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"I saw that he began to feel ill, but what did happen?"
The man keeps his hand inside his jacket, and at that moment, it occurs to Maureen that this might be a chance to transform a minor incident into a great possibility.
"Can I help? Can I go with him?"
The hand in the jacket seems to relax a little, but the eyes watch every move she makes.
"I'll come with you. I know Javits Wild. I'm a friend of his."
After what seems like an eternity, but which can't have been more than a fraction of a second, the man turns and walks quickly away toward the Boulevard, without saying a word.
Maureen's brain is working fast. Why did he say that she knew what had happened? And why did he suddenly lose all interest in her?
The other guests haven't noticed a thing, apart from the sound of the siren, which they probably attribute to something going on out in the street. Sirens have nothing to do with joy, sun, drinks, contacts, beautiful women, handsome men, with the pale and the tanned. Sirens belong to another world, a world of heart attacks, diseases, and crime. Sirens are of no interest to the people here.
Maureen's head begins to spin. Something has happened to Javits, and this could be a gift from the gods. She runs to the door and sees an ambulance speeding away, sirens blaring, down the blocked-off lane of the Boulevard.
"That's my friend," she says to one of the bodyguards at the entrance. "Where have they taken him?"
The man gives her the name of a hospital. Without pausing to think, Maureen starts running to find a taxi. Ten minutes later, she realizes that there are no taxis in the city, only those summoned by hotel porters, lured by the prospect of generous tips. Since she has no money in her bag, she goes into a pizzeria, shows someone working there the map she has with her, and learns that she must run for at least half an hour to reach her objective.
She's been running all her life, so half an hour won't make much difference.
12:53 P.M.
"Good morning."
"You mean 'Good afternoon,' don't you?" one of the other girls replies. "It's midday."
Everything is exactly as she'd imagined. The five other young women waiting all rather resemble her, at least physically. They, however, are heavily made up, wear short skirts and low-cut tops, and are busy with their mobile phones and their texts.
No one speaks because they know they're soul mates who have all been through the same difficulties and have uncomplainingly faced the same challenges and accepted each knockout blow. They're all trying hard to believe that dreams have no sell-by date, that life can change from one second to the next, that somewhere the right moment is waiting for them, and that this is just a test of their willpower.
They've all perhaps quarreled with their families, who are convinced their daughters will end up working as prostitutes.
They've all been on stage and experienced the agony and the ecstasy of seeing the audience and knowing that every eye is fixed on them; they've felt the electricity in the air and heard the applause at the end. They've imagined a hundred times over that there will come a night when a member of the Superclass will be in the audience and visit them in their dressing room after the performance with something more substantial to offer than an invitation to supper, a request for their phone number, or compliments on a job well done.
To begin with, they accepted a few of those invitations, but the only place they led to was the bed of some powerful, older man--usually married, as all the "interesting" men are--concerned only with notching up another conquest.
They all had a boyfriend their own age, but when anyone asked if they were married or single, they always answered: "Free and unattached." They thought they were in control of the situation. They've all been told--hundreds of times now--that they have real talent and just need the right opportunity, and that the person there before them is the one who can transform their lives. They've occasionally believed this too. They've fallen into the trap of being overconfident and thinking they were in charge, until the next day came and the phone number they'd been given put them through to the extension of a very grumpy secretary who had no intention of letting them speak to her boss.
They've threatened to sell their story to the tabloids, saying that they had been deceived, although none of them has ever actually done so because they're still at the stage of thinking: "I mustn't spoil my chances in the acting world."
One or two may even have shared Gabriela's Alice in Wonderland experience, and now want to prove to their families that they're far more capable than they thought. Their families, of course, have all by now seen their daughters in commercials, on posters and billboards scattered round the city, and, after a few initial arguments, are convinced that those same daughters are on the verge of entering a world of "bright lights and glamour."
All the girls there believed that their dream was possible, that one day their talent would be recognized, until the penny dropped: there is only one magic word--"contacts." They had all distributed their books as soon as they arrived in Cannes, and now keep a constant eye on their mobile phone, getting invited to whatever launches and events they can and trying their best to get into those they can't, always dreaming that someone will ask them to one of the evening parties or, dream of dreams, award them that greatest of prizes, an invitation to walk down the red carpet at the Palais des Congres. That, however, was probably the most difficult dream to realize, so difficult that they didn't really allow themselves to think about it, in case the feelings of rejection and frustration destroyed their ability to wear the happy face they must wear at all times, even when they're not happy at all.
Contacts.
After many cases of mistaken identity, they did find the occasional useful contact, which is why they're here. One such contact had led to a New Zealand producer calling them. None had asked what it was about; they knew only that they had to be punctual because no one has any time to lose, certainly not people in the film industry. The only ones who do are the five young women in the waiting room, busy with their mobile phones and their magazines, compulsively sending texts to see if they've been invited to something later in the day, trying to talk to their friends, and always making a point of saying that they're not free to speak right now because they have an important meeting with a film producer.
GABRIELA IS THE FOURTH PERSON to be called. She had tried to interpret the look in the eyes of the first three candidates who emerged from the room without saying a word, but then, of course, they're all actresses, capable of hiding any emotion, be it joy or sadness. All three strode determinedly to the door and wished the others a confident "Good luck," as if to say: "No need to be nervous, girls, you've got nothing to lose. The part's mine."
ONE OF THE WALLS IN the apartment is covered with a black cloth. The floor there is cluttered with all kinds of electric cables and lights covered with a metal mesh, and there's a kind of umbrella with a white cloth spread before it, as well as sound equip
ment, screens, and a video camera. In the corners stand bottles of mineral water, metal briefcases, tripods, bits of paper, and a computer. Sitting on the floor, a bespectacled, thirty-something woman is leafing through Gabriela's book.
"Awful," she says, not looking up at her. "Awful."
