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Wearing only a pair of panties, she is led to the bathroom. A portable kit for washing and drying hair has already been installed there, and a shaven-headed man is waiting. He asks her to sit down and lean her head back into a kind of steel basin. He uses a hose attached to the tap to wash her hair, and, like everyone else, he's extremely agitated. He complains about the noise from outside; he needs quiet if he's to do a decent job, but no one pays any attention. Besides, he never has enough time; everything's always done in such a rush.
"No one understands the enormous responsibility resting on my shoulders," he says.
He's not talking to her, but to himself. He goes on:
"When you go up the steps, they're not looking at you, you know. They're looking at my work, at my makeup and at my hairstyling. You're just the canvas on which I paint or draw, the clay out of which I shape my sculptures. If I make a mistake, what will other people say? I could lose my job."
Gabriela feels offended, but she's obviously going to have to get used to this kind of thing. That's what the world of glamour is like. Later on, when she really is someone, she'll choose kind, polite people to work with her. For now, she focuses on her main virtue: patience.
The conversation is interrupted by the roar of the hair dryer, similar to that of a plane taking off. And he was the one complaining about the noise outside!
He rather roughly primps her hair into shape and asks her to move straight over to the portable makeup studio. His mood changes completely: he stands in silence, contemplating her face in the mirror, as if he were in a trance. He paces back and forth, using the dryer and the brush much as Michelangelo used hammer and chisel on his sculpture of David. And she tries to keep looking straight ahead and remember some lines written by a Portuguese poet:
The mirror reflects perfectly; it makes no mistakes because it doesn't think. To think is to make mistakes.
The androgyne and the woman return. In only twenty minutes the limousine will arrive to take her to the Martinez to pick up the Star. There's nowhere to park there, so they have to be right on time. The hairdresser mutters to himself, as if he were a misunderstood artist, but he knows he has to meet those deadlines. He starts working on her face as if he were Michelangelo painting the Sistine Chapel.
A limousine! The steps! The Star!
The mirror reflects perfectly; it makes no mistakes because it doesn't think.
She mustn't think either, because, if she does, she'll be infected by the prevailing anxiety and bad temper; those negative vibes will come back. She would love to know just what it is, this hotel suite packed with all these different things, but she must behave as if she were used to frequenting such places. Beneath the severe gaze of the woman and the distracted gaze of the androgyne, Michelangelo is putting the finishing touches to her makeup. Gabriela then stands up and is swiftly dressed and shod. Everything is in place, thank God.
From somewhere in the room, they grab a small leather Hamid Hussein bag. The androgyne opens it, removes some of the paper stuffing, studies the result with the same distracted air, and, when it appears to meet with his approval, hands it to her.
The woman gives her four copies of a huge contract, with small red markers along the edge, bearing the words: "Sign here."
"You can either sign without reading it or take it home, phone your lawyer, and say you need more time to think before deciding. You'll go up those steps regardless because it's too late to change anything now. However, if this contract isn't back here tomorrow morning, you just have to return the dress and that will be that."
She remembers her agent's words: accept everything. Gabriela takes the pen the woman is holding out to her, turns to the pages with the markers, and signs everything. She has nothing to lose. If there are any unfair clauses, she can probably go to the courts later on and say she was pressured into signing. First, though, she has to do what she has always dreamed of doing.
The woman takes the signed contract from her and vanishes without saying goodbye. Michelangelo is once again dismantling the makeup table, immersed in his own little world in which injustice rules, and in which his work is never recognized, where he never has enough time to do a proper job, and where, if anything goes wrong, the fault will be entirely his. The androgyne asks her to follow him to the door of the suite; he consults his watch--which, Gabriela notices, bears a death's head--and speaks to her for the first time since they have met.
"We've got another three minutes. You can't go down now and be seen by other people. And I have to go with you to the limousine."
The tension returns. She's no longer thinking about the limousine, about the Star, or going up those steps; she's afraid. She needs to talk.
"What's this suite for? Why are there all these things in it?"
"There's even a safari to Kenya," says the androgyne, pointing to one corner. She hadn't noticed the discreet advertising banner for an airline and a small pile of envelopes on the table. "It's free, like everything else in here, apart from the clothes and the accessories in the Temple."
Coffee machines, electronic gadgets, clothes, handbags, watches, jewelry, and a trip to Kenya.
All of it absolutely free?
"I know what you're thinking," says the androgyne in that voice which is neither male nor female, but the voice of some interplanetary being. "But it is all free, or, rather, given in fair exchange because nothing in this world is free. This is one of the many 'Gift Rooms' you get in Cannes during the Festival. The chosen few come in here and take whatever they want; they're people who will be seen around wearing a shirt designed by A or some glasses by B, they'll receive important guests in their home and, when the Festival's over, go into their kitchen and prepare some coffee with a brand-new coffee machine. They'll carry around their laptop in a bag made by C, recommend friends to use moisturizers by D, which are just about to be launched on the market, and they'll fe
el important doing that because it means they'll own something exclusive, which hasn't yet reached the specialist shops. They'll wear E's jewelry to the swimming pool and be photographed wearing a belt by F, neither of which are yet available to the public. When these products do come on the market, the Superclass will already have done their advertising for them, not because they want to, but because they're the only ones who can. Then mere mortals will spend all their savings on buying the same products. What could be easier, sweetheart? The manufacturers invest in some free samples, and the chosen few are transformed into walking advertisements. But don't get too excited. You haven't reached those heights yet."
"But what has the safari to Kenya got to do with all that?"
"What better publicity than a middle-aged couple arriving back all excited from their 'jungle adventure' with loads of pictures in their camera, and recommending everyone else to go on the same exclusive holiday? All their friends will want to experience the same thing. As I say, nothing in this world is free. By the way, the three minutes are up, so we'd better go."
A white Maybach is waiting for them. The chauffeur, in gloves and cap, opens the door. The androgyne gives her final instructions:
"Forget about the film, that isn't why you're going up the steps. When you get to the top of the steps, greet the Festival director and the mayor, and then, as soon as you enter the Palais des Congres, head for the restroom on the first floor. Go to the end of that corridor, turn left, and leave by a side door. Someone will be waiting for you there; they know how you'll be dressed and will do some more work on your makeup and your hair, and then you can have a moment's rest on the terrace. I'll meet you there and take you to the gala supper."
"Won't the director and the producers be annoyed?"
