The Winner Stands Alone (20 page)

Not until Monday morning did Jasmine (for Cristina was defini- tively dead by then) get an
opinion. They were waiting at Brussels sta- tion for the connection to Antwerp when the photographer suddenly said:

Youre the best model Ive ever worked with. Youre joking. The woman looked at her in
surprise, then said: No, really, you are. Ive been working in this field for twenty years now; Ive taken photographs of countless people; Ive worked with professional models and
film actors, all of them highly experienced, but none of them had your ability to express
emotion. And do you know what thats called? Talent. In certain professions, talent is
quite easy to measure: managing directors who can turn around a business on the verge of
bankruptcy and make it a going concern again; sports- men who break records; artists whose
work lives on for at least two generations; so how can I be so sure about you as a model?
Because Im a professional. Youve managed to show your angels and your demons through the
lens of a camera, and thats not easy. Im not talking about young people who like to dress
up as vampires and go to Goth parties; Im not talking about girls who put on an innocent
air to try to arouse the pedophile in men. Im talking about real demons and real angels.

The station was full of people walking back and forth. Jasmine looked at the train
timetable and suggested they go outside. She was dying for a cigarette, and smoking was
forbidden within the station precinct. She was wondering whether she should say what was
going on inside her just then.

It may be that I do have talent, but if I do, theres only one reason I was able to show
that talent. You know, during all the time weve spent together, youve never said anything
about your private life and never asked about mine. Do you want me to help you with your
luggage, by the way? Photographys basically a profession for men, isnt it? Theres always
so much equipment to lug around.

The woman laughed.

Theres nothing much to say, really, except that I adore my work. Im thirty-eight,
divorced, no kids, but with enough good contacts to be able to earn a comfortable living,
but not to live in any great luxury.

Theres something else I must add to what I said: if everything goes to plan you must never
ever behave like someone who depends on her profession to survive, even if its true. If
you dont follow my advice, youll be easily manipulated by the system. Obviously, Ill use
your photos and earn money with them, but from now on, Id suggest you get yourself a
professional agent.

Jasmine lit another cigarette; it was now or never.

Do you know why I was able to show my talent? Because of some- thing I never imagined
would happen in my life: Ive fallen in love with a woman, a woman I would like to have by
my side, guiding whatever steps I need to take, a woman who with her gentleness and her
rigor managed to get inside my soul and release both the best and the worst that lie in
those subterranean depths. She didnt do this by long in- struction in meditation
techniques or through psychoanalysiswhich is what my mother thinks I needshe used . . .

She paused. She felt afraid, but she had to go on. She had nothing now to lose.

She used a camera.

Time stood still. The other people outside the station stopped moving, all noise ceased,
the wind dropped, her cigarette smoke hung in the hair, the lights went outthere were just
two pairs of eyes shin- ing brighter than ever and fixed on each other.

Youre ready, says the makeup
artist. Jasmine looks up and sees her partner pacing up and down in the improvised dressing room. She must be feeling nervous; after all, this is her first
fashion show in Cannes, and if it goes well, she might get a fat contract with the Belgian
government.

Jasmine feels like going over and reassuring her, telling her that everything will be
fine, as it always has been before. She might get a response along the lines of: Youre
only nineteen, what do you know about life?

She would reply: I know what your capabilities are, just as you know mine. I know about the relationship that changed our lives one day three years ago,
outside a train station, when you gently touched my cheek. Do you remember how frightened
we both were? But we survived that first feeling of fear. And thanks to that relationship,
Im here now; and you, as well as being an excellent photographer, are doing what you
always dreamed of doing: designing and making clothes.

She knows its best not to say anything. Telling a person to calm down only makes them even
more nervous.

She goes over to the window and lights another cigarette. Shes smoking too much, but then
why shouldnt she? This is her first major fashion show in France.

A young woman in a black suit and white blouse opens the door. She asks for her name,
checks the list, and says shell have to wait a little; the suite is currently occupied.
Two men and another woman, possibly younger than her, are also waiting.

