The Winner Stands Alone (11 page)

Unlike the other girls who arrived for work this morning and are now using their iPods and
mobile phones to while away the five hours that separate having their makeup and hair done
from the actual fashion show, Jasmine is reading a book, a poetry book:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one
traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the
undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was
grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about
the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the
first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever
come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a
wood, and I I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.

She had chosen the road less traveled, and though it cost her dearly, it has been worth
it. Things arrive at the right moment. Love had ap- peared when she most needed it and was
still there with her now. She did her work with, for, and out of love, or, rather, out of
love for one particular person.

Jasmines real name is Cristina. Her CV says she was discovered by Anna Dieter on a trip to
Kenya, but there was little detail about this, leaving in the air the possibility of a
childhood spent suffering and starving, caught up in the middle of a civil war. In fact,
despite her black skin, she was born in the very traditional Belgian city of Antwerp, the
daughter of parents fleeing the eternal conflicts between Hutus and Tutsis in Rwanda.

One weekend, when she was sixteen, she was helping out her mother on one of the latters
endless cleaning jobs, when a man came up to them and introduced himself, saying he was a
photographer.

Your daughter is extraordinarily beautiful, he said. Id like her to work with me as a
model.

You see this bag Im carrying? Its full of cleaning materials. I work day and night so that
she can go to a good school and, one day, get a university degree. Shes only sixteen.

Thats the ideal age, said the photographer, handing his card to Cristina. If you change
your mind, let me know.

They carried on walking, but her mother noticed that her daughter kept the card.

Dont be deceived. That isnt your world. They just want to get you into bed.

Cristina didnt need to be told this. Even though all the girls in her class envied her and
the boys all wanted to take her to parties, she was keenly aware of her origins and her
limitations. She still didnt believe it when the same thing happened again. She had just gone into an
ice-cream parlor when an older woman remarked on her beauty and said that she was a
fashion photographer. Cristina thanked her, took her card, and promised to phone her, even
though she had no intention of doing so and even though becoming a model was the dream of
every girl her age.

Given that things never happen only twice, three months later, she was looking in the
window of a shop selling extremely expensive clothes, when the owner of the shop came out
to speak to her.

What do you do for a living?

You should really be asking me what will I be doing. Im going to study to be a vet.

Well, youre on the wrong path. Wouldnt you like to work with us?

I havent got time to sell clothes. Whenever I can, I help my mother.

Im not suggesting you sell anything. Id like you to do a few photo shoots wearing our
designs.

And if it hadnt been for an episode that occurred a few days later, these encounters would
have been nothing but pleasant memories to look back on when she was married with
children, loved by her family and fulfilled by her career.

She was with some friends at a nightclub, dancing and feeling glad to be alive, when a
group of ten boys burst in, shouting. Nine of them were carrying clubs with razor blades
embedded in them and were ordering everyone to get out. Panic spread, and people started
run- ning. Cristina didnt know what to do, although her instincts told her to remain where
she was and look the other way.

Before she could do anything, however, she saw the tenth boy take a knife out of his
pocket, go over to one of her friends, grab him from behind, and slit his throat. The gang
left as quickly as they had appeared, while the other people present were either scream-
ing, trying to run away, or sitting on the floor, crying. A few went over to the victim to
see if they could help, knowing that it was too late. Others, like Cristina, simply stared at the scene in shock. She knew the murdered
boy and the murderer too, and even knew the motive for the crime (a fight in a bar shortly
before they had gone to the nightclub), but she seemed to be floating somewhere in the
clouds, as if it had all been a dream from which she would soon wake up, drenched in
sweat, relieved to know that all nightmares come to an end.

This, however, was no dream.

It took only a few minutes for her to return to earth, screaming for someone to do
something, screaming for people to do nothing, screaming for no reason at all, and her
screams seemed to make people even more nervous. Then the police arrived, carrying guns,
and were followed by paramedics and then detectives, who lined all the young people up
against the wall and started questioning them, demanding to see their documents, their
mobile phones, their addresses. Who had killed the boy and why? Cristina could say
nothing. The body, cov- ered by a sheet, was taken away. A nurse forced her to take a pill
and told her that she must on no account drive home, but take a taxi or use public
transport.

Early the next morning, the phone rang. Her mother had decided to spend the day at home
with her daughter, who seemed somehow detached from the world. The police insisted on
speaking to Cristina directly, saying that she must be at the police station by midday and
ask for a particular inspector. Her mother refused. The police threatened her, and so, in
the end, Cristina and her mother had no choice.

They arrived at the appointed
time. The inspector asked Cristina if she knew the murderer.

Her mothers words were still echoing in her mind: Dont say any- thing. Were immigrants,
theyre Belgians. Were black, theyre white. When they come out of prison, theyll track you
down. So she said:

I dont know who the boy was. Id never seen him before. She knew that by saying this, she
risked losing her love of life. Of course you know who he was, retorted the policeman. Look, dont worry, nothings going to
happen to you. Weve arrested almost the whole group, and we just need witnesses for the
trial.

I dont know anything. I was nowhere near. I didnt see who did it.

The inspector shook his head in despair.

Youll have to repeat that at the trial, he said, knowing that youre committing perjury,
that is, lying to the judge, a crime for which you could spend as long in prison as the
murderers themselves.

Months later, she was called as a witness. The boys were all there with their lawyers and
seemed almost to be enjoying the situation. One of the other girls who had been at the
club that night identified the murderer in court.

