The Winner Stands Alone (22 page)

There was no such thing as fashion in the former Soviet Union. They only found out what
was going on in the rest of the world when the Berlin Wall was torn down and foreign
magazines started flooding into the country. As an adolescent, she was able to use these
magazines to make brighter and more interesting collages. Then, one day, she de- cided to
tell her family that her dream was to be a fashion designer.

As soon as she finished school, her parents sent her to law school. They were very happy
with their new-won freedom, but felt that cer- tain capitalist ideas were threatening to
destroy the country, distracting people from real art, replacing Tolstoy and Pushkin with
spy novels, and corrupting classical ballet with modern aberrations. Their only daughter
must be kept away from the moral degradation that had ar- rived along with Coca-Cola and
flashy cars.

At university, she met a good-looking, ambitious young man who thought exactly as she did,
that they had to give up the idea that the old regime would return one day. It had gone
for good, and it was time to start a new life.

She really liked this young man. They started going out together. She saw that he was
intelligent and would go far in life, plus he seemed to understand her. He had, of course,
fought in the Afghan war and been wounded in combat, but nothing very serious. He never
com- plained about the past and never showed any signs of being unbalanced or traumatized.

One day, he brought her a bunch of roses and told her that he was leaving university to
start his own business. He then proposed to her, and she accepted, even though she felt
only admiration and friendship for him. Love, she believed, would grow over time as they
became closer. Besides, the young man was the only one who really understood her and
provided her with the intellectual stimulus she needed. If she let this chance slip, she might never find another person prepared to accept her as she
was.

They got married with little fuss and without the support of their families. He obtained
loans from people she considered dangerous, but she could do nothing to prevent the loans
going ahead. Gradually, the company he had started began to grow. After almost four years
to- gether, sheshaking with fearmade her first demand: that he pay off the people who had
lent him money in the past and who seemed suspiciously uninterested in recouping it. He
followed her advice and often had reason to thank her for it later.

The years passed, there were the inevitable failures and sleepless nights, then things
started to improve, and from then on, the ugly duckling began to follow the script of all
those childrens stories: it grew into a beautiful swan, admired by everyone.

Ewa complained about being trapped in her role as housewife. In- stead of reacting like
her friends husbands, for whom a job was syn- onymous with a lack of femininity, he bought
her a shop in one of the most sought-after areas of Moscow. She started selling clothes
made by the worlds great couturiers, but never tried to create her own designs. Her work
had other compensations, though: she visited all the major fashion houses, met interesting
people, and it was then that she first encountered Hamid. She still didnt know whether or
not she loved himpossibly notbut she felt comfortable with him. When he had told her that
hed never met anyone like her and suggested they live together, she felt she had nothing
to lose. She had no children, and her husband was so married to his work that he probably
wouldnt even notice she was gone.

I left it all behind, Ewa said on one of the tapes. And I dont regret it one bit. I would
have done the same even if Hamidagainst my wisheshadnt bought that beautiful estate in
Spain and put it in my name. I would have made the same decision if Igor, my ex-husband,
had offered me half his fortune. I would have taken the same decision because I know that
I need to live without fear. If one of the most de- sirable men in the world wants to be
by my side, then Im obviously a better person than I thought. On another tape, she commented that her husband clearly had severe psychological problems.

My husband has lost his reason. Whether it stems from his war ex- periences or stress from
overwork, Ive no idea, but he thinks he knows what God intends. Before I left, I sought
advice from a psychiatrist in order to try and understand him better, to see if it was
possible to save our relationship. I didnt go into details so as not to compromise him and
I wont do so with you now, but I think he would be capable of doing terrible things if he
believed he was doing good.

The psychiatrist explained to me that many generous, compas- sionate people can, from one
moment to the next, change completely. Studies have been done of this phenomenon and they
call that sudden change the Lucifer effect after Lucifer, Gods best-loved angel, who ended
up trying to rival God himself.

But why does that happen? asked another female voice. At that point, however, the tape ran
out.

