Chapter Twenty-One
Mamma leaves that Sunday evening—by private railcar, just as Stanny promised—which means I’m home alone on Monday, my one day off from the theater, when Stanny comes calling.
The hotel concierge sees him in while I’m sitting down to a late breakfast. I’m still in my wrapper, taking advantage of this break from Mamma to sleep later and move a bit slower, but Stanny says nothing about that, or my loose, unkempt hair, as he joins me at the table and pours himself a cup of coffee.
We sit together in companionable silence for a while, him thumbing through a copy of the morning paper, before he says, “I have planned quite a day for us.”
I perk up. “What is it?”
“Finish your breakfast, and you’ll see.”
As we are readying to leave the suite, Stanny asks me to bring along my new red cloak, and since it’s a chilly November day, I happily oblige.
His auto and chauffeur await us below, and we climb in.
After the short drive toward Madison Square Park, I’m thrilled to see that he’s bringing us back toward the tower.
As we sweep through the crowded lobby and step once more into Stanny’s private elevator, I say nothing of our last visit here, and neither does Stanny. The floors click by as my ears pop, and I giggle as I chomp my jaw.
This time when the elevator chimes and we step out onto the expansive terrace, I see that we are not alone. There’s a man already up here, and I know immediately that this is a photographer Stanny has arranged to join us. A new face, a fellow with whom I’ve not yet worked.
Stanny puts an arm lightly on my lower back, ushering me forward. “Evelyn, meet Mr. Barty Sidwell.” I accept the man’s quick handshake as Stanny says, “Barty, here she is. Ain’t she something?”
The man makes a sweep of my figure with his keen photographer’s eye, taking in the rich hue of my red cloak, the wild flyaways from my loose braid, the contours of my unadorned face, and then he looks at Stanny, and I see something pass between them.
As if I’m not standing right there, the man mouths the words, “How old?”
My spine stiffens. This photographer thinks I’m too young to do good work?
I may be just a few weeks shy of seventeen, but I could show him entire books filled with my clippings.
In that loud and silent moment when the two men have their gazes locked, I click over into work mode, stepping forward with an air of willfully summoned confidence as I say, “Mr. Sidwell, lovely to meet you.” I’ll prove him wrong, like every other doubter before him.
Then I slant a look toward Stanny, hitching an eyebrow—he didn’t tell me I’d be working today.
Stanny reads the question in my gaze. “Evelyn, if you want to be a serious stage actress, you are going to need to spiff up your portraits. The advertisements are nice, sure. But you need serious prints and lots of versatility to move into a higher circle. We’ll get you some shots today that will be top-notch. ”
Stanny points toward a massive cedar trunk a few paces behind Mr. Sidwell. “I’ve sorted it all out. Consider it a gift from your biggest admirer.”
I don’t quite know what to say, but feeling both his eyes and the dubious eyes of this Mr. Sidwell on me, I decide to walk toward the cedar trunk, and I heave it open.
As the lid groans wide, I’m hit by a wave of scents: perfume, dust, leather, and fur.
Then Mr. Sidwell is over in the corner prepping his camera, and soon I smell the flash powder.
We set to work, planning to run through a parade of poses, costumes, and scenes as we shoot. We begin with my new cloak from Stanny. “What do you think, Barty?” he asks. “I had it made just for her. Doesn’t she look just like Little Red Riding Hood?”
“Indeed,” answers Mr. Sidwell, looking at me through the lens. “It’s scary, all right.”
Mr. Sidwell and mostly Stanny walk me through a series of poses as the camera clicks away.
Stanny has me turn sideways and shut my eyes.
“Tip your head back, so we can see that neck. Yes, there it is. Get that, Barty. Now open your mouth. Like you’re frightened.
You’re acting here, remember? Show them how frightened you are. ”
Once Mr. Sidwell insists that he’s got the shot, Stanny reaches into the trunk and hands me something simpler. “What is this?” I ask, holding the starched dress of white cotton with a high collar and simple stitching along the sleeves.
“A little Quaker maiden,” Stanny explains, so I step behind a makeshift silk screen to assume my next role.
After that, I’m a shepherdess in white lace that slips off my shoulders.
Stanny asks me to undo my braid so that my hair falls loose around my face.
Then he strings flowers through my hair and hands me a tall empty vase.
“Now hold it out for the camera.” I find it a touch odd, this pose, holding an empty vase tilted toward the camera, but I do as he directs, as does Mr. Sidwell behind his lens.
