The Woman in the Photograph by Dana Gynther Page A

I’ll put the Place Vendôme on hold. See what you can do.”
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    Over the next few days, he made inquiries with all-knowing barmen and gossipy concierges; rejecting anything too far away, he inspected a handful of apartments.
    â€œLee?” He walked into the bedroom; she was reading a magazine with her back to the door. “Hey, baby, you want to see your new place?”
    â€œYou’ve made a decision? Without me?” She turned to him, piqued. “I can’t believe it.”
    â€œJust come with me,” he said, taking her hand. “You’re going to love it.”
    She put on her shoes, shaking her head in frustration. He was much more controlling than her father had ever been. Even as a small girl, he’d let her take decisions, make mistakes, do as she pleased.
    They walked down the boulevard Raspail in silence, then turned down a side street; the ivied wall of the old cemetery ran its entire length. Since the disappointing Surrealist tea party, Lee had gone there exploring several times and had even left a lipsticked kiss on the tombstone of her favorite poet, Charles Baudelaire, the syphilitic opium addict who wrote of sex and death. She liked the quiet here, just a home-run hit from the busy, bar-filled center of Montparnasse. Opposite the graveyard, she noticed for the first time the row of artists’ studios.
    â€œThis is it,” said Man.
    He stopped at the entrance of a white building with large windows cut in the Art Deco style. The small courtyard babbled with the song of the tiled fountain in the center. Inside, a tiny elevator was tucked into the stairwell.
    Man led her into the elevator, yanked the accordion brass door closed, and pushed 2. She laughed as it rose with a jerk, then kissed Man. “You lucky bastard,” she said. “This may do.”
    He handed her the key. She unlocked the door and swung it wide open. Light streamed into the apartment, more luxurious and larger than Man’s place. Lee examined every corner, then turned to kiss him again.
    â€œIt’s wonderful!” she cried. “The lines, the windows, the views. Look at the boneyard down there! It’s like a miniaturecity filled with marble houses. And look over here!” She pointed to a closet next to the bath. “It’s a perfect place to put a darkroom.”
    â€œYou can still use mine, Lee.” His mouth twitched. “I was thinking that we could work at my place and come here to sleep.”
    â€œSure.” She nodded. Lee wanted to set up her own studio, to have her own clientele, to be in business for herself, but she didn’t want to argue. Not today. She was delighted with this place, happy he’d found it. “I’ll still set up a work space here. For rainy days when I don’t want to get out of my pajamas.”
    She spent the next week decorating. On one wall, she hung flea-market gramophone records on top of bright fabric, creating a chic wallpaper collage. On another wall, she put up silver paper to reflect the light. Pleased with its swanky look, she nonetheless kept one corner bare, reserving it for future sitters. Man brought over some of his handmade lamps, whose shades unwound in long spirals, and a Cocteau tapestry to hang behind the bed. When it was finally done, he went out for champagne.
    Alone, Lee reinspected each room. With contented sighs, she smoothed the blanket on the bed, reorganized her lipsticks and powders, peeked into the half-empty cupboards, and straightened her hatboxes and shoes. How thrilling to have her own place—in Paris! Here she was neither accessory nor assistant. In this studio, she was queen.
    They toasted the new apartment, again and again. When the bottle was empty, she led Man over to the bed and removed his tie. Staring him in the eye, she threw it over her shoulder,wetting her lips with her tongue. Then she began unbuttoning his shirt. She was going to