They all wait their turn in silence. How long will this take? What exactly am I doing
here? Gabriela asks herself and hears two re- sponses.

The first reminds her that she must keep going. Gabriela, the op- timist, the one who has
persevered in order to reach stardom and now needs to think about the premiere, the
invitations, the flights by private jet, the posters put up in all the worlds capitals,
the photographers on permanent watch outside her house, interested in what shes wearing
and where she buys her clothes, and in the identity of the blond hunk she was seen with in
some fashionable nightclub. Then there will be the victorious return to the town where she
was born, the astonished friends eyeing her enviously, and the charitable projects she
intends to support.

The second response reminds her that Gabriela the optimist, the one who has persevered in
order to reach stardom, is now walking along a knife edge from which it would be all too
easy to slip and plunge into the abyss. Hamid Hussein doesnt even know of her existence;
no one has ever seen her made up and ready for a party; the dress might not be her size, it might need adjusting, and then she might arrive late for her meeting at the
Martinez. Shes twenty-five years old, and, who knows, they might be interviewing some
other candidate right now on that same yacht or they might have changed their minds; in
fact, perhaps that was the idea: to talk to two or three possible candidates and see which
of them stood out from the crowd. All three of them might be invited to the party, unaware
of each others existence.

Paranoia.

No, it isnt paranoia, shes just being realistic. Even the fact that Gibson and the Star
only ever got involved in major projects was no guarantee of success. And if anything went
wrong, it would all be her fault. The ghost of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland is
still there. Perhaps she isnt as talented as she thinks, just very hardwork- ing. She
hasnt been as lucky as some others; nothing of great impor- tance has so far happened in
her life, despite fighting day and night, night and day. She hasnt stopped since arriving
in Cannes: distribut- ing her extremely expensive book to various casting companies and
getting only one audition. If she really was that special, she would now be having to
decide which of several roles to accept. Shes get- ting above herself and will soon know
the taste of defeat, all the more bitter because she has come so close and dipped her toes
in the ocean offame...onlytofail.

Im attracting bad vibrations. I know theyre out there. I must get a grip on myself.

She cant do any yoga exercises in front of that woman in the suit and the three other
people waiting in silence. She needs to drive away those negative thoughts, but where
exactly are they coming from? Ac- cording to what shes readand she had read a lot on the
subject at a time when she felt she was failing to achieve as much as she could because of
other peoples envyit was likely that another actress who had been rejected was, at that
moment, focusing all her energies on getting the role back. Yes, she could feel it, it was
true! The only escape is to make her mind leave that corridor and go off in search of her
Higher Self, which is connected to all the forces of the universe.

She breathes deeply, smiles, and says to herself:

I am spreading the energy of love all around me; it is more power- ful than the forces of
darkness; the God in me greets the God who lives in all the inhabitants of the planet,
even those who . . .

She hears someone laugh. The door to the suite opens, and a group of smiling, happy young
people of both sexes, accompanied by two female celebrities, are leaving and heading for
the lift. The two men and the woman go into the room, collect the dozens of bags left
beside the door, and join the group waiting for them by the lift. They must be assistants,
chauffeurs, secretaries.

Its your turn, says the woman in the suit. Meditation never fails, thinks Gabriela. She
smiles confidently at the receptionist, but the suite itself almost takes her breath away. Its like an Aladdins cave, full of rail upon rail of clothes, and
all kinds of pairs of glasses, handbags, jewelry, beauty products, watches, shoes, tights,
and electronic devices. A blonde woman comes to meet her; she has a list in one hand and a
mobile phone on a chain around her neck. She takes Gabrielas name and says:

Follow me. We havent much time, so lets get straight down to business.

They go into one of the other rooms, and Gabriela sees still more luxurious, glamorous
treasures, things she has only ever seen in shop windows, but never had a chance to see
close up, except when worn by someone else.

Yes, all this awaits her. She needs to be quick and decide exactly what shes going to wear.

Can I start with the jewelry?

You dont get to choose anything. We know exactly what HH wants. And youll have to return
the dress to us tomorrow.

HH. Hamid Hussein knows what he wants her to wear!

