The Winner Stands Alone (7 page)

And since there can only ever be one first film, she had poured all her physical efforts,
her prayers, and her emotional energy into one project. Unlike her friends, who were
always firing off scripts, propos- als, and ideas, only to end up working on several
things at once without any of them ever really coming to anything, Maureen dedicated
herself body and soul to The Secrets of the Cellar, the story of five nuns who are visited
by a sex maniac. Instead of trying to convert him to Christian salvation, they realize
that the only way they can communicate with him is by accepting the norms of his aberrant
world; they decide to surrender their bodies to him so that he can understand the glory of
God through love.

Her plan was a simple one. Hollywood actresses, however famous they might be, usually
disappear from the cast lists when they reach thirty-five. They still continue to appear
in the pages of the celebrity magazines, are seen at charity auctions and big parties;
they embrace humanitarian causes, and when they realize that they really are about to
vanish from the spotlight entirely, they start to get married or have messy divorces and
create public scandalsand all for a few months, weeks, or days of glory. In that period
between unemployment and total obscurity, money is of no importance. They will take any
role if it gives them a chance to appear on screen.

Maureen approached actresses who, less than a decade earlier, had been at the top of the
tree, but who now sensed that the ground was be- ginning to slip away from under them and
that they desperately needed to get back to the way things were. It was a good script; she
sent it to their agents, who demanded an absurd salary and got a straightforward no as an
answer. Her next step was to approach each actress individu- ally. She told them that she
had the money for the project, and they all ended up accepting on the understanding that
no one would know that they were working for almost nothing.

In something like the film industry, there was no point in being humble. Sometimes, the
ghost of Orson Welles would appear to her in dreams: Try the impossible. Dont start low
down because thats where you are now. Climb those rungs quickly before they take the ladder away. If youre
afraid, say a prayer, but carry on. She had an excellent script, a first-class cast, and
knew that she had to produce something that was acceptable to the big studios and
distributors, but without sacrificing quality. It was possible and, indeed, obligatory for
art and commerce to go hand-in-hand. As for the rest, well, the rest consisted of various
things: the kind of critic whos into mental mastur- bation and who loves films no one else
understands; the small alterna- tive circuits where the same half dozen people emerge from
showings and spend the small hours in bars, smoking and discussing one particu- lar scene
(whose meaning was, very possibly, quite different from the one intended when it was
filmed); directors giving lectures to explain what should be obvious to the audience;
trade union meetings call- ing for more state aid for domestic cinema; manifestos in
intellectual magazinesthe result of interminable meetings, at which the same old
complaints were made about the governments lack of interest in supporting the arts; the
occasional letter published in the serious press and usually read only by the interested
parties or the families of the interested parties.

Who changes the world? The Superclass. Those who do. Those who alter the behavior, hearts,
and minds of the largest possible number of people.

Thats why she wanted Javits, an Oscar, and Cannes.

And since she couldnt get those things democraticallyother people were very willing to
offer advice, but never to shoulder any of the risksshe simply gambled everything. She
took on whoever was available, spent months rewriting the script, persuaded excellent but
unknownart directors, designers, and supporting actors to take part, promising them almost
no money, only increased visibility in the future. They were all impressed by the names of
the five main actresses (The budget must be astronomical!), and initially asked for large
salaries, but ended up convinced that participating in such a project would look really
good on their CVs. Maureen was so enthusiastic about the idea that her enthusiasm seemed
to open all doors.

Now came the final step, the one that would make all the difference. It isnt enough for a writer or musician to produce something of qual- ity, they have to
make sure their work doesnt end up gathering dust on a shelf or in a drawer.

Vis-i-bil-i-ty is whats required!

She sent a copy of the film to just one person: Javits Wild. She used all her contacts.
She suffered rejection, but carried on anyway. She was ignored, but that didnt diminish
her courage. She was mistreated, ridi- culed, excluded, but still she believed it was
possible because she had poured her lifeblood into what she had done. Then her
ex-boyfriend entered the scene, and Javits Wild agreed to see her film and to meet her.

She keeps her eyes on Javits all through lunch, savoring in antici- pation the moment they
will spend together in two days time. Sud- denly, she notices him go stiff, his eyes fixed
on nothing. One of the friends with him glances behind and to the side, slips one hand
inside his jacket. The other man starts frantically keying in a number on his mobile phone.

Has something happened? Surely not. The people nearest him are still talking, drinking,
enjoying another day of Festival, parties, sun, and nice bodies.

One of the men tries to help Javits up and make him walk, but he appears incapable of
movement. It cant be anything serious. Too much drink perhaps. Tiredness. Stress. No, it
cant be anything serious. She has come so far, she is so close and . . .

She can hear a siren in the distance. It must be the police, cutting their way through the
permanently congested traffic in order to reach some important person.

One of the men puts Javitss arm around his shoulder and more or less carries him toward
the door. The siren is getting closer. The other man, still with his hand inside his
jacket, keeps looking in all direc- tions. At one point, their eyes meet.

