The Winner Stands Alone

"That's the ideal age," said the photographer, handing his card to Cristina. "If you change your mind, let me know."

They carried on walking, but her mother noticed that her daughter kept the card.

"Don't be deceived. That isn't your world. They just want to get you into bed."

Cristina didn't need to be told this. Even though all the girls in her class envied her and the boys all wanted to take her to parties, she was keenly aware of her origins and her limitations.

She still didn't believe it when the same thing happened again. She had just gone into an ice-cream

parlor when an older woman remarked on her beauty and said that she was a fashion photographer. Cristina thanked her, took her card, and promised to phone her, even though she had no intention of doing so and even though becoming a model was the dream of every girl her age.

Given that things never happen only twice, three months later, she was looking in the window of a shop selling extremely expensive clothes, when the owner of the shop came out to speak to her.

"What do you do for a living?"

"You should really be asking me what will I be doing. I'm going to study to be a vet."

"Well, you're on the wrong path. Wouldn't you like to work with us?"

"I haven't got time to sell clothes. Whenever I can, I help my mother."

"I'm not suggesting you sell anything. I'd like you to do a few photo shoots wearing our designs."

And if it hadn't been for an episode that occurred a few days later, these encounters would have been nothing but pleasant memories to look back on when she was married with children, loved by her family and fulfilled by her career.

She was with some friends at a nightclub, dancing and feeling glad to be alive, when a group of ten boys burst in, shouting. Nine of them were carrying clubs with razor blades embedded in them and were ordering everyone to get out. Panic spread, and people started running. Cristina didn't know what to do, although her instincts told her to remain where she was and look the other way.

Before she could do anything, however, she saw the tenth boy take a knife out of his pocket, go over to one of her friends, grab him from behind, and slit his throat. The gang left as quickly as they had appeared, while the other people present were either screaming, trying to run away, or sitting on the floor, crying. A few went over to the victim to see if they could help, knowing that it was too late. Others, like Cristina, simply stared at the scene in shock. She knew the murdered boy and the murderer too, and even knew the motive for the crime (a fight in a bar shortly before they had gone to the nightclub), but she seemed to be floating somewhere in the clouds, as if it had all been a dream from which she would soon wake up, drenched in sweat, relieved to know that all nightmares come to an end.

This, however, was no dream.

It took only a few minutes for her to return to earth, screaming for someone to do something, screaming for people to do nothing, screaming for no reason at all, and her screams seemed to make people even more nervous. Then the police arrived, carrying guns, and were followed by paramedics and then detectives, who lined all the young people up against the wall and started questioning them, demanding to see their documents, their mobile phones, their addresses. Who had killed the boy and why? Cristina could say nothing. The body, covered by a sheet, was taken away. A nurse forced her to take a pill and told her that she must on no account drive home, but take a taxi or use public transport.

Early the next morning, the phone rang. Her mother had decided to spend the day at home with her daughter, who seemed somehow detached from the world. The police insisted on speaking to Cristina directly, saying that she must be at the police station by midday and ask for a particular inspector. Her mother refused. The police threatened her, and so, in the end, Cristina and her mother had no choice.

THEY ARRIVED AT THE APPOINTED time. The inspector asked Cristina if she knew the murderer.

Her mother's words were still echoing in her mind: "Don't say anything. We're immigrants, they're Belgians. We're black, they're white. When they come out of prison, they'll track you down." So she said:

"I don't know who the boy was. I'd never seen him before."

She knew that by saying this, she risked losing her love of life.

"Of course you know who he was," retorted the policeman. "Look, don't worry, nothing's going to happen to you. We've arrested almost the whole group, and we just need witnesses for the trial."

"I don't know anything. I was nowhere near. I didn't see who did it."

The inspector shook his head in despair.

"You'll have to repeat that at the trial," he said, "knowing that you're committing perjury, that is, lying to the judge, a crime for which you could spend as long in prison as the murderers themselves."

Months later, she was called as a witness. The boys were all there with their lawyers and seemed almost to be enjoying the situation. One of the other girls who had been at the club that night identified the murderer in court.

Then it was Cristina's turn. The prosecutor asked her to identify the person who had slit her friend's throat.

"I don't know who did it," she said.

She was black and the daughter of immigrants. She had a student grant from the government. All she wanted was to recover her will to live, and to feel once again that she had a future. She had spent weeks staring at her bedroom ceiling, not wanting to study or to do anything. The world in which she had lived up until then did not belong to her anymore. At sixteen, she had learned in the hardest way possible that she was incapable of fighting for her own security. She needed to leave Antwerp, to travel the world, to recover her joy and her strength.