The Winner Stands Alone

by Paulo Coelho

  Jasmine lit another cigarette; it was now or never.

  "Do you know why I was able to show my talent? Because of something I never imagined would happen in my life: I've 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 didn't do this by long instruction in meditation techniques or through psychoanalysis--which is what my mother thinks I need--she 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 out--there were just two pairs of eyes shining brighter than ever and fixed on each other.

  "YOU'RE 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: "You're 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, I'm 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 it's 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. She's smoking too much, but then why shouldn't she? This is her first major fashion show in France.

  4:43 P.M.

  A young woman in a black suit and white blouse opens the door. She asks for her name, checks the list, and says she'll 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 responses.

  The first reminds her that she must keep going. Gabriela, the optimist, 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 world's capitals, the photographers on permanent watch outside her house, interested in what she's 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 doesn't 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. She's 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 other's existence.

  Paranoia.

  No, it isn't paranoia, she's 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 isn't as talented as she thinks, just very hardworking. She hasn't been as lucky as some others; nothing of great importance has so far happened in her life, despite fighting day and night, night and day. She hasn't stopped since arriving in Cannes: distributing 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. She's getting 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 of fame...only to fail.

  "I'm attracting bad vibrations. I know they're out there. I must get a grip on myself."

  She can't 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? According to what she's read--and 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 people's envy--it 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 powerful 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.

  "It's 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. It's like an Aladdin's 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 Gabriela's name and says:

  "Follow me. We haven't much time, so let's 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 she's going to wear.

  "Can I start with the jewelry?"

  "You don't get to choose anything. We know exactly what HH wants. And you'll 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 cluttered 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 designer's logo has been placed above the vast double bed. An androgynous creature--whether male or female, Gabriela cannot tell--is waiting for them in silence. The creature is extremely thin, with drab, straggly hair, shaven eyebrows, 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 cr
eature 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."

  There's a large mirror in the room, but it's turned away from her and so she can't 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 starting 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 surrounded by lights. The androgyne is kneeling before her, like a repentant Mary Magdalene, trying shoe after shoe on her foot.

  She's 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. We'll put the final touches to the dress while you're 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 portable 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, he's extremely agitated. He complains about the noise from outside; he needs quiet if he's to do a decent job, but no one pays any attention. Besides, he never has enough time; everything's always done in such a rush.

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

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

  "When you go up the steps, they're not looking at you, you know. They're looking at my work, at my makeup and at my hairstyling. You're 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 she's obviously going to have to get used to this kind of thing. That's what the world of glamour is like. Later on, when she really is someone, she'll 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, similar 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 completely: 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 doesn't 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. There's 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 doesn't think.

  She mustn't think either, because, if she does, she'll 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 finishing 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 stuffing, 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. You'll go up those steps regardless because it's too late to change anything now. However, if this contract isn't back here tomorrow morning, you just have to return the dress and that will be that."

  She remembers her agent's 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 watch--which, Gabriela notices, bears a death's head--and speaks to her for the first time since they have met.

  "We've got another three minutes. You can't go down now and be seen by other people. And I have to go with you to the limousine."

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

  "What's this suite for? Why are there all these things in it?"

  "There's even a safari to Kenya," says the androgyne, pointing to one corner. She hadn't noticed the discreet advertising banner for an airline and a small pile of envelopes on the table. "It's free, like everything 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 you're 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 nothing 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; they're people who will be seen around wearing a shirt designed by A or some glasses by B, they'll receive important guests in their home and, when the Festival's over, go into their kitchen and prepare some coffee with a brand-new coffee machine. They'll 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 they'll fe
el important doing that because it means they'll own something exclusive, which hasn't yet reached the specialist shops. They'll wear E's 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 already have done their advertising for them, not because they want to, but because they're 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 don't get too excited. You haven't reached those heights yet."

  "But what has the safari to Kenya got to do with all that?"

  "What better publicity than a middle-aged couple arriving back all excited from their 'jungle adventure' with loads of pictures in their camera, and recommending everyone else to go on the same exclusive holiday? All their friends will want to experience the same thing. As I say, nothing in this world is free. By the way, the three minutes are up, so we'd better go."

  A white Maybach is waiting for them. The chauffeur, in gloves and cap, opens the door. The androgyne gives her final instructions:

  "Forget about the film, that isn't why you're going up the steps. When you get to the top of the steps, greet the Festival director and the mayor, and then, as soon as you enter the Palais des Congres, head for the restroom on the first floor. Go to the end of that corridor, turn left, and leave by a side door. Someone will be waiting for you there; they know how you'll be dressed and will do some more work on your makeup and your hair, and then you can have a moment's rest on the terrace. I'll meet you there and take you to the gala supper."

  "Won't the director and the producers be annoyed?"

  The androgyne shrugs and goes back into the hotel with that strange swaying gait. The film is not of the slightest importance. What matters is la montee des marches, going up the red-carpeted steps to the Palais and along the ultimate corridor of fame, the place where all the celebrities in the worlds of cinema, the arts, and the high life are photographed, and their photos then distributed by news agencies to the four corners of the world to be published in magazines from west to east and from north to south.