That way, they will be in good shape to attend the free lunches—for which they dress with studied casualness—where they feel important simply because they’ve been invited, or the gala suppers for which they have to pay a lot of money unless they have influential contacts, or the post-supper parties that go on into the small hours, or the last cup of coffee or glass of whisky in the hotel bar, all of which involve repeated visits to the toilets to retouch makeup, straighten ties, brush off any dandruff from jacket shoulders, and make sure one’s lipstick is still perfect.
Finally, back in their luxurious hotel rooms, where they will find the bed made, the breakfast menu waiting, the weather forecast for the next day, a chocolate (which is immediately discarded as containing far too many calories), an envelope with their names exquisitely written (the envelope is never opened because all it contains is the standardized welcome letter from the hotel manager) beside a basket of fruit (devoured avidly because fruit is a rich source of fiber which is, in turn, good for the body and an excellent way of avoiding wind). They look in the mirror as they take off tie, makeup, dress, or dinner jacket, and say to themselves: “Nothing of much importance happened today. Perhaps tomorrow will be better.”
EWA IS BEAUTIFULLY DRESSED IN an HH number that is at once discreet and elegant. They are ushered to two seats at the very front of the catwalk, next to the area reserved for the photographers, who are just coming in and setting up their equipment.
A journalist comes over and asks the usual question:
“Mr. Hussein, which would you say is the best film you’ve seen so far?”
“It’s too early to give an opinion,” he says, as usual. “I’ve seen a lot of very interesting things, but I prefer to wait until the end of the Festival before passing judgment.”
In fact, he hasn’t seen a single film. Later on, he’ll talk to Gibson and ask him which he considers to be “the best film of the Festival.”
The polite, smartly dressed blonde politely shoos the reporter away. She asks if they plan on going to the cocktail party being held by the Belgian government immediately after the show. She says that one of the ministers present would very much like to talk to him. Hamid considers the invitation, for he knows that the Belgians have put a lot of money into getting their couturiers a higher profile on the international scene, and thus recover some of the glory they once had as a colonial power in Africa.
“Yes, I might just drop in for a glass of champagne,” he says.
“Aren’t we meeting Gibson straight after this?” asks Ewa.
Hamid gets the message. He apologizes to the young woman. He had forgotten he had a prior commitment, but will be in touch with the minister later on.
A few photographers spot them and start taking photos. At the moment, they are the only people the press are interested in. Later, they’re joined by a few models who were once all the rage and who pose and smile, sign autographs for some of the ill-dressed people in the audience, and do everything they can to be noticed, in the hope that their faces will once again appear in the press. The photographers turn their lenses on them, knowing that they’re merely going through the motions to please their editors; none of the photos will be published. Fashion is about the present, and the models of three years ago—apart from those who keep themselves in the headlines either through carefully stage-managed scandals or because they really do stand out from the crowd—are only remembered by the people who wait behind the metal barriers outside hotels, or by ladies who can’t keep up with the speed of change.
The older models who have just arrived are aware of this (and “older,” of course, means anyone over twenty-five), but the reason they’re in the audience isn’t that they want to return to the catwalks, but because they’re hoping to get a role in a film or a career as a presenter on some cable TV show.
WHO ELSE WILL BE ON the catwalk today, aside from the only reason Hamid is here, Jasmine?
Certainly not any of the four or five top models in the world, because they do only what they want to do, always charge a fortune, and would never dream of appearing at Cannes simply to lend prestige to someone else’s show. Hamid reckons he will see two or three Class A models, like Jasmine, who will earn around fifteen hundred euros for that evening’s work; you have to have a lot of charisma and, above all, a future in the industry; there will probably be another two or three Class B models, professionals who are brilliant on the catwalk, have the right kind of figure, but are not lucky enough to be taking part in any parallel events as special guests at the parties put on by the large conglomerates, and they will earn between six hundred and eight hundred euros. The rest will be made up of Class C models, girls who have recently entered the mad world of fashion shows and who earn between two hundred and three hundred euros simply “to gain experience.”
Hamid knows what’s going on in the heads of the girls in that third group: “I’m going to be a winner. I’m going to show everyone just what I can do. I’m going to be one of the most famous models in the world, even if that means having to sleep with a few older men.”
Older men, however, are not as stupid as they think. The majority of these girls are underage, and in most countries in the world, anyone engaging in underage sex is likely to end up in jail. The legend differs greatly from the reality: no model gets to the top because of her sexual generosity; there’s more to it than that.
Charisma. Luck. The right agent. Being in the right place at the right time. And the right time, according to the trend adapters, isn’t what these girls new to the fashion world think it is. According to the latest research, everything indicates that the public is tired of seeing strange, anorexic creatures of indefinite age, but with provocative eyes. The casting agencies (who choose the models) are looking for something which is, apparently, extremely difficult to find: the girl next door, that is, someone who is absolutely ordinary and who transmits to everyone who sees her on posters or in fashion magazines the sense that she’s just like them. And finding that extraordinary girl who appears to be so “ordinary” is an almost impossible task.
