The Winner Stands Alone

"Do you think you'll enjoy acting with her?"

"She'll be great. She showed real feeling in a situation where most people are simply trying to look competent."

"Oh, and, by the way, don't go thinking this yacht is mine," says Gibson, after calling someone to accompany her to the launch that will return her to shore.

She gets the message.

3:44 P.M.

"Let's go up to the terrace and have a coffee," says Ewa.

"But the show starts in only an hour from now, and you know what the traffic's like."

"There's still time for a cup of coffee."

They go up the stairs, turn right, and walk to the end of the corridor. The security guard there knows them already and barely acknowledges them. They walk past glass cases full of jewelry studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds, and emerge into the sunlight on the first-floor terrace. The same very famous jewelry firm hires the area every year to receive friends, celebrities, and journalists. It's furnished in the very best of taste, and there's always a table groaning with a constantly replenished supply of delicacies. They sit down at a table shaded by a parasol. A waiter comes over, and they order a sparkling mineral water and an espresso. The waiter asks if they would like something from the buffet, but they decline, saying that they've already eaten. In less than two minutes, he's back with their order.

"Is everything all right?" he asks.

"Yes, thank you, excellent."

"No," thinks Ewa, "things couldn't be worse, although at least the coffee's good."

Hamid knows that something strange is going on with his wife, but prefers to leave that conversation for another time. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to risk hearing something along the lines of "I'm leaving you." He is disciplined enough to control his feelings.

At one of the other tables sits one of the most famous designers in the world, with his camera beside him. He's staring into space, as if hoping to make it clear that he doesn't want to be disturbed. No one approaches him, and whenever some ill-advised person attempts to do so, the hotel's PR lady, a pleasant woman in her fifties, asks them politely to leave him alone; he needs a respite from the constant barrage of models, journalists, clients, and impresarios.

Hamid remembers their first meeting, so many years ago now that it seems like an eternity. He had been in Paris for eleven months, made a few friends in the fashion world, knocked on various doors and, thanks to contacts furnished by the sheikh (who may have known no one in that particular world, but had influential friends in high places), had landed a job as a designer for one of the most respected names in haute couture. Instead of making sketches based on the materials he was given, he used to stay at the studio until late at night, working with the fabrics he had brought from his own country. During that period, he was twice summoned home. The first occasion was when he learned that his father had died and left him the small family business. Even before he'd had time to think about it, he was informed by one of the sheikh's emissaries that someone would be taking over the business and making the necessary investments to ensure that it prospered, but that ownership would remain in his name.

He asked why, since the sheikh had shown no knowledge of or interest in the subject.

"A French luggage manufacturer is setting up business here. The first thing they did was seek out local fabrics, which they've promised to use in some of their luxury goods. So not only do we already have one client, we can continue to honor our traditions and keep control of the raw material."

Hamid returned to Paris knowing that his father's soul was in Paradise and that his memory would remain in the land he had so loved. He continued working late into the night, making designs with Bedouin themes and experimenting with the fabrics he had brought back with him. If that French company--known for its innovative designs and good taste--was showing an interest in local products, then news of this would soon reach the capital of fashion and there was sure to be a big demand. It was only a matter of time, but news traveled fast.

One morning, he was called in to see the director. This was the first time he had entered that inner sanctum, the great couturier's office, and he was astonished to see how untidy it was. There were newspapers everywhere, papers piled high on the couturier's antique desk, a vast quantity of photos taken of him with various celebrities, framed magazine covers, fabric samples, and a vase full of white feathers of all sizes.

"You're very good at what you do. I had a look at the sketches you leave around for all to see. I'd be careful about doing that if I were you. You never know when someone might change jobs and steal any good ideas they picked up here."

Hamid didn't like to think he was being spied on, but he said nothing, and the great couturier went on:

"Why do I think you're good? Because you come from a country where people dress very differently, and you're beginning to understand how to adapt those fashions to the West. There's just one problem: we can't buy those fabrics here; also your designs have religious connotations, and fashion is, above all, about clothing the body, although it does inevitably reflect a great deal of what's going in the soul as well."

He went over to one of the piles of magazines, and as if he knew exactly what was there, he picked up a particular copy, possibly bought from the bouquinistes--the booksellers who have been selling their wares on the banks of the Seine since the days of Napoleon. It was an old Paris Match with a picture of Christian Dior on the cover.

"What makes this man a legend? I'll tell you: his ability to understand human beings. Of all the many fashion revolutions, one merits special mention. Immediately after the Second World War, when cloth was in such short supply in Europe that there was barely enough to make clothes at all, he started designing dresses that required an enormous amount of fabric. By doing so, he was not only showing off a beautiful woman beautifully dressed, he was selling the dream that we would once again return to a time of elegance, abundance, and plenty. He was attacked and insulted for doing this, but he knew he was going in the right direction, which is always the opposite direction to everyone else."

He put the magazine back exactly where he had taken it from and returned, holding another one.

"And here is Coco Chanel. She was abandoned by her parents, became a cabaret singer, and was just the kind of woman who could expect only the worst from life. But she seized the one chance she had--in her case, a series of rich lovers--and transformed herself into the most important female couturier of her day. What did she do? She liberated women from the slavery of corsets, those instruments of torture that imprisoned the torso and prevented all natural movement. She made only one mistake: she concealed her past, when that would, in fact, have helped her become an even greater legend--the woman who had survived despite all."

He put that magazine back in its place too. Then he went on:

"You might ask: why didn't they do that before? We'll never know. People must have tried--couturiers who have been completely forgotten by history because they failed to reflect in their collections the spirit of the times they were living in. Chanel needed more than creative talent and rich lovers to have the imp

act she had. Society had to be ready for the great feminist revolution that took place at the same time."

The couturier paused.