CHARLOTTE

Charlotte peeled the black lacquered Kabuki wig off her head and carefully placed it on the stand. Her scalp itched. So did her face. The mask of chalky white theatrical makeup was punctuated by a lurid slash of lipstick, eyes rimmed with kohl, and spots of rouge the size of small saucers. Cold cream would melt the mask away, restoring her face to its bland beginnings, her blank canvas.

Her face was a disembodied object to be adorned, manipulated, twisted, coerced. She had become famous because of it. Or, in spite of it. Beauty was easy to manufacture—or conceal. All those years later, as her work’s fame grew, she and Zdenĕk could still go anywhere—shopping at Dean and DeLuca, to the movies, out to dinner in Tribeca or Soho—without her being recognized except by people who actually knew them. She was careful, to the point of obsession, never to be photographed wearing her own face.

In the months since they met at Haze’s funeral, Charlotte forged a friendship with Martin. Zdenĕk laughed at it like he laughed at everything. Over a Sunday dinner of coq au vin at Cece and Brad’s, Cece mused, “I think it’s a daddy thing. The daddy you wish you had.”

“It’s not like that,” Charlotte said.

Zdenĕk winked at Cece. “He’s an artiste.”

Javier, who had become a fixture at their Sunday night dinners, rolled his eyes at Zdenĕk. By then the Aronsons had moved from their walkup to a large prewar apartment in the same neighborhood. Brad’s law practice was thriving. Charlotte was one of his premier clients. Cece had risen to managing editor of a publishing house that specialized in contemporary art books.

“Enough talk,” Brad said.

He set ramekins of pot de crème at each place.

“Eat!”

The glass-walled conference room looked out over Manhattan. The Chrysler Building’s spire winked in the early morning light. Charlotte observed how confident Cece was in her smart suit and spiky shoes. The suit jacket’s padded shoulders made her look like a warrior. The glass and steel table were covered with printouts of page layouts for a book Cece was about to publish. Boards propped up against the window exhibited proposed cover designs, all variations on the same theme, black with white words in varying styles of large type, Charlotte Previty: Photographs. Charlotte stood in front of them, her arms crossed. Who knew there were so many ways to typeset the same three words?

“You do it.” Charlotte said. “Just pick one.”

Cece shook her head. “It’s your book.”

“That one then.” Charlotte pointed to the third board from the left. “What’s that typeface called?” It had clean lines, no serifs; some of the characters were ligatured.

Cece laughed.

“Avant Garde.”

“Perfect,” Charlotte said.

Cece started to gather the scattered page layouts into a pile.

“You know, when this comes out you’re going to have to do publicity. I’ve already got people calling, wanting the tour schedule.”

“Tour? What tour?”

“You’re going to have to do a book tour. Bookstores, radio, probably even some TV. Everyone’s going to want to get a peek at the mysterious photographer.”

“You never said anything about a tour,” Charlotte said. “You’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

Spread across the table was eighteen years of Charlotte’s work, her mythical worlds. Javier had done well with them. Exhibition after exhibition sold out. Her work was in private collections and all the major museums in the States and abroad. The book was a coup for Cece. Charlotte looked at the pictures, disinterested. Since she connected with Martin, she had returned to photographing her face.

A book, a show, a tour—too many distractions. No. That was just an excuse. The truth was she never cared to be scrutinized. From the time she was small all she wanted to do was blend in, to fade away. So few people knew how hard it was, growing up the daughter of the woman her father referred to as the most beautiful woman in Buffalo.

“You mother was a beauty queen,” her father reminded her over and over when she was a child. “Just missed making it into Miss America. First runner-up for Miss New York State before I snatched her away.”

The proof was always there to taunt her. Her mother was still a willowy blonde with long tapering fingers and perfectly manicured nails. Her eyes were emerald green with flecks of yellow in them, a fragile beauty. Weak genes failed her when she had a child. What a disappointment it must have been to give birth to a little girl as plain and graceless as Charlotte’s father.

“Oh, that color won’t look good on Charlotte,” her mother would say, flipping through a rack of party dresses.

Charlotte longed for simple clothes; her mother was intent on cramming her into fussy ruffled frocks. As soon as she was on her own, she took to wearing her uniform brown, to cropping off the hair her mother fought so hard to tame.

Marion was still perfectly groomed (her words, not Charlotte’s), still living in Buffalo with Hap who reminded Charlotte every time she called, “Hold on while I go get the most beautiful woman in Buffalo.”

She couldn’t do a tour. She just couldn’t.

Charlotte taunted herself.

“Eeny, meeny, miney, moe.”

“There’s no way Charlotte will go.”

“Scaredy cat.”

“You’ve got that right.”

“You know what will happen, don’t you.”

“Let me guess.”

“The fans will love the work.”

“But they won’t love you.”

“They’ll ask all kinds of questions.”

“So you’ll answer them.”

“They’ll expect an explanation.”

“You won’t have to explain yourself, just the work.”

“They’ll be expecting someone more glamorous, someone more like Cece.”

“So there’s your answer. Send Cece.”

The following week, she finished shooting more of the Kabuki photos. She reached for a jar of cold cream, scooped some onto her fingers and smeared it across one cheek. She rubbed to remove the makeup caked on her face. She was meeting Martin for a late lunch. She didn’t want to forget; she had something to give him: a three-foot tall roll of Japanese rice paper and a box of fat oil pastels. Something he told her about his music was stuck in her head, how he was more interested in what the notes looked like than how they sounded. His musical notations had such a calligraphic quality to them. She wondered what they would look like writ large.