Desert Flower (17 page)

dress was not short, not long, but hit me squarely in the middle of the leg and was god-awful ugly.

I walked into the agency wearing my cheap red dress and white sneakers, and thinking: This is it. I’m happening In reality I looked like shit. But even though I cringe whenever I think back to that day, it’s just as well that I didn’t realize how wrong I looked, because I was still wearing my best outfit. I certainly didn’t have the money to go out and buy a new one.

When I arrived the receptionist asked if I had any pictures and I said I had one. She introduced me to a classically beautiful woman, elegantly dressed, named Veronica. Veronica called me into her office and motioned for me to sit down opposite her desk. “How old are you, Waris?”

“I’m young!” These were the first words that came to mind and I blurted them out. “Really I’m young. These wrinkles’ - I pointed to my eyes - “I was born with them.”

She gave me a smile. “It’s all right.” Veronica began writing down my answers, filling out forms. “Where do you live?”

“Oh, I live in Y.”

“What, now…” She frowned. “Where do you live?”

“I live in YMCA.” “Do you work?” “Yes.”

“What do you do?”

“McDonald’s’

“Okay… Do you know about modeling?” “Yes.”

“What do you know about it do you know much?”

“No. I know I want to do it.” I repeated this last phrase several times for emphasis.

“Okay. Do you have a book pictures?”

“No.”

“Do you have any family here?”

“No.”

“Where is your family?”

“Africa.”

“Is that where you’re from?”

“Yes, Somalia.”

“Okay, so no one here.”

“No, none my family here.”

“Well. There’s a casting right this minute and you have to go.”

I was really struggling to understand her, and paused for a minute trying to decipher what she meant by her last statement. “I don’t understand, Sorry.”

“A c-a-s-t-in-g.” She drew out the word slowly. “What’s casting?”

“You know, it’s an interview when you go for a job and they interview you? Okay? Interview? You understand?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I was lying by then. I had no idea what she was talking about. She gave me the address and told me to go straight over.

I’ll call them and tell them you’re on your way.

Do you have money for a taxi?”

“No, I can walk.”

“No, no it’s too far. Too far. You have to take a taxi. Taxi. Okay? Look, here’s ten pounds. Call me when you’re finished. Okay?”

Riding cross town in the taxi, I was in complete euphoria. Oh, oh, oh, I am on my way now. I’m going to be a model. Then I realized I forgot one thing: I didn’t ask her what the job was. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be fine because I am one good looking bitch!

When I arrived at the casting, I walked into another photographer’s studio. I opened the door to a place crawling with professional models room after room packed full of women with legs up to their necks. They strutted around like

lionesses circling for the kill, preening in front of mirrors, bending at the waist to shake their hair, smearing makeup on their legs to make them look dark. I flopped down and said hello to one of the girls sitting next to me. “Um, what is the job?”

“Pirelli calendar.”

“Mmmm.” I nodded my head wisely. “Prulli calendar. Thank you.” What the hell is that Prulli calendar? I was a complete nervous wreck, unable to sit still, crossing and uncrossing my legs, twisting around in my chair until an assistant came out and told me I was next. Then I froze for a minute.

Turning to the girl beside me, I shooed her toward the assistant. “You go. I’m waiting for my friend.” I repeated this move each time the assistant came out, until the entire place was empty.

Everyone had gone home.

Finally the woman came out, leaned tiredly up against the wall and said, “Come on. You can go now.” I stared at her for a minute and I said to myself, Enough now, Waris. Are you going to do this thing or not? Come on, get up, let’s go.

I followed the woman into the studio and a man with his head glued to

the back of a camera yelled out, “Over there. There’s the mark.” He motioned with one hand.

“Mark?”

“Yeah, stand on the mark.” “Oh, okay. Stand here.” “Okay. Take off your top.”

I thought, Surely I’m not hearing this man right, but by now I felt ready to vomit. “My top, you mean my shirt?”

He brought his head out from under the drape, and stared at me like I was an idiot. With great irritation he said, “Yeah. Take off your shirt, you know, why you’re here?”

“But I don’t have a bra.”