He would like to have
heard her answer because he knows he doesnt consider himself on a par with God and because
hes sure that his beloved is making the whole thing up, afraid that if she did come back,
she would be rejected. Yes, he had killed out of necessity, but what did that have to do
with their marriage? He had killed when he was a soldier, with official permission. He had
killed a couple of other people too, but only in their best interests because they had no
means of living a decent life. In Cannes, he was merely carrying out a mission.

And he would only kill someone he loved if he saw that she was mad, had completely lost
her way and begun to destroy her own life. He would never allow the decay of a mind to
ruin a brilliant, generous past. He would only kill someone he loved in order to save her
from a long, painful process of self-destruction.

Igor looks at the Maserati
that has just drawn up opposite him in a no-parking zone. Its an absurd, uncomfortable car
which, despite its powerful enginetoo low-powered for B roads and too high-powered for
motorwayshas to dawdle along at the same speed as other cars.

A man of about fiftybut trying to look thirtyopens the door and struggles out because the
door is too low to the ground. He goes into the pizzeria and orders a quattro formaggi to
go.

Maserati and pizza are something of a mismatch, but these things happen.

Temptation returns. Its not talking to him now about forgiveness and generosity, about
forgetting the past and moving on, its trying a different tack and placing real doubts in
his mind. What if Ewa were deeply unhappy? What if, despite her love for him, she was too
deep in the bottomless pit of a bad decision, as Adam was the moment he ac- cepted the
apple and condemned the whole human race?

He had planned everything, he tells himself for the hundredth time. He wanted them to get
back together again and not to allow a little word like goodbye to erase their whole past
life. He knows that all marriages have their crises, especially after eighteen years.
However, he also knows that a good strategist has to be flexible. He sends another text
message, just to make sure she gets it. He stands up and says a prayer, asking to have the
cup of renunciation removed from him.

The soul of the little seller of craftwork is beside him. He knows now that he committed
an injustice; it wouldnt have hurt him to wait until he had found a more equal opponent,
like the pseudo-athlete with the hennaed hair, or until he could save someone from further
suffer- ing, as was the case with the woman on the beach.

The girl with the dark eyebrows seems to hover over him like a saint, telling him to have
no regrets. He acted correctly, saving her from a future of suffering and pain. Her pure
soul is gradually driving away Temptation, helping Igor to understand that the reason hes
in Cannes isnt to revive a lost love; thats impossible. Hes here to save Ewa from
bitterness and decay. She may have treated him unfairly, but the many things she did to
help him deserve a reward.

I am a good man. He goes over to the cashier, pays his bill, and asks for a small bottle of mineral water.
When he leaves, he empties the contents of the bottle over his head.

He needs to be able to think clearly. He has dreamed of this day for so long and now he is
confused.

Fashion may renew itself every six months, but one thing remains the same: bouncers always
wear black.

Hamid had considered alternatives for his showsdressing se- curity guards in colorful
uniforms, for example, or having them all dressed in whitebut he knew that if he did
anything like that, the critics would write more about these pointless innovations than
about what really mattered: the new collection. Besides, black is the perfect color:
conservative, mysterious, and engraved on the collective unconscious, thanks to all those
old cowboy films. The goodies always wear white and the baddies wear black.

Imagine if the White House was called the Black House. Every- one would think it was
inhabited by the spirit of darkness.

Every color has a purpose, although people may think theyre chosen at random. White
signifies purity and integrity. Black intimi- dates. Red shocks and paralyzes. Yellow
attracts attention. Green calms everything down and gives things the go-ahead. Blue
soothes. Orange confuses.

Bouncers should wear blackso it was in the beginning and would be forever after. As usual, there are three
differententrances.Thefirstisfor the press in generala few journalists and a lot of
photographers laden down with cameras. They seem perfectly polite, but have no qualms
about elbowing a colleague out of the way to capture the best angle, an unusual shot, the
perfect moment, or some glaring mistake. The second entrance is for the general public,
and in that respect, the Fash- ion Week in Paris was no different from that show in a
seaside resort in the South of France; the people who come in through the second entrance
are always badly dressed and would almost certainly not be able to afford anything being
shown that afternoon. However, there they are in their ripped jeans, bad-taste T-shirts,
and, of course, their designer sneakers, convinced that theyre looking really relaxed and
at ease, which, of course, they arent. Some do have what might well be expensive handbags
and belts, but this seems somehow even more pathetic, like putting a painting by Vel‡zquez
in a plastic frame.

