The Woman in the Photograph Read Free Page B

Lee said. “ L’appartement de Man Ray? ”
    â€œ Non, mademoiselle. ” The concierge looked genuinely disappointed for her. “ Monsieur Ray n’est pas là. Il est en vacances. Il est parti ce matin. ”
    Lee’s face fell. “Ah, bon? ” She wavered a moment, staring back at the woman before accepting the fact she wouldn’t be ushered in. “Merci, madame.”
    As she turned back to the busy boulevard, she heard the heavy clink of the door closing behind her. What blasted luck! How could he be on vacation? It rankled her that she had missed him by only a few hours. Would he be gone long? She hated to think that her plan, as tenuous as it was, had already fallen through. It was time for a drink.
    She went into le Bateau Ivre, a Montparnasse café near his studio. She’d heard it was popular with the avant-garde set—and Man Ray himself—and, even now, around noon, it was packed; every table was filled with young, intense-looking sorts engrossed in lively discussions. Lee skirted past loud, smoky tables, their numbers doubled by the mirrored wall, and went straight to the bar.
    â€œA glass of Pernod, please, with lots and lots of ice.” She was pleased to find the French vocabulary for ordering drinks came back to her without a hitch.
    A pair of ice tongs in his hand, the bartender gave her aquizzical look—“ Beaucoup, beaucoup ?”—but she nodded firmly. Lee knew only Americans took such stock in frozen water, but didn’t care. She paid for her drink, then scanned the room for an empty table. Pushing off from the bar, she went up the spiral staircase, away from the crowd, to think.
    She fell into a chair, then took a quick sip of the icy anisette before taking off her jacket and lighting a cigarette. Blowing the smoke out in a long sigh, she tried to decide her next step. Should she find a different teacher? Or go back to modeling and wait for Mr. Ray to come back to Paris?
    A man emerged from an office there on the mezzanine and headed toward her. His thinning hair was carefully parted in the middle, his well-tailored suit made his waist look narrow, almost womanly. His eyes on hers, he straightened his bow tie. An overused gesture, she thought, self-satisfaction masquerading as nerves.
    â€œI couldn’t help but notice you come in, mademoiselle. This is my place,” he said in French, with a slight sweep of the hand. “I’m—”
    Lee didn’t catch his name—an unfamiliar jumble of foreign syllables—but didn’t care enough to ask him to repeat it. She offered him a patient smile as he sat down, arranging his chair as close to hers as possible, and began to prattle on about himself—but Lee scarcely listened. Her looks attracted men like bears to honey, and she usually found their motivations as empty and superficial as their chatter.
    By the second round of drinks, restless and bored, she was waiting for a pause so she could make her excuses and leave. When the circular staircase creaked with the weight of a newcomer,she turned her full attention to it. A man seemed to be rising up through the floor, floating in a spiral. When he reached the top step, she saw that he was short and stocky yet somehow light, elegant in a loose pair of white flannels. He had a roman nose and, under dramatic pointed eyebrows, his heavy-lidded eyes were large and round. A voyeur’s eyes.
    Unlike the garden-variety bore beside her—a promising candidate for one of Mr. Porter’s dinner parties— this man looked interesting.
    Following Lee’s gaze, the bar owner drew near her, his mouth almost touching her ear, his voice filled with self-importance: “That’s Man Ray,” he whispered. “The photog—”
    Lee jumped up with a gasp, nearly overturning the drinks. What luck! He was still in Paris! Steadying herself with the back of her chair, she stared at the dark older man,