The Winner Stands Alone

Some angel--who clearly likes champagne--is putting the right words in her mouth.

The androgyne looks at her in surprise. Is she trying to make friends with him? Why is she asking questions no one normally dares to ask, when she's only known him a few hours?

No one trusts him because he's not like anyone else--he's unique. Contrary to what most people think, he isn't homosexual, he has simply lost all interest in other human beings. He bleaches his hair, wears the clothes he's always dreamed of wearing, weighs exactly what he wants to weigh, and though he knows he makes a strange impression on people, he's not obliged to be nice to anyone as long as he does his job.

And now here's this woman asking him what he thinks, how he feels. He picks up the glass of champagne that has been waiting for him and drinks it down in one.

She must imagine that he works for Hamid Hussein and has some influence, and wants his cooperation and help so as to know what her next step should be. He knows all the steps, but he was only taken on for the duration of the Festival and to perform certain tasks, and he'll only do what he's been asked to do. When these days of luxury and glamour are over, he'll go back to his apartment in a Paris suburb, where he gets abuse from the neighbors simply because he doesn't fit the conventional model established by whatever madman once declared: "All human beings are equal." It's not true. All human beings are different and should take their right to be different to its ultimate consequences.

He'll watch TV, shop at the supermarket next door, buy magazines, and sometimes go to the cinema; and because he's considered to be a responsible person, he'll get the occasional call from agents who need experienced assistants in the world of fashion, people who know how to dress models and choose accessories, to help those new to the fashion world avoid making social blunders, and to explain what they should and absolutely shouldn't do.

Oh, he has his dreams. He's unique, he tells himself. He's happy because he expects nothing more from life, and although he looks much younger, he's actually forty years old. He did try to get a career as a designer, but couldn't get a decent job and fell out with the people who could have helped him. He no longer has any great expectations, even though he's cultured and has good taste and a will of iron. He no longer believes that someone will look at him, see the way he dresses, and say: "Great, we'd like to talk to you." He's had a few invitations to work as a model, but that was a long time ago, and he doesn't regret having turned them down because being a model wasn't part of his life plan.

He makes his own clothes from offcuts discarded by haute-couture studios. In Cannes, he's staying with two other people up on the hill, probably not very far from where the young woman is lodging. She, however, is getting her big chance, and however unfair he may feel life to be, he mustn't allow himself to be overwhelmed by frustration and envy. He'll do his very best because if he doesn't, he won't be invited back as "production assistant."

Of course he's happy; anyone who desires nothing is happy. He looks at his watch; it might be a good moment for them to go in.

"Come on. We'll talk another time."

He pays for the drinks and asks for a receipt, so that he can claim back every penny once the glitz and glamour are over and done with. Some other people are getting up and doing the same thing; he and Gabriela/Lisa need to hurry if she isn't to get lost in the crowd that is now beginning to arrive. They walk across the hotel lobby toward the "corridor"; he hands her two invitations, which he has kept safe in his pocket. After all, important people don't have to bother with such details, they always have an assistant to do that.

He is the assistant and she is the important person, and she's already beginning to show signs that "greatness" is going to her head. She'll find out soon enough just what this world is capable of: draining every ounce of her energy, filling her mind with dreams, manipulating her vanity, then discarding her just when she thinks she's ready for anything. That's what happened with him and it happens with everyone.

THEY GO DOWN THE STAIRS. They stop in the small hall just before the "corridor." There's no hurry; this is different from the red carpet. If anyone calls her name, she must turn and smile. If that happens, then the chances are that all the other photographers will start taking photos too, because if one of them knows her name, she must be important. She shouldn't spend more than two minutes posing because this is just the entrance to a party, even though it seems like something from another world. If she wants to be a star, then she must start behaving like one.

"Why am I going in alone?"

"Apparently there's been some hitch. He should be here--after all, he's a professional--but he's obviously been held up."

"He" is the Star. The androgyne could have told her what he thought had really happened: "He didn't leave his room when he should have done, which means he's probably met some girl who's got the hots for him." This, however, would hurt the feelings of the novice by his side, who's probably nursing entirely baseless dreams of some lovely love story.

He doesn't need to be cruel, just as he doesn't need to be her friend; he simply has to do his job and then leave. Besides, if the silly girl can't control her emotions, the photos taken of her in the corridor might turn out badly.

He stands in front of her in the queue and asks her to follow him, but to leave a yard or two between them. As soon as they enter the corridor, he'll go over to the photographers and see if he can get any of them interested.

GABRIELA WAITS FOR A FEW seconds, puts on her best smile, holds her handbag as she has been taught, straightens her back, and starts to walk confidently ahead, ready to face the flashbulbs. The corridor opens out into a brightly lit area, with a white wall plastered with the sponsor's logo. On the other side is a small gallery where various lenses are pointing in her direction.

She keeps walking, this time trying to be aware of each step; she doesn't want to repeat the frustrating experience of earlier that day, when her walk along the red carpet was over before she knew it. She must live the present moment as if a film of her life were being shown in slow motion. At some point, the cameras will start to whir.

"Jasmine!" someone shouts out.

Jasmine? But her name is Gabriela!

She stops for a fraction of a second, a smile frozen on her face. No, her name isn't Gabriela anymore. What is it? Jasmine?

Suddenly, she hears the sound of camera buttons being pressed, lenses opening and closing, except that all the lenses are pointing at the person behind her.

"Move!" says one photographer. "Your moment of glory is over. Get out of the way!"

She can't believe it. She keeps smiling, but starts to walk more rapidly now in the direction of the dark tunnel that seems to follow on from that corridor of light.

"Jasmine! Over here! Here!"

The photographers seem to be in the grip of a collective hysteria.

She reaches the end of the corridor without having heard anyone call out her name, a name she herself has forgotten anyway. The androgyne is waiting for her.

"Don't worry," he says, for the first time showing a little humanity. "The same thing will happen to others. Or worse. You'll see people who used to get their name shouted out, but who'll walk along the corridor tonight, a smile on their face, waiting for someone to take their photo, only to find that no one bothers."