Finally, there is the VIP entrance. The security guards never have any idea who anyone is.
They simply stand there, arms crossed, look- ing threatening, as if they were the real
owners. A polite young woman, trained to remember famous faces, comes over to them with a
list in her hand.

Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Hussein. Thank you so much for being here.

They go straight to the front. Everyone walks down the same cor- ridor, but a barrier of
metal pillars linked by a red velvet band marks out who are the most important people
there. This is the Moment of Minor Glory, being singled out as special people, and even
though this show isnt part of the official calendarwe mustnt forget that Cannes is, after
all, a film festivalprotocol must be rigorously observed. Be- cause of that Moment of
Minor Glory which occurs at all such simi- lar events (suppers, lunches, cocktail
parties), men and women spend hours in front of the mirror, convinced that artificial
light is less harm- ful to the skin than the sun, against which they apply large amounts
of sun factor. They are only two steps from the beach, but they prefer to use the
sophisticated tanning machines in the beauty salons that are never more than a block away
from the place where theyre staying.

They could enjoy a lovely view if they were to go for a stroll along the Boulevard de la
Croisette, but would they lose many calories? No. They are far better off using the
treadmills in the hotels mini-gym.

That way, they will be in good shape to attend the free lunches for which they dress with
studied casualnesswhere they feel impor- tant simply because theyve 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 ones 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 standard-
ized 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.
Per- haps tomorrow will be better.

Ewa is beautifully dressed in
anHHnumberthatisatonce 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 youve seen so far?

Its too early to give an opinion, he says, as usual. Ive seen a lot of very interesting
things, but I prefer to wait until the end of the Festival before passing judgment. In fact, he hasnt seen a single film. Later on, hell 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 con- siders 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. Arent 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, theyre 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
theyre 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 agoapart from
those who keep themselves in the headlines either through care- fully stage-managed
scandals or because they really do stand out from the crowdare only remembered by the
people who wait behind the metal barriers outside hotels, or by ladies who cant 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 theyre in the audience isnt that they want to
return to the catwalks, but because theyre hoping to get a role in a film or a career as a
pre- senter 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, be- cause 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 elses show. Hamid reckons he will see two or three
Class A models, like Jasmine, who will earn around fifteen hundred euros for that evenings
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 hun- dred 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 whats going on in the heads of the girls in that third group: Im going to be a
winner. Im going to show everyone just what I can do. Im 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; theres 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, isnt 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 some- thing 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 shes just like
them. And finding that extraordinary girl who ap- pears 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 some- one thinthe clothes do hang better. The
days are gone, too, of hand- some men advertising expensive menswear. That worked well in
the yuppie era, toward the end of the 1980s, but not anymore. Theres 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: Shes 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
fashionand possibly in all other worlds tooare recommendations from people in the know.
Illogical though it may seem, as soon as someone is on the verge of being dis- covered,
everyone starts laying bets on their success or failure. Some- times they win, sometimes
they lose, but thats 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 mar- ried 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. Theres 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 shes 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 threesomethe great couturier, his wife, and the model- turned-housewife.

Some journalists ask Hamid what he thinks of the Belgian design- ers work. Accustomed to
this kind of question, he replies:

Thats what I came here to find out. I hear shes very talented.

The journalists insist, as if they hadnt heard his answer. Theyre nearly all Belgians; the
French press arent 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 Lets talk after the show, shes disappointed. Nevertheless, she
proceeds to tell him everything thats happened in her lifethe photos, the invita- tions,
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 challengedand triumphed overthe 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 GrŽco. She was one of the first to create the kind of fashion show that
mixed clothes on the catwalk with lighting, music, and art. Neverthe- less, 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.