Whitney Scharer - The Age of Light

They stare at the fountain for a while, watching the water pulse up and seem to hang suspended for a bit before splashing down into the marble bowl below. Lee tries to stop thinking about Man, and wishes she had her camera—she would take a picture of the horse’s eye with the arc of water surrounding it, and the long exposure time would make the water a smooth blur against the stone.

“I need to go home,” Lee says, breaking the silence. “I feel exhausted.”

“Where is home?” Jean asks. “With him—with Man Ray?”

“Yes.”

“The two of you are in love?” Jean asks.

Lee nods but doesn’t say anything at first. Of course she loves Man, but after the scene in the café, she doesn’t want to discuss her feelings with a stranger. What do the words mean, anyway? She and Man have barely said them to each other: just the time when they were doing the solarization, and later in bed. She dislikes the formality of the phrase, the weight of the history of all the other couples who have said it before them. Or maybe she doesn’t like how vulnerable the words make her feel: how they show her to be a person who feels deeply and demands reciprocation of that feeling.

The water rises up and slaps down, rises up and slaps down. Lee could watch it forever. She is not sure what to say to Jean. Finally she decides to be honest—he is so earnest, so intense, he brings it out in her.

“Sometimes I worry I don’t even know how to be in love with someone.”

Jean gives her an appraising stare. “There is very little how involved. It is like breathing. As simple as that.”

“Yes,” Lee says, but there is hesitation in her voice. There have been moments when it has felt that easy—lying in bed, her body twined with Man’s, so close Lee felt they were one creature—but often, especially lately, she has found herself observing their relationship from a distance, narrating her love for him: There is the man I love. Look at us, how we care for each other. What a lucky girl to be loved so deeply. Lee knows this isn’t normal, but sometimes it is the only way she can feel grounded in the moment. But she is not going to tell Jean this. Instead, she says, “Is that what your film is about? Is it a love story?”

“Ah, not so much love as a story about art. But these two are connected, no? The film will be an exploration of art and dreams, of the struggle between life and death. A grand experiment.”

“I have always, always wanted to be in a film.”

“And now you shall! I knew the moment I saw you that you would be perfect.”

Lee is flattered, but then her thoughts go back to Man—where he is right now, what he would say if she told him she was going to do the film—and just as quickly, she thinks that he should be happy for her. He should want her to have this opportunity. And if he doesn’t—well, maybe he’s the one who doesn’t fully understand what loving someone means.

“You know I have a job, as Man’s assistant.”

“And I imagine he is paying you in… knowledge?” Jean smiles wickedly. “We have plenty of that at my studio. Film is the future. And I will give you one hundred francs a day as well.”

“How much time will it take?”

“One week, maybe two? Not every day each week. All the days are money.”

Lee looks up at the statue and pictures herself covered in delicate gold leaf, breaking free and emerging radiant in a goddess’s robes. “I want to do it. I just have to tell Man and make sure it’s all right.”

“Wonderful!” Jean bounces up and down on the balls of his feet, and his enthusiasm makes Lee laugh. They move away from the fountain and head up the path that leads farther into the gardens. They walk for a while, making small talk, until finally she stifles a yawn and tells him again that she needs to get home.

“Where is home?”

“Rue Campagne Première.”

“I know where it is. It’s near his studio. I’ve been there a few times for him to take my portrait.”

“You didn’t seem as though you liked him at the Jockey.”

“People often don’t like other people. It doesn’t stop them from working together.”

Jean starts to walk her home, but then she stops him. Lee imagines getting to the apartment and seeing it dark and empty, imagines Man still out somewhere with Kiki.

“Where is your apartment?” Lee asks.

“Just there, two streets over.”

“Is there any way I could sleep there tonight… just sleep?” Lee feels she has to clarify.

Jean stares at her under the dim streetlight. “If you had a beard, and a cock, I would be interested in you. Otherwise, you do not need to worry.”

She laughs out loud, tucks her arm through his, and lets him take her to his home. For one night, Lee thinks, let Man worry that he has lost her.

