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"Who's Lisa Winner?"
"That's you. We've changed your name. Or rather, the name had been chosen even before you were selected. From now on, that's what you're called. Gabriela is too Italian, whereas Lisa could be any nationality. Market research shows that the general public find surnames with between four and six letters easiest to remember: Taylor. Burton. Davis. Woods. Hilton. Shall I go on?"
"No, thanks. I can see you know your market, but now I need to find out who I am--according to my new biography."
She makes no attempt to hide the irony in her voice. She was growing in confidence and beginning to behave like a real star. She starts reading: a major discovery chosen from among more than a thousand applicants to work on the first production by famous couturier and entrepreneur Hamid Hussein, etc. etc.
"The flyers were printed over a month ago," says the androgyne, tipping the scales back in his favor. "It was written by the group's marketing team, and they're always spot-on. Listen: 'She worked as a model and studied drama.' That's you, isn't it?"
"So I was chosen more for my biography than for the quality of my audition."
"No, it means that everyone there had the same biography."
"Look, shall we just stop making jibes at each other and try to be a little more human and friendly?"
"Here? In Cannes? Forget it. There's no such thing as friends, only self-interest. There are no human beings, just crazy machines who mow down everything in their path in order to get where they want or else end up plowing into a lamppost."
Despite this response, Gabriela feels she was right and that her companion's animosity is beginning to melt.
"Look at this," he goes on. "'For years, she refused to work in the cinema, feeling that the theater was the best way to express her talent.' That gives you a lot of bonus points; it shows you're a person with integrity, who only accepted the role in the film because you really loved it, even though you'd been invited to do plays by Shakespeare, Beckett, or Genet, or whoever."
He's obviously very well-read, this androgyne. Everyone's heard of Shakespeare, but fewer people know about Beckett and Genet.
Gabriela--or Lisa--agrees. The car arrives, and there, once more, are the inevitable security guards in black suits, white shirts, and black ties,
all clutching tiny radios as if they were real policemen (or perhaps that's the collective dream of all security guards). One of them waves the driver on because it's too early.
The androgyne--having weighed up the risks and decided that early is, in fact, best--jumps out of the limousine and goes over to one of the guards, a man twice his size. Gabriela tries to distract herself and think of other things.
"What sort of car is this?" she asks the chauffeur.
"A Maybach 57S," he replies. He has a German accent. "A real work of art, the perfect machine, the ultimate in luxury. It was built..."
But she's no longer listening. She can see the androgyne talking to the huge security guard. The man appears to ignore him and makes a gesture indicating that he should get into the car and stop holding up the traffic. The androgyne--a mere mosquito to the security guard's elephant--turns on his heel and walks back to the car.
He opens the door and tells Gabriela to get out; they're going in anyway.
Gabriela fears the worst, that there'll be an almighty row. She walks with the mosquito past the elephant, who says: "Hey, you can't go in there!," but they both keep straight on. Other voices shout: "Have a little respect for the rules! We haven't opened the door yet!" She doesn't have the courage to look back and imagines that the herd must be hot on their heels ready to trample them at any moment.
But nothing happens, even though the androgyne isn't walking any faster, perhaps out of respect for her long dress. They're passing through an immaculate garden now; the horizon is tinged with pink and blue; the sun is sinking.
The androgyne is enjoying this new victory.
"They're all very macho until you face up to them, but you just have to raise your voice, look them straight in the eye, and keep walking, and they won't come after you. I have the invitations and that's all I need. They may be big those guys, but they're not stupid, and they know that only someone important would speak to them as I did."
He concludes with surprising humility:
"I've got used to pretending to be important."
They reach the hotel, which is totally removed from the hustle and bustle of Cannes and suitable only for those guests who don't need to keep going back and forth along the Boulevard. The androgyne asks Gabriela/Lisa to go to the bar and order two glasses of champagne; this will indicate that she's not alone. No talking to strangers. Nothing vulgar, please. He'll go and see how the land lies and distribute the flyers.
"I'm only doing this for form's sake really. No one will publish your photo, but this is what I'm paid to do. I'll be back in a minute."
"But didn't you just say that the photographers..."
He has reverted to his former arrogant self. Before Gabriela can hit back, though, he has vanished.
THERE ARE NO EMPTY TABLES; the place is packed with men in dinner jackets and women in long dresses. They're all talking in low voices, those who are talking, for most have their eyes fixed on the sea that can be seen through the large windows. Even though this is their first time in such a place, a palpable, unmistakable feeling hovers over all these celebrated heads: a profound sense of tedium.