“That’s the idea, so we can see your breasts.” “NO!” What is this shit my breasts, Besides, I wasn’t wearing a top. All I had on was my red dress. What does this jerk think I’m going to do, just whip it off and stand there in my fucking underpants and tennis shoes?

“No. No? Everybody’s dying to come to this casting, and you’re telling me no?”

“No, no, I’m sorry. Mistake, mistake. I make mistake,” and in a panic I headed for the door. When I passed a series of Polaroid’s scattered across the floor, I bent down to examine them.

The photographer looked at me for a few seconds

with his mouth open. Then he turned and called over his shoulder, “Oh, Lord, have we got something in here! Terence, we’ve got a little problem.”

A heavy, robust man with thick gray hair and rosy jowls walked into the room and looked at me curiously. He smiled slightly. “Ah, yes. So what do we have here?”

I stood up straight and tears came to my eyes. “No. That’s nothing I can do. I don’t do this.” I pointed at a photo of a woman nude from the waist up. At first I was simply disappointed. There went my big excitement, my big dream of being a model. The first job I get and they want me to take my clothes off Then I became angry furious and I started to cuss them all in Somali. “You dirty fucking men! You shit! You pigs! Keep your fucking job!”

“What are you saying? Look, I’m far too busy for this now’ but by this time I was running out the door, slamming it nearly off the hinges. I cried all the way back to the Y, saying to myself, I knew there was something sad, something deeply disgusting, about this whole modeling business.

That evening I was lying on my bed, limp with misery, and my roommate said, “Waris, phone for you.”

It was Veronica from the modeling agency. “It’s you!” I yelled. “I don’t want to talk to you people! You you em bars - embress -‘ I was trying to pronounce embarrassed but I couldn’t even choke out that word. “It was terrible. It was very bad; I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to be with you no more!”

“Okay, now calm down, Waris. Do you know who that was today, the photographer?”

“No.”

“Do you know who Terence Donovan is?”

“No.”

“Well, do you have a friend who speaks English?”

“Yes.”

“Well, anybody who speaks English will know who that man is. When we get off the phone, you ask them. He takes pictures of the royal family, Princess Di, and all the big name models. Anyway, he wants to see you again, he’s interested in photographing you.”

“He asked me to take my clothes off. You didn’t tell me that before I went!”

“I know well, we were in a big hurry; I just thought you were perfect for the job. I explained to him that you couldn’t speak English and this sort of thing was against your culture. But this is the Pirelli calendar, and after this job comes out

you will get much more work. Do you ever buy the fashion magazines, like Vogue and Elle?”

“No, I can’t afford them. I look at them at the newsstand, but I always put them back.” “Okay, but you’ve seen them? That’s the type of work you’re going to be doing. Terence Donovan is the best; if you want to be a model, you need this job. After this you’ll be making all kinds of money, and do whatever you want.”

“I’m not taking off my top.”

I heard her sigh. “Waris, where did you say you work?”

“McDonald’s.”

“How much do they pay you?”

I told her.

“Well, he’s paying you fifteen hundred pounds for one day.”

“All for me? All mine?”

“Yes, and you get to travel, too. The job’s in Bath; I don’t know if you’ve been there, but it’s a beautiful place. You’ll be staying at the Royalton,” she added, like I knew what that meant. “Look, do you want to do it, or not?”

By this point she had convinced me. Making this kind of money, I could quickly earn enough to help my mother. “Okay, okay! When can I go back to him?”

“How about tomorrow morning?”

“And I just have to take my top off-that’s it? I mean, are you sure for fifteen hundred pounds I don’t have to sleep with this man?”

“No, no. It’s no trick. Nothing like that.”

“Or… you know, like he wants me to spread my legs or some shit? If so, tell me now.”

“Only take your top off. But remember, he’s just doing a Polaroid tomorrow, then he’ll tell you if you got the job. So be nice…”

The next day when I got there, Terence Donovan looked at me and started laughing. “Oh. It’s you again. Come here. What’s your name?” From that moment on, he was very patient with me. Terence was a father, and he realized that I was just a frightened kid who needed help. He brought me tea, and showed me all his work, photos he’d taken of the most beautiful women in the world. “Okay. I’m going to show you some pictures. Come with me.” He led me into another room full of shelves and drawers, and lying on a table was a calendar. He flipped through the pages, and on each page was the photograph of a different, stunningly gorgeous woman. “You see this? This is last year’s Pirelli calendar. I do it every year. Except

this year it’s going to be different just African women. Some pictures you’ll be wearing clothes, but some might be no clothes.” He went over everything with me, explaining how the whole process worked. By that point I felt comfortable that he wasn’t just some dodgy, dirty old man. He said, “Okay, we’re going to take the Polaroid now. Are you ready?”

