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oking."
The woman looked at her in surprise, then said:
"No, really, you are. I've been working in this field for twenty years now; I've taken photographs of countless people; I've worked with professional models and film actors, all of them highly experienced, but none of them had your ability to express emotion. And do you know what that's called? Talent. In certain professions, talent is quite easy to measure: managing directors who can turn around a business on the verge of bankruptcy and make it a going concern again; sportsmen who break records; artists whose work lives on for at least two generations; so how can I be so sure about you as a model? Because I'm a professional. You've managed to show your angels and your demons through the lens of a camera, and that's not easy. I'm not talking about young people who like to dress up as vampires and go to Goth parties; I'm not talking about girls who put on an innocent air to try to arouse the pedophile in men. I'm talking about real demons and real angels."
The station was full of people walking back and forth. Jasmine looked at the train timetable and suggested they go outside. She was dying for a cigarette, and smoking was forbidden within the station precinct. She was wondering whether she should say what was going on inside her just then.
"It may be that I do have talent, but if I do, there's only one reason I was able to show that talent. You know, during all the time we've spent together, you've never said anything about your private life and never asked about mine. Do you want me to help you with your luggage, by the way? Photography's basically a profession for men, isn't it? There's always so much equipment to lug around."
The woman laughed.
"There's nothing much to say, really, except that I adore my work. I'm thirty-eight, divorced, no kids, but with enough good contacts to be able to earn a comfortable living, but not to live in any great luxury. There's something else I must add to what I said: if everything goes to plan you must never ever behave like someone who depends on her profession to survive, even if it's true. If you don't follow my advice, you'll be easily manipulated by the system. Obviously, I'll use your photos and earn money with them, but from now on, I'd suggest you get yourself a professional agent."
Jasmine lit another cigarette; it was now or never.
"Do you know why I was able to show my talent? Because of something I never imagined would happen in my life: I've fallen in love with a woman, a woman I would like to have by my side, guiding whatever steps I need to take, a woman who with her gentleness and her rigor managed to get inside my soul and release both the best and the worst that lie in those subterranean depths. She didn't do this by long instruction in meditation techniques or through psychoanalysis--which is what my mother thinks I need--she used..."
She paused. She felt afraid, but she had to go on. She had nothing now to lose.
"She used a camera."
Time stood still. The other people outside the station stopped moving, all noise ceased, the wind dropped, her cigarette smoke hung in the hair, the lights went out--there were just two pairs of eyes shining brighter than ever and fixed on each other.
"YOU'RE READY," SAYS THE MAKEUP artist.
Jasmine looks up and sees her partner pacing up and down in the improvised dressing room. She must be feeling nervous; after all, this is her first fashion show in Cannes, and if it goes well, she might get a fat contract with the Belgian government.
Jasmine feels like going over and reassuring her, telling her that everything will be fine, as it always has been before. She might get a response along the lines of: "You're only nineteen, what do you know about life?"
She would reply: "I know what your capabilities are, just as you know mine. I know about the relationship that changed our lives one day three years ago, outside a train station, when you gently touched my cheek. Do you remember how frightened we both were? But we survived that first feeling of fear. And thanks to that relationship, I'm here now; and you, as well as being an excellent photographer, are doing what you always dreamed of doing: designing and making clothes."
She knows it's best not to say anything. Telling a person to calm down only makes them even more nervous.
She goes over to the window and lights another cigarette. She's smoking too much, but then why shouldn't she? This is her first major fashion show in France.
4:43 P.M.
A young woman in a black suit and white blouse opens the door. She asks for her name, checks the list, and says she'll have to wait a little; the suite is currently occupied. Two men and another woman, possibly younger than her, are also waiting.
They all wait their turn in silence. "How long will this take? What exactly am I doing here?" Gabriela asks herself and hears two responses.
The first reminds her that she must keep going. Gabriela, the optimist, the one who has persevered in order to reach stardom and now needs to think about the premiere, the invitations, the flights by private jet, the posters put up in all the world's capitals, the photographers on permanent watch outside her house, interested in what she's wearing and where she buys her clothes, and in the identity of the blond hunk she was seen with in some fashionable nightclub. Then there will be the victorious return to the town where she was born, the astonished friends eyeing her enviously, and the charitable projects she intends to support.
The second response reminds her that Gabriela the optimist, the one who has persevered in order to reach stardom, is now walking along a knife edge from which it would be all too easy to slip and plunge into the abyss. Hamid Hussein doesn't even know of her existence; no one has ever seen her made up and ready for a party; the dress might not be her size, it might need adjusting, and then she might arrive late for her meeting at the Martinez. She's twenty-five years old, and, who knows, they might be interviewing some other candidate right now on that same yacht or they might have changed their minds; in fact, perhaps that was the idea: to talk to two or three possible candidates and see which of them stood out from the crowd. All three of them might be invited to the party, unaware of each other's existence.
Paranoia.
No, it isn't paranoia, she's just being realistic. Even the fact that Gibson and the Star only ever got involved in major projects was no guarantee of success. And if anything went wrong, it would all be her fault. The ghost of the Mad Hatter from Alice in Wonderland is still there. Perhaps she isn't as talented as she thinks, just very hardworking. She hasn't been as lucky as some others; nothing of great importance has so far happened in her life, despite fighting day and night, night and day. She hasn't stopped since arriving in Cannes: distributing her extremely expensive book to various casting companies and getting only one audition. If she really was that special, she would now be having to decide which of several roles to accept. She's getting above herself and will soon know the taste of defeat, all the more bitter because she has come so close and dipped her toes in the ocean of fame...only to fail.
"I'm attracting bad vibrations. I know they're out there. I must get a grip on myself."
She can't do any yoga exercises in front of that woman in the suit and the three other people waiting in silence. She needs to drive away those negative thoughts, but where exactly are they coming from? According to what she's read--and she had read a lot on the subject at a time when she felt she was failing to achieve as much as she could because of other people's envy--it was likely that another actress who had been rejected was, at that moment, focusing all her energies on getting the role back. Yes, she could feel it, it was true! The only escape is to make her mind leave that corridor and go off in search of her Higher Self, which is connected to all the forces of the universe.
She breathes deeply, smiles, and says to herself:
"I am spreading the energy of love all around me; it is more powerful than the forces of darkness; the God in me greets the God who lives in all the inhabitants of the planet, even those who..."
She hears someone laugh. The door to the suite opens, and a group of smiling, happy young people of both sexes, accompanied by two female celebrities, are leaving and heading for the lift. The two men and the woman go into the room, collect the dozens of bags left beside the door, and join the group waiting for them by the lift. They must be assistants, chauffeurs, secretaries.
