When they’re outside the studio, Lee figures it is time for her father to go. It’s four o’clock, and he will want to rest before dinner. But when she says this to him, he doesn’t answer, turning instead to Man and saying, “Before I go, I would love to have my portrait taken with my daughter. Do we have time for that?”
Lee is mortified. It is so presumptuous. “Daddy…” she says.
But Man, who also has a startled expression on his face, says, “No, of course! I should have thought to suggest it.”
“It’s getting late,” Lee says. “There’s probably not enough light.”
Man stands on the step below her before the studio door, and just for a second he puts his hand on the small of her back. “It’s fine, Lee. We have enough time to get it in.” Lee looks at her father to see if he’s noticed Man’s touch, but he is fiddling with his scarf, not paying attention.
Together they go into the studio. Man drags a high-backed chair into the center of the room and seats Lee’s father in it, then runs some light tests. Lee stands off to the side with her arms crossed. Her father sits with his back ramrod straight, and she stares at his profile, his aquiline nose, his meticulously razored sideburns.
Lee moves to take her place beside him and tries to relax her face into a less tetchy expression. Man makes a couple of exposures of them like this, and then Theodore says, “Bitsie, this is a portrait, not a foot drill. Come, sit with me.” He takes her hand and pulls her toward him, and she complies, and before she knows it she is sitting on his lap as she used to do when she was young, her head resting on his shoulder.
From under the dark cloth Man calls, “Ready?”
Her father’s jacket is scratchy against her cheek and smells familiar: herbs and loam, the cedar from his soap. Lee stares directly at the camera, almost through it, and then she is floating outside herself and seeing the picture from Man’s perspective: the bodies upside down in the viewfinder, Lee clinging to her father’s neck. Docile, passive, exactly who she does not want to be. The pose feels so normal—she has sat on his lap a thousand times—but having Man as a witness is suddenly intolerable. Lee tries to pull free but her father’s arm at her waist holds her steady, and instead she stiffens inside his grasp.
After a few more exposures, Man comes out from under the cloth and says, “I have to get another plate.” His voice is stilted and professional, and he walks quickly over to the supply closet, his heels thudding hard on the wood floor.
Lee stands up. “How many did you get?”
“Five or six.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Lee says, and then to her father, “Man works quickly. You won’t be disappointed.”
Even though they are done, Theodore wants to linger, but Lee can’t get him out the door fast enough. Man is clearly happy to see him go. Lee escorts Theodore to his hotel, walking so quickly that she grows hot beneath her coat, and even her father, with his long stride, can barely keep up with her. He moves to kiss her cheek at the hotel’s entrance, but she steps away from him and leaves him standing alone.
A block away she ducks into a bar and takes a seat at the counter, breathes deeply, and orders one brandy and then another, drinks them until her empty stomach burns. It is not until she has finished both drinks that she pays attention to her surroundings, lifts her head and looks around at the other people in the bar. Paris a city full of strangers still. Everyone is paired or in groups of three, their faces round and blank as moons. They talk and laugh around her, their actions exaggerated as if they’re in a play.
Lee wishes she hadn’t agreed to see her father while he was here. Having him see her new life has diminished it somehow. Diminished her. She remembers the rages she used to fly into when she was young: screaming, kicking at walls, pulling at her hair until it came out in clumps in her fists. All that rage, and in the end it led to nothing. To acquiescence. The submission her father required of her when she was a child—she felt it again when Man was taking their picture, when Theodore’s hand was on her thigh. She thought that part of her life was behind her, but having him here in Paris has brought it back, like two sides of a stereoscope coalescing into one image. And how different is her relationship with Man? She complies with all he asks of her too.
When she gets back to the studio, she realizes she has forgotten her key, so she rings the bell and Man meets her at the door.
“I didn’t know if you were coming back until later,” he says.
“I just dropped him at the hotel, and stopped for a drink on the way home.”
Man’s face twitches with what seems to Lee like disgust. “I can smell it on you.”
She climbs the stairs and goes into the parlor, Man following her. “Should we have another?” she asks. “I think we should have another.”
She busies herself at the bar cart, pours two brandies into matching tumblers. When she hands one to Man, he says, “Thank you, Bitsie.”
He gives the word a hard edge and Lee winces. “Don’t. Just… don’t.”
“What was that? You, your father—it was like you were trying to make me jealous.”
“What do you mean?”
“Letting him pay for the coffees… Making me take your picture…”
“I didn’t let him do anything. He does what he wants. And besides, you should have offered to take our picture.” Lee doesn’t really think this; she was just as uncomfortable as Man with Theodore’s request for a portrait, but she wants to lash out at him.
“Oh really?” Man says. “It’s not taking the picture I minded. It’s how superfluous I felt. Like you didn’t need me.” He says the last few words quietly, his voice self-pitying and needy, which makes her even angrier.
Lee sets down her tumbler on a side table and then takes Man’s from him as well. She hooks her fingers in his shirt collar and pulls him toward her, kissing him on the mouth so hard it almost hurts.
“Stay there,” Lee says. She goes into the hallway and gets his scarf, the one he was wearing that afternoon. Back in front of him, she runs the length of it through her hands.
“Lee—”
With one hand she pushes him onto the couch and then straddles him, putting her mouth back on his insistently. Though at first he resists her kiss, through their clothes she feels him grow hard. It pleases her, how irresistible she is to him. She picks up the scarf and ties it around his eyes, pulling it tight in a knot at the back of his head and then pushing him down so he is lying on the couch. It is the first time they’ve done this. The sight of him with the blindfold on excites her much more than she thought it would. She feels so aroused she is almost ashamed. Maybe it is anger—she wants to hurt Man, wants to cause him pain. Together they strip off his clothes and then she takes off her own. She squeezes both of his wrists so tight she can feel the bones slide. And then she reaches between her legs, pushes him inside her, and begins to move on top of him.
“Lee, this—I don’t think—” His voice is almost fearful, but she releases his wrists and rests her hand on his mouth briefly so he cannot speak. She grinds against him, paying attention only to what her own body wants, speeding up the tempo, so fast she feels his balls slap against her. He groans and calls out her name as if it’s hard for him to say it, grabs her waist and helps her slam herself down on top of him, again and again and again.
He tries to move her to a new position, to slow her down, but she won’t let him. She keeps going, faster and faster, until she feels his whole body stiffen and he cries out her name again. Even then she won’t stop, pounding against him, and when she comes she rakes her nails across his shoulders.