As soon as Veronica told me how much I’d make I was ready, but now I was relaxed as well. “Yes, I’m ready.” And from that moment on I was a complete professional. Stood on the mark whoosh off went the top, and I stared into the camera with confidence. Perfect! When he showed me the Polaroid, it reminded me of being back home in Africa. The shot was black and white, and very simple and honest nothing tarty and corny; there was nothing pornographic about it. Instead, it was Waris as she’d grown up in the desert, looking just like a little girl child, tiny breasts exposed in the heat.

When I came home that night, I received the message from the agency saying I got the job and would be going to Bath next week. Veronica had left her home number. I called to explain that I was scheduled to work at McDonald’s and couldn’t afford not to, since I had no idea how long it

would be before I’d see the money from my modeling job. But she saved me by saying if I needed money, she could give me an advance.

Since that day, I’ve never set foot in a McDonald’s again. After I talked to Veronica, I hung up the phone and ran all over the Y. I told not only my friends about my new enterprise, but any stranger who would listen. Halwu said, “Oh, come on! Stop showing off, for God’s sake! You’re showing your tits, right?”

“Yeah, for fifteen hundred pounds!”

“For those little things? You should be ashamed,” she laughed.

“But this is not like that. This is really nice! Not that nasty stuff..” and we’re going to Bath and stay in a big hotel.”

“Well, I don’t want to hear it just stop telling everybody in the building about it, all right?”

The night before we left, I couldn’t sleep at all, wishing it were morning; my packed duffel sat by the door. I still couldn’t believe it I’d never been anywhere, and these people were paying me money to go! Terence Donovan was sending a limousine to pick me up and bring me to Victoria

Station. There the group the photographers, assistants, art director, four other models, the makeup artist, hairstylist, and me would assemble to take the train to Bath. I was the first person to arrive, because I was so nervous about missing the train. The next person who got there was Naomi Campbell.

When we arrived in Bath, we checked into the Royalton, which was like a palace; I was stunned to find out I’d have a huge room all to myself. But that first night, Naomi came to my room and asked if she could sleep with me. She was very young, and sweet, about sixteen or seventeen, and frightened to stay by herself. I said sure, because I enjoyed having the company. “Don’t tell them, okay? They’re going to be mad if they find out they’re wasting all that money on my room and nobody’s sleeping in it.”

“Don’t worry about it just stay in my room.” After years of experience, it came naturally to me to play the mother. In fact, my friends called me Mama, because I always wanted to mother everybody. “I’m not going to say anything, Naomi.”

When we started to work in the morning, two girls would go first and get their hair and makeup done. Then, while they were on the set getting their pictures taken, the next two would get ready,

and so on. The first morning that the hairstylist started working on me, I told him to chop it all off. Back then, I was pretty chunky for a model; I had all that nice juicy McDonald’s meat on me. So I wanted my hair short, to make me look more fashionable. The stylist kept cutting and cutting, until almost nothing was left my hair was about one inch long all over my head. Everyone said, “Ooohh, you look so different.” But I decided I really wanted to shock people, and I said to the hairstylist, “You know what I’m going to do? I’m going to bleach my hair blond.” “Oh, God! Well, I’m not going to do it. You’d look wicked mad!”

Naomi Campbell laughed and said, “Waris, you know what? One day you’re going to be famous. And don’t forget me then, okay?” Of course, the reverse came true, and she’s the famous one.

We went on working like this for six days, and I couldn’t believe I was getting paid for it. As soon as I got off in the evening, and the group would ask me what I wanted to do, my answer was always the same: go shopping. They would let me take the car, and the limo driver would drop me wherever I wanted, then come back and pick me up. When the job was done, my picture wound up being selected for the cover,