The days are long gone when mannequins were simply walking clothes hangers, although it has to be said that it is easier to dress someone thin—the clothes do hang better. The days are gone, too, of handsome men advertising expensive menswear. That worked well in the yuppie era, toward the end of the 1980s, but not anymore. There’s no set standard for male beauty, and when men buy a product, they want to see someone they can associate with a work colleague or a drinking pal.
PEOPLE WHO HAVE ALREADY SEEN Jasmine on the catwalk had suggested her to Hamid as the perfect face for his new collection. They said things like: “She’s got bags of charisma and yet other women can still identify with her.” A Class C model is always chasing contacts and men who claim to be powerful enough to make her a star, but the best publicity you can get in the world of fashion—and possibly in all other worlds too—are recommendations from people in the know. Illogical though it may seem, as soon as someone is on the verge of being “discovered,” everyone starts laying bets on their success or failure. Sometimes they win, sometimes they lose, but that’s the way the market is.
THE ROOM IS BEGINNING TO fill up. The front-row seats are all reserved, and a group of elegantly dressed women and men in suits occupy some of those seats, while the rest remain empty. The general public are seated in the second, third, and fourth rows. The main focus of the photographers’ attentions is now a famous model, who is married to a football player and has spent a lot of time in Brazil because, she says, she “just adores it.” Everyone knows that “a trip to Brazil” is code for “plastic surgery,” but no one says so openly. What happens is that, after a few days there, the visitor asks discreetly if a visit to a plastic surgeon might be fitted in between sightseeing trips to the beauties of Salvador and dancing in the Rio carnival. There’s a rapid exchange of business cards and the conversation ends there.
The nice blonde girl waits for the press photographers to
finish their work (they, too, ask the model which, in her opinion, is the best film she’s seen so far) and then leads her to the one free seat next to Hamid and Ewa. The photographers crowd round and take dozens of photos of the threesome—the great couturier, his wife, and the model-turned-housewife.
Some journalists ask Hamid what he thinks of the Belgian designer’s work. Accustomed to this kind of question, he replies:
“That’s what I came here to find out. I hear she’s very talented.”
The journalists insist, as if they hadn’t heard his answer. They’re nearly all Belgians; the French press aren’t much interested. The nice blonde girl asks them to leave the guests in peace.
They move away. The ex-model sits down next to Hamid and tries to strike up a conversation, saying that she simply loves his work. He thanks her politely, and if she was expecting the response “Let’s talk after the show,” she’s disappointed. Nevertheless, she proceeds to tell him everything that’s happened in her life—the photos, the invitations, the trips abroad.
Hamid listens patiently, but as soon as he gets a chance (while the model is briefly talking to someone else), he turns to Ewa to ask her to save him from this dialogue of the deaf. His wife, however, is behaving even more strangely now and refuses to talk. His only alternative is to read the explanatory leaflet about the show.
The collection is a tribute to Ann Salens, who was considered the pioneer of Belgian fashion. She began designing in the sixties and opened a small boutique, but saw at once the enormous potential of the fashions created by the young hippies who were converging on Amsterdam from all over the world. She challenged—and triumphed over—the sober styles popular among the bourgeoisie at the time, and saw her clothes worn by various icons, including Queen Paola and that great muse of the French existentialist movement, the singer Juliette Gréco. She was one of the first to create the kind of fashion show that mixed clothes on the catwalk with lighting, music, and art. Nevertheless, she was little known outside her own country. She always had a terrible fear of cancer, and as Job says in the Bible, the thing that she greatly feared came upon her. She died of the dread illness and saw her business fail because of her own financial incompetence.
And, as with all things in a world that renews itself every six months, she had been completely forgotten. The designer who was about to show her own collection was displaying considerable courage in seeking inspiration in the past instead of trying to invent a future.
HAMID PUTS THE LEAFLET AWAY in his pocket. If Jasmine isn’t all that he hopes, he’ll go and talk to the designer afterward anyway and see if there’s some project they can work on together. He’s always open to new ideas, as long as his competitors are under his supervision.
He looks around him. The spotlights are well positioned, and, to his surprise, there are a good number of photographers present. Maybe the collection really is worth seeing, or perhaps the Belgian government has used its influence with the press, offering air tickets and accommodation. There’s another possible explanation for so much interest, but Hamid hopes he’s wrong. That reason is Jasmine. If he wants to proceed with his plans, he needs her to be someone completely unknown to the general public. Up until now, he’s only heard comments from other people in the fashion business. If her face has already appeared in lots of magazines, then it will be a waste of time taking her on. Firstly, because it means someone has got there before him, and secondly, because it would make no sense to associate her with something fresh and new.