In the morning Lee wakes up in Jean’s big white guest bed, in a high-ceilinged room with soft morning light streaming in through the tall windows. It is a beautiful room, white and spare. Lee thinks how good it would be for pictures. She lies there for a while, luxuriating in the cool hand of the lemon-scented sheets. At home, she thinks, Man is waking up too, perhaps just realizing she never came back. Or maybe he isn’t even there—maybe he went to Kiki’s. Lee can’t decide which scenario seems more likely. If he is home, he is surely furious with her.

Jean has left her a note saying that he had to get to the studio but that she should make herself at home, so Lee takes a quick bath and inspects her cheek in the lavatory mirror. It doesn’t appear bruised, but it feels tender and hot to the touch. Nothing can be done about her hair. There is not a single sign of a woman’s presence in the entire bathroom, not even a comb. Lee picks at the tangles with her fingers before giving up completely.

When Lee gets home the apartment is empty. She goes from room to room but there is no sign of Man. The previous night’s events come rushing back to her again. The song, Kiki’s fury, Man soothing her as Lee left. She goes into the kitchen to make an espresso on the stovetop, lighting the burner and measuring out the coffee as she has learned to do. The grounds froth up and the kitchen fills with their acrid smell.

Their space. In the bright morning light, after being in Jean’s apartment, Lee finds this place small and unkempt. The table where she sits to drink her espresso is cluttered with unsuccessful prints, empty glasses, a plate crusted with brown gravy. Lee is no housekeeper. Until this moment she has not noticed what a mess she has made—she and Man, for he is not exactly tidy—and all the piles of dishes and clutter remind her of the time they spent together, how easy it’s been, over the past months, to ignore the simple chores of everyday life. Now she is disgusted by the mess they have created. She begins gathering things up, arranging them in tidier piles and filling the sink with dishes.

Lee has not spent much time alone in this apartment. It is unsettling. She misses Man, his charged presence. Without him here, the rooms have a dimness to them. She notices dust clotted in the corners, the repeats in the chinoiserie wallpaper that don’t line up at the edges, the pattern of cherry blossom branches breaking where the paper has peeled away from the wall.

Where is he? She remembers one of the pictures Man showed her of Kiki, her back to the camera and face in profile, imagines the two of them together now, his fingers tracing Kiki’s spine in a delicate curving pattern. Her breasts, pale and swinging, Man’s square workman’s hands kneading them like dough. Without meaning to she imagines Kiki flung facedown on Man’s bed, her hands tied behind her and his body between her legs. The thought makes Lee jittery. She can actually feel the espresso coursing through her. As she moves around the space, three mugs corralled by the handles in one hand, a stack of plates balanced on her forearm, the light from a window hits a framed picture at just such an angle that she can see herself mirrored there—her dress wrinkled, her hair dried to a spoiled snarl—and the sight of her disheveled reflection depresses her, sadness coming in a wave so sudden and strong it almost knocks her over. Lee sets down the dishes and drops into a chair.

What has she done? What if Man is truly angry at her? Without him, what does she have? She has done nothing to create a life apart from him. She wants to crawl into bed, yield to the sadness, wait for Man to comfort her when he gets home. Whenever that will be.

Or she can leave. Lee has always been good at solving problems by leaving, ducking out of parties she no longer wants to be at without saying goodbye, moving across an ocean to get away from a job she no longer enjoys. If she leaves, maybe she can stave off the sadness that threatens to engulf her.

In the bedroom Lee fixes her hair. Pulls on a different dress, puts a dark slash of maroon lipstick on her lips and hangs drop earrings on her ears. She does it all quickly, no wasted motion, and as she leaves the apartment she lets the door shut with a crash. The heels of her oxfords clack against the pavement as she walks away.

The film studio is in chaos when Lee arrives. Jean is behind the camera in the middle of a scene, the main actor shirtless onstage and pounding his chest in apparent agony. Twenty or thirty people rush from place to place and none of them even glance at Lee as she stands at the threshold and takes it all in. Jean shouts “Arrêtez!” and the actor relaxes, cracking his knuckles and rolling his head around in a lazy circle. Jean approaches him and starts talking excitedly.