris, uncomplicated and fun to work with. Finally she says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”
“Well, figure it out. You’re no peach to be around lately.” Horst starts walking, kicking at some of the larger pebbles in the path, and when she follows him, he holds up a hand to stop her. “You know?” he says, turning to face her. “You’d have a lot easier time in life if you treated people how you want them to treat you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Horst hesitates, then says, “Look. You’re fun, when you want to be. But we’ve worked together for how long now? And what do you know about me? You never seem very interested in anyone but yourself. And if you were interested in me, you’d know that I made a pass at George, and he turned me down. So if there’s gossip, none of it’s true.” He glares at the path in front of him.
“I’m sorry—”
“Are you, Lee?” Horst shakes his head, and then turns around and heads down the path to the south side of the cemetery. She watches him until he disappears around a corner, and then she stands there a little longer, wondering what to do. In her current mood, she is afraid to do anything, afraid of what else she might destroy.
She can’t go home. Can’t be there, in her and Man’s space, even if he’s not there. She also can’t be alone with herself, so she turns around and heads for Les Deux Magots, where she’ll have a cup of tea and try to get herself into a better state. But then as she walks up Rue des Plantes, she remembers that Jean is back. She changes course and heads for his apartment, suddenly desperate to see his friendly face. When he opens his door, Lee practically falls into his arms.
“Mouse!” he cries, picking her up off the step and holding her in the air. “I was thinking I was going to have to come find you if you didn’t answer my letter soon, and here you are.”
They go into Jean’s sitting room. He pours Lee a glass of wine, the sight of which turns her stomach. He sits across from her and keeps up a stream of chatter, telling her about Rome and the brand-new train he traveled on when he came home and all the edits he’s made to the film. “It is so, so good,” he says. “If it were not my own work, I would use the word brilliant. Forgive me: I will use the word anyway. The film is brilliant, and you, my dear, are brilliant in it.”
Lee smiles for what feels like the first time all day. “Really?”
“Would I exaggerate? Everyone is so pleased. The vicomte loves it. Well”—here a shadow crosses Jean’s face—“all but the ending. We have to redo the ending, but that has nothi
ng to do with you. I have to get Anush back to film those sections again—ah! Did you hear? Anush is having a baby.”
Lee hasn’t heard. She hasn’t kept up with any of the people from the film except for Jean, and as he tells her about Anush and the others, she feels herself grow a little calmer. Anush liked her, accepted her just as she was. Everyone on the film set liked her. Lee doesn’t need Horst’s friendship, and if Man is angry with her, then maybe she doesn’t need Man.
“When you make another film, can I be in it?”
“You can be in any of my films for all time,” Jean says dramatically, placing his hand over his heart.
She imagines stepping onto Jean’s next film set and just leaving the rest of her life behind. “What are you working on next?”
Jean picks up her untouched glass and takes a swallow. “Who can tell? I might not do another film for years. I have to get hit with an idea. Right now I’m writing poetry. Painting. Talking to Diaghilev. He wants me to do another project for his new ballet.”
Just hearing the word ballet makes Lee shudder. She sits back against the couch and feels almost sick with thoughts of last night. Jean, always observant, notices instantly.
“What is wrong?”
He stares at her, his deep-set brown eyes intent. Lee knows she shouldn’t talk about what she’s done, but she feels an uncontrollable urge to tell him, to lay her guilt at someone else’s feet, someone who cares for her. “I’ve done a bad thing,” she whispers, looking down at her lap.
Jean moves over to the couch and takes her hands in his. “What could you do that is so terrible?”
Lee clears her throat, tries to swallow. “You know Antonio Caruso?”
A wistful smile crosses Jean’s face. “Of course.”
“I—I was with him. Last night. Man doesn’t know, or I’m not sure: he might know. I didn’t go home last night. I haven’t slept in two days.” The words rush out, tumble over themselves.
Jean has closed his eyes and still has the smile on his face.
“Jean?” Lee asks.
“Sorry.” He opens his eyes. “I was making a picture of you and Caruso in my mind. He is such an attractive man. I’m always inventing reasons to need him on my set, just so I can look at him.”
Lee wants to laugh, but she’s too anxious. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispers.
Jean drums his fingers on his leg. “When Man Ray was with Kiki,” he says, “they used to scream at each other in the street. Everybody heard them. Talked about them. I don’t hear these stories about you two.”
“We shout in private,” Lee says with a choked laugh.
“Ah. Well, a cat never changes its stripes, as they say. Man was always telling Kiki what to do, so I can imagine that he does the same with you.”
“Yes.”
“Kiki—” Jean dismisses her with a snap of his fingers. “I don’t have many feelings for her. But you: no one should tell you what to do.”
Lee covers her face with her hands. How can she explain to Jean what Man means to her? Even if Jean didn’t dislike him, she doesn’t know if she can make him understand. She says, “Remember that night when I first met you, and you took me to the fountain and asked me if I was in love with Man?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve thought about that night so many times. I didn’t want to tell you how I felt about Man. You were a stranger. And so I told you that I didn’t know how to be in love. And I do feel that way sometimes…but there’s so much of Man’s and my relationship—so much of any relationship—that no one ever sees. You can’t explain it to an outsider. At least I can’t. But there was something I regretted not telling you about that night. Months ago, I was working in the darkroom alone one night, and this mouse ran over my foot—”
“A mouse for Mouse,” Jean says, nodding.