They cross the room. The bed and the other furniture are clut- tered with more products:
T-shirts, spices and seasonings, a picture of a well-known make of coffee machine, several
of which are wrapped up as presents. They go down a corridor and through the doors into an
even larger room. She had no idea hotel suites could be so big.

This is the Temple. An elegant long white poster bearing the designers logo has been placed above the vast
double bed. An androgynous creaturewhether male or female, Gabriela cannot tellis waiting
for them in silence. The creature is extremely thin, with drab, straggly hair, shaven eye-
brows, beringed fingers, and is wearing skin-tight trousers adorned with various chains.

Get undressed.

Gabriela takes off her blouse and her jeans, still trying to guess the gender of the
creature who has now gone over to one of the dress rails and selected a red dress.

Take your bra off too. It makes bulges under the dress.

Theres a large mirror in the room, but its turned away from her and so she cant see how
the dress looks.

We need to be quick. Hamid said that as well as going to the party, she has to go up the
steps.

Go up the steps! The magic words. The dress was all wrong. The woman and the androgyne are
start-

ing to get worried. The woman asks for two or three other dresses to be brought because
Gabriela will be going up the steps with the Star, who is dressed and ready.

Going up the steps with the Star! She must be dreaming!

They decide on a long gold dress that clings to the body and has a neckline that plunges
to the waist. At breast-height, a gold chain keeps the opening from getting any wider than
the human imagination can bear.

The woman is very nervous. The androgyne goes out and returns with a seamstress, who makes
the necessary alterations to the hem. If Gabriela could say anything at that moment, it
would be to ask them to stop. Sewing the dress while she is actually wearing it means that
her fate is also being sewn up and interrupted. But this is no time for superstitions, and
many famous actresses must face the same situation every day without anything bad ever
happening to them.

A third person arrives, carrying an enormous suitcase, goes over to one corner of the vast room, and starts dismantling the case, which is, in fact, a kind
of portable makeup studio, including a mirror sur- rounded by lights. The androgyne is
kneeling before her, like a repen- tant Mary Magdalene, trying shoe after shoe on her foot.

Shes Cinderella and will shortly meet her Prince and go up the steps with him!

Those are good, says the woman. The androgyne starts putting the other shoes back in their
boxes. OK, take it off. Well put the final touches to the dress while youre having your hair and makeup done. Gabriela feels relieved that they will no longer be
sewing the dress while it is on her body. Her destiny opens up again. Wearing only a pair of panties, she
is led to the bathroom. A por-

table kit for washing and drying hair has already been installed there, and a
shaven-headed man is waiting. He asks her to sit down and lean her head back into a kind
of steel basin. He uses a hose attached to the tap to wash her hair, and, like everyone
else, hes extremely agitated. He complains about the noise from outside; he needs quiet if
hes to do a decent job, but no one pays any attention. Besides, he never has enough time;
everythings always done in such a rush.

No one understands the enormous responsibility resting on my shoulders, he says.

Hes not talking to her, but to himself. He goes on:

When you go up the steps, theyre not looking at you, you know. Theyre looking at my work,
at my makeup and at my hairstyling. Youre just the canvas on which I paint or draw, the
clay out of which I shape my sculptures. If I make a mistake, what will other people say?
I could lose my job.

Gabriela feels offended, but shes obviously going to have to get used to this kind of
thing. Thats what the world of glamour is like. Later on, when she really is someone,
shell choose kind, polite people to work with her. For now, she focuses on her main
virtue: patience.

The conversation is interrupted by the roar of the hair dryer, simi- lar to that of a plane taking off. And he was the one complaining about the noise outside!

He rather roughly primps her hair into shape and asks her to move straight over to the
portable makeup studio. His mood changes com- pletely: he stands in silence, contemplating
her face in the mirror, as if he were in a trance. He paces back and forth, using the
dryer and the brush much as Michelangelo used hammer and chisel on his sculpture of David.
And she tries to keep looking straight ahead and remember some lines written by a
Portuguese poet:

The mirror reflects perfectly; it makes no mistakes because it doesnt think. To think is
to make mistakes.

