The Woman in the Photograph by Dana Gynther Page B

hoped to be instantly accepted as one of them, not ridiculed in public. But when she looked up at Man’s troubled face, she started to chuckle, shaking her head.
    â€œShe’s really something else,” Lee said.
    Kiki had held up her reputation as bawdy and jealous, but Lee was not terribly impressed. Far prettier in photos, her looks were now passé. She was too full-figured—her fringedshift fit awkwardly around her big, maternal breasts and ample behind—and her makeup made her look more like a circus performer than a woman out on the town. Somehow, Lee felt relieved.
    â€œDon’t mind Kiki. She’s all bark, no bite,” he said. “I don’t know why she acts like that. She’s been living with her accordionist for months.”
    â€œI’m not worried. I can take care of myself.” She pulled at the chain. “And my little lamb.”
    After dinner, they went down to Le Dancing in the restaurant’s dark, smoky basement. To the beat of the loud band, chic couples were dancing a sweaty tango on the packed floor. Man and Lee danced a number, then stood to the side to cool off with whisky on ice. Lee’s eyes flitted around the room and caught the gaze of a few hopeful young men; she smiled back at them, but when she raised her arm to smooth the feathers on her cheek, she felt the tug of the chain. She was with Man Ray for now; Lee took his hand in hers. They were on their fourth or fifth round—and a bit unsteady—when Kiki swept down the stairs with her entourage. The members of the band called out to her over their instruments, waving drumsticks and trumpet, and quickly finished the number they were playing. The crowd shouted “Sing, Kiki, sing!” as the clarinet player pulled her up on stage.
    With a captivating smile, Kiki winked at the piano player, who began plunking out a simple melody. Swaying to the music, in perfect pitch, she belted out a risqué song.
    The young girls of Camaret say they are all virgins but . . .
    Lee nudged Man in the ribs, a bit harder than intended, andslurred into his ear. “I think Josephine Baker’s much better. I saw her once back when—”
    â€œShhh.” He hadn’t taken his eyes off the stage.
    Lee frowned and glanced back up. While she sang, Kiki flapped her skirt, back and forth, lifting it higher and higher over her black hose, up and over her garters. At the end of the number, she twisted around and flashed her bare backside. The crowd whooped and cheered; someone threw her a rose, which she put in her teeth with a bow. “ Encore !” they began to shout.
    â€œI need some air.” Lee pulled at the chain, tired of being a spectator. “Let’s go.”
    As they filed past the stage, Kiki called out in swampy English, “Bye, bye, my little Man,” then grinned at him, fluttering her fingers.
    â€œThis little Man is mine!” Lee called out. With a large smile and single wave good-bye, she took his arm and added, “See ya later, sweetheart.”

VII

    â€œWell, on the upside,” Lee said, looking around le Dôme’s quiet salon, “it’s rather nice to be rid of all those affected loafers.”
    The stock market had crashed the week before. In a single day the world economy plummeted; fortunes were lost, lives ruined. The exodus of American expatriates, most of whose livelihoods depended on intangible investments, began almost immediately. In Montparnasse, the difference was striking. The restaurants and bars—packed to the seams just days before—stood half-full. No one ordered dry martinis; the Welsh rarebit went uneaten.
    â€œAbsolutely.” Man nodded. “A lot of our charming compatriots seemed to be here just for the cheap, legal booze. And I don’t miss them one bit. Here’s to the Crash!”
    Man and Lee touched glasses and exchanged the irreverent smiles of naughty schoolchildren caught in the