“Ha, yes. Anyway, I turned on the darkroom light and exposed my negatives to the light and it didn’t ruin them, and afterward Man and I worked together to re-create the technique—we perfected it, and the prints we made together, they’re my favorite work I’ve ever done. I think that was when I knew I could really be an artist.”
Lee takes a breath. Jean says, “Everyone has that moment when they go from trying to doing. I had it too, a similar thing with a teacher. But you’ve always been an artist. Anyone can see that.”
Lee nods, but she doesn’t really believe him. “Maybe,” she finally says. “But that was the happiest I’ve ever been.”
“Ah. That’s a different thing.”
“Yes.”
Jean holds out his hands. “You want my thoughts? You slept with Caruso because Caruso is a beautiful man and you’re a beautiful woman. You’re young and figuring things out. Tell Man Ray or don’t tell him. It’s up to you. But don’t make yourself feel bad for what you did. Nothing good comes from that. You’re an artist. Artists crave experiences because that’s how they make art.”
It would be so easy to agree with Jean: Lee has told herself the same thing several times already. But using a desire for experience as an excuse for an affair—it is just that, an excuse, a way to absolve herself of her transgression. And the reasons she slept with Antonio are so tangled in her head there is no way to explain them to Jean. Much of it has nothing to do with Man, but that doesn’t change the fact that she has done something to hurt him. Lee says, “If I don’t tell him, there will always be a lie in our relationship.”
“So tell him.”
“But then there won’t be a relationship. Man would never—he would never betray me the way I just did him.” Lee feels her eyes prick with tears and swipes at them with the back of her hand.
“Hmm. Then you, Mouse, are a lucky woman.” Jean pats her leg. “Perhaps the best thing is not to think about this anymore, at least not right now. Do you want me to show you the film?”
They go into a room at the back of Jean’s apartment, where the blinds are drawn and a projector is already set up. Together they watch the film from start to finish, and when they get to the part where Lee appears, her eyes closed, gliding across the stage like marble come to life, she sucks in her breath and holds it in as she watches. Jean glances at her and then takes her hand, threading his fingers through hers and squeezing.
“See?” he says when it is over, getting up and shutting off the projector. “Brilliant.”
It is past suppertime, and Lee knows she needs to leave. She feels calmer now, even though she is still unsure what she will do or say when she sees Man. At the door, Jean embraces her and whispers into her hair, “Be well, Mouse,” and she clings to him a little longer than necessary before she leaves.
Man has not left the note in the usual place on the dining room table. He has not left it in the kitchen, or on the little stand by the door. It is in their bedroom, propped on a pillow on the bed beneath his half-finished painting. It’s folded in half, written on the business stationery he got years ago when he was feeling flush, his monogram letterpressed at the top of the page.
Lee stands beneath his picture of her mouth and reads it.
My love,
Do you know your power? How much power you hold over me? I think if you knew you would not hurt me the way you do. You would not promise to commit to me and then leave me constantly wondering, constantly confused. You would not make me a man who needs a promise.
I need to leave town for a few days, maybe longer. I can’t write or paint or photograph when all I think of is you. The only way for me to get anything done is to leave for a while. If you want to write me you can reach me care of Arthur and Rose. I am sorry I am leaving when the Bal is just around the corner, but I’m sure you’ll find a way to do it on your own.
Yours ever and always,
M
Lee reads the note again, and then a third time. Does he know? Does it matter? The room feels recently vacated; she has a sudden vision of catching him at the station. In her mind’s eye she imagines it: the race down crowded sidewalks, her hand waving like a frenzie
d bird as she hails a cab, finding him just as he is about to board the train and shouting his name until he sees her. The scene feels false, ridiculous. In it Lee isn’t covered in the lingering stink of her betrayal.
Lee puts down the letter, goes to the wardrobe, and gets out her dressing gown. Puts it on. Goes into the kitchen and makes a cup of tea. No part of her pays attention to what she’s doing. The apartment is so quiet. On the street beneath their window people chatter, and in the distance is the rising wail of a police siren. Beneath the worry that has gnawed at her all day, Lee feels something different. She will have to do the Bal Blanc on her own. She knows just what she’ll do—the idea she had last night at Drosso’s. The new feeling inside her is so fresh and clean it is inchoate; she cannot yet pin it down with a name.
Chapter Thirty-one
Days pass in ways that Lee does not remember. She stays in bed; she oversleeps. There is no one there to see her. She drinks espresso on an empty stomach; she eats the last remaining food. Without Man there the apartment is a cavern. The lights are off and still she pulls the covers over her head.
Lying on the mattress Lee can look up behind her and see Man’s painting. She runs her fingers over the thick texture of the dried paint. From this angle her lips look even more like bodies, and Lee wishes powerfully that Man were next to her, that he hadn’t gone away.
The same groove cuts into Lee’s mind until she is sick of thinking. Antonio: he felt like a simple test of her bad behavior, of how far she was willing to go. But now: the sadness she is left with. Lee stretches her arms and legs to the edges of the bed and cannot find the end of her regret.
After a few days, Lee finally has to rouse herself. Get some food, get to work. On the street the sunshine is blinding; she wears dark glasses and pulls her hat down tight. As she runs errands she feels like an actress, better than she ever was on Jean’s set. She wills the muscles in her face to move when she wants to smile, ties a rope around her thoughts and drags them back to the moment at hand. It works, mainly. But at the bakery, in the middle of a transaction, she forgets what she is doing. Other times she has to leave a shop and take deep breaths to calm herself down.
The Age of Light Page 30