The androgyne and the woman return. In only twenty minutes the limousine will arrive to
take her to the Martinez to pick up the Star. Theres nowhere to park there, so they have
to be right on time. The hairdresser mutters to himself, as if he were a misunderstood
artist, but he knows he has to meet those deadlines. He starts working on her face as if
he were Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.

A limousine! The steps! The Star!

The mirror reflects perfectly; it makes no mistakes because it doesnt think.

She mustnt think either, because, if she does, shell be infected by the prevailing anxiety
and bad temper; those negative vibes will come back. She would love to know just what it
is, this hotel suite packed with all these different things, but she must behave as if she
were used to frequenting such places. Beneath the severe gaze of the woman and the
distracted gaze of the androgyne, Michelangelo is putting the fin- ishing touches to her
makeup. Gabriela then stands up and is swiftly dressed and shod. Everything is in place,
thank God.

From somewhere in the room, they grab a small leather Hamid Hussein bag. The androgyne
opens it, removes some of the paper stuff- ing, studies the result with the same
distracted air, and, when it appears to meet with his approval, hands it to her.

The woman gives her four copies of a huge contract, with small red markers along the edge,
bearing the words: Sign here.

You can either sign without reading it or take it home, phone your lawyer, and say you
need more time to think before deciding. Youll go up those steps regardless because its
too late to change anything now. However, if this contract isnt back here tomorrow
morning, you just have to return the dress and that will be that.

She remembers her agents words: accept everything. Gabriela takes the pen the woman is
holding out to her, turns to the pages with the markers, and signs everything. She has
nothing to lose. If there are any unfair clauses, she can probably go to the courts later
on and say she was pressured into signing. First, though, she has to do what she has
always dreamed of doing.

The woman takes the signed contract from her and vanishes without saying goodbye.
Michelangelo is once again dismantling the makeup table, immersed in his own little world
in which injustice rules, and in which his work is never recognized, where he never has
enough time to do a proper job, and where, if anything goes wrong, the fault will be
entirely his. The androgyne asks her to follow him to the door of the suite; he consults
his watchwhich, Gabriela notices, bears a deaths headand speaks to her for the first time
since they have met.

Weve got another three minutes. You cant go down now and be seen by other people. And I
have to go with you to the limousine.

The tension returns. Shes no longer thinking about the limousine, about the Star, or going
up those steps; shes afraid. She needs to talk.

Whats this suite for? Why are there all these things in it?

Theres even a safari to Kenya, says the androgyne, pointing to one corner. She hadnt
noticed the discreet advertising banner for an airline and a small pile of envelopes on
the table. Its free, like ev- erything else in here, apart from the clothes and the
accessories in the Temple.

Coffee machines, electronic gadgets, clothes, handbags, watches, jewelry, and a trip to
Kenya.

All of it absolutely free?

I know what youre thinking, says the androgyne in that voice which is neither male nor
female, but the voice of some interplanetary being. But it is all free, or, rather, given in fair exchange because noth- ing in this
world is free. This is one of the many Gift Rooms you get in Cannes during the Festival.
The chosen few come in here and take whatever they want; theyre people who will be seen
around wearing a shirt designed by A or some glasses by B, theyll receive important guests
in their home and, when the Festivals over, go into their kitchen and prepare some coffee
with a brand-new coffee machine. Theyll carry around their laptop in a bag made by C,
recommend friends to use moisturizers by D, which are just about to be launched on the
market, and theyll feel important doing that because it means theyll own something
exclusive, which hasnt yet reached the specialist shops. Theyll wear Es jewelry to the
swimming pool and be photographed wearing a belt by F, neither of which are yet available
to the public. When these products do come on the market, the Superclass will al- ready
have done their advertising for them, not because they want to, but because theyre the
only ones who can. Then mere mortals will spend all their savings on buying the same
products. What could be easier, sweetheart? The manufacturers invest in some free samples,
and the chosen few are transformed into walking advertisements. But dont get too excited.
You havent reached those heights yet.