"I left it all behind," Ewa said on one of the tapes. "And I don't regret it one bit. I would have done the same even if Hamid--against my wishes--hadn't 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 desirable men in the world wants to be by my side, then I'm 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 experiences or stress from overwork, I've 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 didn't go into details so as not to compromise him and I won't 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, compassionate 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, God's 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 doesn't consider himself on a par with God and because he's 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. It's an absurd, uncomfortable car which, despite its powerful engine--too low-powered for B roads and too high-powered for motorways--has to dawdle along at the same speed as other cars.
A man of about fifty--but trying to look thirty--opens 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. It's not talking to him now about forgiveness and generosity, about forgetting the past and moving on, it's 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 accepted 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 wouldn't 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 suffering, 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 he's in Cannes isn't to revive a lost love; that's impossible. He's 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.
5:06 P.M.
Fashion may renew itself every six months, but one thing remains the same: bouncers always wear black.
Hamid had considered alternatives for his shows--dressing security guards in colorful uniforms, for example, or having them all dressed in white--but 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. Everyone would think it was inhabited by the spirit of darkness."
Every color has a purpose, although people may think they're chosen at random. White signifies purity and integrity. Black intimidates. Red shocks and paralyzes. Yellow attracts attention. Green calms everything down and gives things the go-ahead. Blue soothes. Orange confuses.
Bouncers should wear black--so it was in the beginning and would be forever after.
AS USUAL, THERE ARE THREE different entrances. The first is for the press in general--a 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 Fashion 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 they're looking really relaxed and at ease, which, of course, they aren't. Some do have what might well be expensive handbags and belts, but this seems somehow even more pathetic, like putting a painting by Velazquez 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, looking 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 corridor, 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 isn't part of the official calendar--we mustn't forget that Cannes is, after all, a film festival--protocol must be rigorously observed. Because of that Moment of Minor Glory which occurs at all such similar events (suppers, lunches, cocktail parties), men and women spend hours in front of the mirror, convinced that artificial light is less harmful 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 they're 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 hotel's mini-gym.
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 nex
t 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 Greco. 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.