Next I step into my favorite outfit yet, a floor-length sheath of bright purple satin, with golden embroidery and shimmering crystals adorning the trim.
“A Turk, my dear. Remember, I said we need variety here.” Stanny is in full director mode, looking with his world-famous artist’s eye, and I imagine him leading subordinates on one of his remarkable building projects with this same scrutiny and clarity of artistic vision.
“Haughtier with the eyes, Ev. You are not some concubine among many. You are the sultana. There, that’s more like it. Ain’t she a find?”
By now I’m having fun. It’s all dress-up and playacting, and this is moving faster than most photography sessions do because Stanny has such a clear vision for each scenario and costume.
And each piece that he extends to me is more beautiful than the last. I find myself embracing the roles, feeling powerful when the men fall silent in appreciation and attention.
But the final costume, though gorgeous, catches me by surprise. “What now?” I ask, staring at a garment of swirling blue and green silk.
“It’s a kimono,” Stanny answers. “I had it made just for you, kid.”
I reach a tentative hand forward, gently grazing the pristine silk with just one finger. The last time I wore a robe this delicate was with Mr. Beckwith, and I prefer not to linger on the memories of that day.
But Stanny wears a proud grin. “This kimono cost more than most families make in a year. I’ve ordered it from Tokyo. You can keep it when we are finished.”
I drop my hand and draw in a deep breath. There’s no reason for me to fear—he’s said nothing about any sort of nude photos. This is just another costume, and a beautiful one at that. I meet his gaze. “Thank you, Stanny.”
I change into the kimono, and when I reemerge, I see Mr. Sidwell setting up the final shot, arranging what looks like a pelt of white fur on the wooden floor before the window. “It’s your polar bear,” Stanny says.
“From my bedroom?” I ask, stunned that he managed to get the pelt here without my noticing. He really did think of everything.
Throwing a look toward Mr. Sidwell, Stanny says, “The thing is pure white, unblemished. Like it’s never been touched before.”
Mr. Sidwell nods, checking his lens and focusing on the pelt on the floor. I kneel down and graze just the tips of my fingers across the fur.
“Soft, yes?” Stanny takes a step back, as if to survey the scene. “You make a splendid geisha, kid.”
“Thanks, Stanny.”
When I meet his approving stare, I note how his demeanor has changed; he looks a bit timid now, perhaps even bashful, entirely unlike his typical mien. When he speaks, his tone is uncharacteristically soft, and he jerks his chin toward the pelt. “Lie down.”
I do as he says, folding onto my right side, tilting my face up toward the camera, my head cradled in the crook of my right arm. I’m awaiting artistic direction as to what sort of facial expression Stanny thinks best when he surprises me by saying, “Pretend you’re asleep.”
I glance toward him, confused. He gives a quick nod, saying, “Shut your eyes. That’s right.”
So I close my eyes. And I notice instantly that it’s not hard to pretend at sleepiness.
On the contrary—after the hours of work and the costume changes, I’m suddenly exhausted.
The silk feels like the softest of caresses against my skin.
The downy fur is the perfect pillow against my cheek, my entire body.
I’ve done great work—and I know that I looked beautiful.
Stanny is happy; even the photographer seems pleased.
Now I’m set to have a book of work that will be better than anything I could have imagined.
It’s been an all-around smash of a day, and knowing that, I allow myself to surrender.
“Yes, so lovely,” I hear Stanny say. This is the easiest shot yet.
I lie still in contented repose, slipping almost into a trance, like I first learned to do back in Philadelphia working with Leah.
The room is warm, the clicking of the camera so rhythmic, each shot an affirmation that I am doing good work.
My breath is even, my heartbeat slowing… .
I do not stir from this trancelike state until I feel a soft hand gently nudging my shoulder.
I blink my eyes open, taking in the shape of Stanny’s outline hovering beside me.
Has it been moments? Hours? A yawn slips out, and I smile, somewhat abashed at the realization that I may in fact have fallen asleep. I don’t see the photographer anywhere.
Stanny is holding me in the tenderest of stares, his light eyes filled with a warm and affectionate glow. When he speaks, his voice sounds low and throaty, little more than a whisper as he extends a hand to help me sit up. “Well, my little geisha, that’s all.”
“Are we…Have we gotten enough shots?” I rise to stand, rearranging the loose silk around my legs.
“We have gotten perfect shots,” Stanny says, his voice soft. “You’ve done wonderful work. And now let’s get you safely home. Did I not promise your mamma I’d take care of you?”