Javits is being taken up the ramp by one of his friends, and Maureen is wondering how
someone so slight can possibly carry such a heavily built man and with so little apparent
effort.

The sound of the siren stops right outside the tent. Javits has, by now, disappeared with one of the friends, but the second man is walking toward her, one
hand still inside his jacket.

What happened? she asks, frightened, because years of directing actors have taught her
that this mans face is that of a professional killer, a face that looks as if it were
carved out of stone.

You know what happened, the man says in an accent she cant identify.

I saw that he began to feel ill, but what did happen?

The man keeps his hand inside his jacket, and at that moment, it occurs to Maureen that
this might be a chance to transform a minor incident into a great possibility.

Can I help? Can I go with him?

The hand in the jacket seems to relax a little, but the eyes watch every move she makes.

Ill come with you. I know Javits Wild. Im a friend of his.

After what seems like an eternity, but which cant have been more than a fraction of a
second, the man turns and walks quickly away toward the Boulevard, without saying a word.

Maureens brain is working fast. Why did he say that she knew what had happened? And why
did he suddenly lose all interest in her?

The other guests havent noticed a thing, apart from the sound of the siren, which they
probably attribute to something going on out in the street. Sirens have nothing to do with
joy, sun, drinks, contacts, beautiful women, handsome men, with the pale and the tanned.
Sirens belong to another world, a world of heart attacks, diseases, and crime. Sirens are
of no interest to the people here.

Maureens head begins to spin. Something has happened to Javits, and this could be a gift
from the gods. She runs to the door and sees an ambulance speeding away, sirens blaring,
down the blocked-off lane of the Boulevard.

Thats my friend, she says to one of the bodyguards at the en- trance. Where have they
taken him?

The man gives her the name of a hospital. Without pausing to think, Maureen starts running
to find a taxi. Ten minutes later, she re- alizes that there are no taxis in the city,
only those summoned by hotel porters, lured by the prospect of generous tips. Since she has no money in her bag, she
goes into a pizzeria, shows someone working there the map she has with her, and learns
that she must run for at least half an hour to reach her objective.

Shes been running all her life, so half an hour wont make much difference.

Good morning. You mean Good afternoon, dont you? one of the other girls replies. Its midday. Everything is exactly as shed imagined. The five other young women waiting all rather resemble her, at least physically. They, how- ever, are heavily
made up, wear short skirts and low-cut tops, and are busy with their mobile phones and
their texts.

No one speaks because they know theyre soul mates who have all been through the same
difficulties and have uncomplainingly faced the same challenges and accepted each knockout
blow. Theyre all trying hard to believe that dreams have no sell-by date, that life can
change from one second to the next, that somewhere the right moment is wait- ing for them,
and that this is just a test of their willpower.

Theyve all perhaps quarreled with their families, who are con- vinced their daughters will
end up working as prostitutes.

Theyve all been on stage and experienced the agony and the ec- stasy of seeing the
audience and knowing that every eye is fixed on them; theyve felt the electricity in the
air and heard the applause at the end. Theyve imagined a hundred times over that there
will come a night when a member of the Superclass will be in the audience and visit them
in their dressing room after the performance with some- thing more substantial to offer than an invitation to supper, a request for their phone
number, or compliments on a job well done.

To begin with, they accepted a few of those invitations, but the only place they led to
was the bed of some powerful, older manusually married, as all the interesting men
areconcerned only with notch- ing up another conquest.

They all had a boyfriend their own age, but when anyone asked if they were married or
single, they always answered: Free and unat- tached. They thought they were in control of
the situation. Theyve all been toldhundreds of times nowthat they have real talent and
just need the right opportunity, and that the person there before them is the one who can
transform their lives. Theyve occasionally believed this too. Theyve fallen into the trap
of being overconfident and think- ing they were in charge, until the next day came and the
phone number theyd been given put them through to the extension of a very grumpy secretary
who had no intention of letting them speak to her boss.

Theyve threatened to sell their story to the tabloids, saying that they had been deceived,
although none of them has ever actually done so because theyre still at the stage of
thinking: I mustnt spoil my chances in the acting world.

One or two may even have shared Gabrielas Alice in Wonderland experience, and now want to
prove to their families that theyre far more capable than they thought. Their families, of
course, have all by now seen their daughters in commercials, on posters and billboards
scattered round the city, and, after a few initial arguments, are con- vinced that those
same daughters are on the verge of entering a world of bright lights and glamour.

All the girls there believed that their dream was possible, that one day their talent
would be recognized, until the penny dropped: there is only one magic wordcontacts. They
had all distributed their books as soon as they arrived in Cannes, and now keep a constant
eye on their mobile phone, getting invited to whatever launches and events they can and
trying their best to get into those they cant, always dreaming that someone will ask them
to one of the evening parties or, dream of dreams, award them that greatest of prizes, an
invitation to walk down the red carpet at the Palais des Congres. That, however, was probably the most
difficult dream to realize, so difficult that they didnt really allow themselves to think
about it, in case the feelings of rejection and frustration destroyed their ability to
wear the happy face they must wear at all times, even when theyre not happy at all.