Then it was Cristinas turn. The prosecutor asked her to identify the person who had slit
her friends throat.

I dont know who did it, she said.

She was black and the daughter of immigrants. She had a student grant from the government.
All she wanted was to recover her will to live, and to feel once again that she had a
future. She had spent weeks staring at her bedroom ceiling, not wanting to study or to do
anything. The world in which she had lived up until then did not belong to her anymore. At
sixteen, she had learned in the hardest way possible that she was incapable of fighting
for her own security. She needed to leave Antwerp, to travel the world, to recover her joy
and her strength.

The boys were let off for lack of evidence; the prosecution had needed two witnesses to
corroborate the charges and ensure that the guilty parties paid for their crime. After
leaving court, Cristina phoned the numbers on the business cards given her by the two
photographers and made appointments to see them. Then she went back to the dress shop
where the owner had come out especially to speak to her and ask if she would model his
clothes. The saleswomen, however, said that the owner had shops all over Europe and was a
very busy man, and no, they couldnt give her his phone number.

Fortunately, photographers have better memories, and both imme- diately recognized her
name and arranged to meet her.

Cristina went back home and told her mother what she had decided to do. She didnt ask her
advice or try to convince her, she simply said that she wanted to leave Antwerp for good,
and that her one chance was to get work as a model.

Jasmine looks around her again.
Itsstillthreehoursuntil the fashion show, and the other models are eating salad, drinking
tea, and talking about where theyll be going next. They come from vari- ous countries, are
about the same age as hernineteenand prob- ably have just two things on their minds:
getting a new contract that evening and finding a rich husband.

She knows their beauty routine. Before sleeping, they apply sundry creams to cleanse their
pores and keep their skin moisturized, thus, from early on, making their organism
dependent on artificial sub- stances to maintain an ideal equilibrium. In the morning,
they apply more cream and more moisturizer. They drink a cup of black coffee with no
sugar, and eat some fruit and fiber, so that any other food they consume during the day
will pass quickly through. Then they do a few stretching exercises before setting off in
search of work. Theyre too young to start working out in a gym and, besides, their bodies
might start taking on masculine contours. They get on the scales three or four times a
day, in fact, most of them always have their own scales with them just in case, because
sometimes they stay in boardinghouses rather than hotels. They get depressed each time the
pointer on the scales tells them theyve gained another ounce.

Most of the models are only seventeen or eighteen, and so their mothers go with them
whenever possible. The girls never admit to being in love with anyonealthough most of them
arebecause love makes the traveling seem longer and more unbearable and arouses in their
boyfriends the strange sense that theyre losing the woman (or girl) that they love. Yes,
the girls think about money and earn an aver- age of four hundred euros a dayan enviable
salary for someone who is often still too young to have a license and drive a car. Their
dreams go beyond being a model, however; they know that soon theyll be overtaken by new faces, new trends, and so urgently need to show that they can do more
than just stride down a catwalk. Theyre always nag- ging their agencies to get them a
screen test, so that they can demonstrate that theyve got what it takes to become an
actresstheir great dream.

The agencies, of course, agree to do this, but advise them to wait a little; after all,
their careers are only just beginning. The truth is that most model agencies dont have
many contacts outside the fashion world; they earn a good percentage, compete with other
agencies, and the market isnt that big. Its best to get what they can now, before time
passes and the model crosses the dangerous age barrier of twenty, by which time her skin
will have been spoiled by too many moisturizers, her body ruined by too much low-calorie
food, and her mind already affected by the remedies she takes to inhibit appetite and
which end up leaving eyes and head completely empty.

Contrary to what most people think, models pay their own ex- pensesflights, hotels, and
those inevitable salads. They are sum- moned by a designers assistant to do what is known
as casting, namely, selecting who will appear on the catwalk or in the photos. They are
faced at these sessions by a lot of disgruntled people who use the little power they have
to vent their own day-to-day frustrations and who never say a kind or encouraging word:
awful or dread- ful are the ones most commonly heard. The girls leave that test and move
on to the next, clinging to their mobile phones for dear life, as if these were about to
offer some divine revelation or at least put them in contact with the Higher World to
which they dream of ascending and from where theyll be able to look down on all those
other pretty faces and where they will be transformed into stars.

Their parents are proud that their daughters have got off to a good start and regret their
initial opposition to such a career; after all, their daughters are earning money and
helping the family. Their boyfriends get upset, but keep a lid on their feelings because
its good for ones ego to be seen going out with a professional model. The models agents
work with dozens of girls of similar age and with similar fantasies, and are ready with
pat answers to the kind of questions the girls all ask: Couldnt I take part in the Fashion
Week in Paris? Do you think I have what it takes to get into the movies? The girls friends envy themeither secretly or
openly.

These young models go to any party theyre invited to. They behave as if they were much
more important than they are, knowing, deep down, that they would love someone to break
through the arti- ficial barrier of ice they create around themselves. They look at older
men with a mixture of revulsion and attraction; they know that such men have the necessary
money to help them make the big leap, but, at the same time, dont want to seem to be
nothing but high-class whores. Theyre always seen with a glass of champagne in one hand,
but thats just part of the image they want to project. They know that alcohol can affect
their weight and so their preferred drink is a glass of still mineral water because
although fizzy water doesnt affect the weight, it has im- mediate consequences on the
shape of the stomach. They have ideals, dreams, dignity, but all these things will vanish
one day, when they can no longer disguise the early onset of cellulite.