The Beautiful American by Jeanne Mackin

impressionists and the new surrealists.
    “Nein,” the collector argued back, thumping his beer mug on the table. “That Spaniard, that Picasso, he is the link. I buy Picasso.”
    “He buys everything,” Lee whispered to me. “Frightfully rich. Related to the Kaiser or some such thing.”
    Sometime close to midnight, Lee, who had been slumped and giggling to herself, sat up a little straighter and gave Man a gentle poke in the ribs. “Since Jamie’s a photographer,” she said, “couldn’t you use him in the studio? You need a new assistant.” Lee had spoken loudly enough for all of us to hear. If Man said no, he would look miserly or ungracious or, worse, jealous.
    “Certainly,” he said, smiling tightly. “Good idea. More champagne, then, to settle the deal.”
    Jamie gently kicked me under the table. We’re in, he mouthed. He looked like a kid at Christmas.
    Couple by couple, group by group, the club began to empty as night turned to a newly arriving day, and still we ate and drank until we were the last ones there and the waiters stood yawning around us, looking at the clock on the wall.
    Lee stood. “Home,” she said, tottering on her high heels. “I need my beauty sleep.”
    Outside, the snow had been falling more heavily and there was a white carpet over the streets, catching the lamplight and sparkling like rhinestones on white satin.
    “I wish I had my camera with me.” Jamie yawned and stretched his arms over his head, then held his hands in front of his eyes, making a frame of them. Man shot him a glance that said much. The shot wouldn’t work. Jamie was too young. Too romantic.
    “Come,” Man said. “Let’s put these fine Germans into a taxi and walk back. The air will do us good.”
    The fine Germans were barely awake, having eaten and drunk too much, so Man told the driver to take them to the Ritz on the place Vendôme, the classy hotel where all collectors stayed when in Paris. If it was the wrong hotel, then they could get a room there for the night and return to the other one in the morning. The model and her husband, locked in a tottering embrace, tangoed to the street corner and waved good night.
    “Where are you staying?” Lee asked me. “We’ll walk you there.”
    “Rue Boissonade, near the convent.” Their bees had flown in and out of windows on those mild days when we raised the sash. The nuns made honey to help support themselves.
    Lee put her arm through mine and laughed. “You’re kidding! Man and I are just two blocks away!”
    Jamie and I lived within shouting distance of Lee Miller . . . and never bumped into her. And then, just as we were about to give up, to go back home, we ran into her outside a club, and like a fairy godmother, she got Jamie work and offered to take us under her wing.
    “Aren’t we lucky?” Jamie beamed.
    •   •   •
    T he next morning, the same morning really, since we hadn’t gotten to bed until around three a.m., I woke to the sound of gravel being thrown against the window.
    I rolled out from under Jamie’s arm and pulled his discarded shirt around me. He was still snoring as gently, sweetly as a sleeping cat.
    Lee was down in the street, grinning up at the window. She put her hands to her mouth as if to shout, then mouthed, “Come down,” and beckoned me with her little finger. “Alone,” she added. How did I read all that from a third-floor window? Or did I just imagine it?
    It was barely dawn, but Lee’s grin was irresistible. She hadn’t been to bed yet, or at least she hadn’t washed the lipstick and mascara from her face, but she had changed her clothes and wore trousers, a man’s wool peacoat, a beret. Her camera hung around her neck and a leather kit of supplies was strapped across her chest.
    “Where to?” I asked five minutes later, having splashed cold water on my face, run my fingers through my hair, and dashed down into the street. We left crunching tracks in the snow as she turned right and pointed