Hamid does a few calculations. This event must have been very expensive to put on, but, like the sheikh, the Belgian government is quite right: fashion for women, sport for men, celebrities for both sexes, those are the only things that interest everyone and the only things that can get a country’s image recognized on the international scene. In the case of fashion, of course, there are often long negotiations with the Fédération to deal with first. However, he notices that one of the Fédération’s directors is sitting alongside the Belgian politicians, so they are clearly losing no time.
More VIPs arrive, all of them shepherded in by the nice blonde girl. They seem slightly disoriented, as if they’re not sure quite what they’re doing here. They’re overdressed, so this must be the first fashion show they’ve attended in France, having come straight from Brussels. They’re certainly not part of the fauna currently invading the town to attend the Film Festival.
There is a five-minute delay. Unlike the Fashion Week in Paris, during which almost no show begins on time, there are a lot of other things happening in Cannes this week, and the press can’t hang around for long. Then he realizes that he’s wrong: most of the journalists present are talking to and interviewing the ministers; they’re nearly all foreigners and from the same country. Only in a situation like this do politics and fashion meet.
The nice blonde girl goes over to the photographers and asks them to take their places; the show is about to begin. Hamid and Ewa have not exchanged a single word. She seems neither happy nor unhappy, and that bodes very ill indeed. If only she would complain or smile or say something! But she gives no clue as to what is going on inside her.
Best to concentrate on the screen at the far end of the catwalk from behind which the models will appear. At least fashion shows are something he can understand.
A few minutes ago, the models will have taken off all their underwear because bras and pants might leave visible marks underneath the clothes they’ll be wearing. The models have already put on the first item they’ll be showing and are waiting for the lights to dim, the music to start, and for someone—usually a woman—to tap them on the back to indicate the precise moment when they should head out toward the spotlights and the audience.
THE DIFFERENT CLASSES OF MODEL—A, B, and C—are all suffering from varying degrees of nerves, with the least experienced being the most excited. Some are saying a prayer, others are trying to peer through the curtain to see if anyone they know is there, or if their mother or father managed to get a good seat. There must be ten or twelve of them, each with their photo pinned up above the place where the clothes they’ll be wearing are hung up in the order they’ll be worn so that they can change in a matter of seconds and return to the catwalk looking completely relaxed, as if they’d been wearing the clothes all afternoon. The final touches have been given to makeup and hair. The models are repeating to themselves:
“I mustn’t slip. I mustn’t trip on the hem. I have been personally chosen by the designer from sixty other models. I’m in Cannes. There’s probably someone important in the audience. I know that HH is here, and he might choose me for his brand. They say the place is full of photographers and journalists.
“I mustn’t smile because that’s against the rules. My feet must tread an invisible line. In these high heels I need to walk as if I were marching. It doesn’t matter if that way of walking is artificial or uncomfortable—I must remember that.
“I must reach the mark, turn to one side, pause for two seconds, then come straight back at the same speed, knowing that as soon as I leave the catwalk, there’ll be someone waiting to take off my clothes and put on the next set, and that I won’t even have time to look in the mirror! I have to trust that everything will go well. I need to show off not only my body, not only the clothes, but the power of my gaze.”
Hamid glances up at the ceiling: that is the mark, a spotlight brighter than the others. If the model overshoots that mark or stops beforehand, she won’t photograph well, and then the magazine editors—or, rather, the Belgian magazine editors—will choose to show a photo of another model. The French press is currently camped outside the hotels or alongside the red carpet or at some evening cocktail party or else eating a sandwich before the main gala supper of the night.
The lights in the room go out, and the spotlights above the catwalk go on.
This is the big moment.
A powerful sound system fills the air with a soundtrack from the sixties and seventies. It transports Ha
mid to a world he never knew, but which he has heard people talk about. He feels a certain nostalgia for what he has never known and a twinge of anger—why didn’t he get the chance to experience the great dream of all those young people traveling the world?
The first model comes on, and sound fuses with vision—the brightly colored clothes, full of life and energy, are telling a story that happened a long time ago, but one that the world still likes to hear. Beside him, he hears the click and whirr of dozens of shutters. The cameras are recording everything. The first model performs perfectly—she walks as far as the mark, turns to the right, pauses for two seconds, then walks back. She will have approximately fifteen seconds to reach the wings, when she will drop her pose and run to the hanger where the next dress is waiting; she quickly gets undressed, gets dressed even more quickly, takes her place in the queue, and is ready for her next appearance. The designer will be watching everything via closed circuit television, biting her lips and hoping that no one slips up, that the audience understands what she’s trying to say, that she gets a round of applause at the end, and that the emissary from the Fédération is duly impressed.
The Winner Stands Alone Page 23
