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.
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 frenzied 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.
At the studio, when she finally goes back, there is ringing and ringing. At first Lee can’t figure out what it is. Some sort of alarm, a drill? When she realizes it’s the telephone she runs to get it, her voice breathless when she says hello. On the other end of the line is Madame Pecci-Blunt, her voice imperious. Will Man Ray still be coming the next day so she can show him the solarium where the party will be held? Lee fumbles, blurts out that actually, it is she who will be coming, as Man has been called away unexpectedly.
“Ah, you are the assistant?” Madame Pecci-Blunt says.
“Partner.”
“Yes, all right. The one Jean told me about. He said you were talented. But I need you both. I need Man Ray. Everyone knows him. This party has to be exquisite. It has to be the party of the year, the absolute pinnacle of the season. I don’t want just white cake! White plates!” Her voice oozes money, sophistication, her French a waterfall of tinkling vowels.
There is a pause. Lee remembers Jean’s advice, to just let the client talk until it’s clear what she wants. “It’s not about the food, or the plates,” Lee finally says, encouragingly.
“Ah, you are right! These ideas—they are the ideas a child would have. That is why I’m hiring you both. All I know is that the Bal is about magic, transporting the guests to another place entirely. Like a dream.”