Contacts.

After many cases of mistaken identity, they did find the occasional useful contact, which
is why theyre here. One such contact had led to a New Zealand producer calling them. None
had asked what it was about; they knew only that they had to be punctual because no one
has any time to lose, certainly not people in the film industry. The only ones who do are
the five young women in the waiting room, busy with their mobile phones and their
magazines, compulsively sending texts to see if theyve been invited to something later in
the day, trying to talk to their friends, and always making a point of saying that theyre
not free to speak right now because they have an important meeting with a film producer.

Gabriela is the fourth person
tobecalled.Shehadtriedto interpret the look in the eyes of the first three candidates who
emerged from the room without saying a word, but then, of course, theyre all actresses,
capable of hiding any emotion, be it joy or sadness. All three strode determinedly to the
door and wished the others a confident Good luck, as if to say: No need to be nervous,
girls, youve got nothing to lose. The parts mine.

One of the walls in
theapartmentiscoveredwithablackcloth. The floor there is cluttered with all kinds of
electric cables and lights covered with a metal mesh, and theres a kind of umbrella with a
white cloth spread before it, as well as sound equipment, screens, and a video camera. In
the corners stand bottles of mineral water, metal briefcases, tripods, bits of paper, and
a computer. Sitting on the floor, a bespec- tacled, thirty-something woman is leafing
through Gabrielas book. Awful, she says, not looking up at her. Awful.

Gabriela doesnt know quite what to do. Perhaps she should pretend she isnt listening and
go over to the group of chain-smoking techni- cians chatting brightly in one corner or
perhaps she should simply stay where she is.

This ones awful, said the woman again. Thats me. She cant help herself. She has run
through half of Cannes to get there, waited nearly two hours, imagined yet again that her life is about to change
forever (although shes less and less prone to such fantasies now and wont allow herself to
get as excited as she used to), and she certainly doesnt need more reasons to be depressed.

I know, says the woman, her eyes fixed on the photos. They must have cost you a fortune.
People make a career out of making books, writing CVs, running acting courses, and
generally making money out of the vanity of people like you.

If you think Im so awful, why did you call me? Because we need someone awful. Gabriela
laughs. The woman finally raises her head and looks her up and down. I liked your clothes. I hate vulgar people. Gabrielas dream is returning. Her
heart beats faster. The woman hands her a sheet of paper. Go over there to the mark. Then
she turns to the crew. Put those cigarettes out and close the window. I dont want the sound messed up. The mark is a cross made with yellow tape on the floor. This means that the actor is automatically in the right position for the light- ing and the
camera.

Its so hot in here, Im sweating. Could I at least go to the bath- room and put a little
foundation on, some makeup?

Of course you can, but when you get back, there wont be time to do the recording. We have
to hand this stuff over by this afternoon.

All the other girls who went in must have asked the same question and been given the same answer. Best not to waste time. She takes a paper handkerchief out
of her pocket and dabs at her face as she makes her way over to the mark.

An assistant positions himself by the camera, while Gabriela battles against time, trying
to read through what is written on that half sheet of paper.

Test number twenty-five, Gabriela Sherry, Thompson Agency. Twenty-five?! thinks Gabriela.
And action, says the woman with the glasses. Silence falls.

No, I cant believe what
youresaying.Noonecancommit a murder for no reason.

Start again. Youre talking to your boyfriend.

No, I cant believe what youre saying. No one can commit a murder like that for no reason.

The words like that arent in the script. Do you really think that the scriptwriter, who
worked on this for months, didnt consider put- ting those words in, but decided against it
because theyre useless, su- perficial, unnecessary?

Gabriela takes a deep breath. She has nothing to lose but her pa- tience. Shes going to do
her best now, then leave, go to the beach, or go back to bed for a while. She needs to
rest in order to be in good shape for the evening round of cocktail parties.

A strange, delicious calm comes over her. Suddenly, she feels pro- tected, loved, grateful
to be alive. No ones forcing her to be there, en- during yet another humiliation. For the
first time in years, shes aware of her power, a power she had never thought existed.

No, I dont believe what youre saying. No one can commit a murder for no reason.

Next line.

There was no need for her to say that. Gabriela was going to con- tinue anyway.

Wed better go and see a doctor. I think you need help. No, said the woman in glasses, who was playing the part of the boyfriend.

OK, no doctor, then. How about a little walk, and you can tell me exactly whats going on.
I love you, you know, and even if no one else in the world cares about you, I do.

There are no more lines. Another silence. A strange energy fills the room.

Tell the other girl out there she can go, says the woman in the glasses to one of the
other people present.

Does this mean what Gabriela thinks it means?

Go to the marina at the end of Boulevard de la Croisette, opposite AllŽe des Palmiers. A
boat will be waiting there at 1:55 prompt to take you to meet Mr. Gibson. Were going to
send him the video now, but he always likes to meet the people he might be working with.

A smile appears on Gabrielas face. I said might, I didnt say will be working with. The
smile remains. Mr. Gibson!