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Fashion may renew itself every six months, but one thing remains the same: bouncers always wear black.

Hamid had considered alternatives for his showsdressing se- curity guards in colorful uniforms, for example, or having them all dressed in whitebut he knew that if he did anything like that, the critics would write more about these pointless innovations than about what really mattered: the new collection. Besides, black is the perfect color: conservative, mysterious, and engraved on the collective unconscious, thanks to all those old cowboy films. The goodies always wear white and the baddies wear black.

Imagine if the White House was called the Black House. Every- one would think it was inhabited by the spirit of darkness.

Every color has a purpose, although people may think theyre chosen at random. White signifies purity and integrity. Black intimi- dates. Red shocks and paralyzes. Yellow attracts attention. Green calms everything down and gives things the go-ahead. Blue soothes. Orange confuses.

Bouncers should wear blackso it was in the beginning and would be forever after. As usual, there are three differententrances.Thefirstisfor the press in generala few journalists and a lot of photographers laden down with cameras. They seem perfectly polite, but have no qualms about elbowing a colleague out of the way to capture the best angle, an unusual shot, the perfect moment, or some glaring mistake. The second entrance is for the general public, and in that respect, the Fash- ion Week in Paris was no different from that show in a seaside resort in the South of France; the people who come in through the second entrance are always badly dressed and would almost certainly not be able to afford anything being shown that afternoon. However, there they are in their ripped jeans, bad-taste T-shirts, and, of course, their designer sneakers, convinced that theyre looking really relaxed and at ease, which, of course, they arent. Some do have what might well be expensive handbags and belts, but this seems somehow even more pathetic, like putting a painting by Vel‡zquez in a plastic frame.

Finally, there is the VIP entrance. The security guards never have any idea who anyone is. They simply stand there, arms crossed, look- ing threatening, as if they were the real owners. A polite young woman, trained to remember famous faces, comes over to them with a list in her hand.

Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Hussein. Thank you so much for being here.

They go straight to the front. Everyone walks down the same cor- ridor, but a barrier of metal pillars linked by a red velvet band marks out who are the most important people there. This is the Moment of Minor Glory, being singled out as special people, and even though this show isnt part of the official calendarwe mustnt forget that Cannes is, after all, a film festivalprotocol must be rigorously observed. Be- cause of that Moment of Minor Glory which occurs at all such simi- lar events (suppers, lunches, cocktail parties), men and women spend hours in front of the mirror, convinced that artificial light is less harm- ful to the skin than the sun, against which they apply large amounts of sun factor. They are only two steps from the beach, but they prefer to use the sophisticated tanning machines in the beauty salons that are never more than a block away from the place where theyre staying.

They could enjoy a lovely view if they were to go for a stroll along the Boulevard de la Croisette, but would they lose many calories? No. They are far better off using the treadmills in the hotels mini-gym.

That way, they will be in good shape to attend the free lunches for which they dress with studied casualnesswhere they feel impor- tant simply because theyve been invited, or the gala suppers for which they have to pay a lot of money unless they have influential contacts, or the post-supper parties that go on into the small hours, or the last cup of coffee or glass of whisky in the hotel bar, all of which involve repeated visits to the toilets to retouch makeup, straighten ties, brush off any dandruff from jacket shoulders, and make sure ones lipstick is still perfect.

Finally, back in their luxurious hotel rooms, where they will find the bed made, the breakfast menu waiting, the weather forecast for the next day, a chocolate (which is immediately discarded as containing far too many calories), an envelope with their names exquisitely written (the envelope is never opened because all it contains is the standard- ized welcome letter from the hotel manager) beside a basket of fruit (devoured avidly because fruit is a rich source of fiber which is, in turn, good for the body and an excellent way of avoiding wind). They look in the mirror as they take off tie, makeup, dress, or dinner jacket, and say to themselves: Nothing of much importance happened today. Per- haps tomorrow will be better.

Ewa is beautifully dressed in anHHnumberthatisatonce discreet and elegant. They are ushered to two seats at the very front of the catwalk, next to the area reserved for the photographers, who are just coming in and setting up their equipment.

A journalist comes over and asks the usual question:

Mr. Hussein, which would you say is the best film youve seen so far?

Its too early to give an opinion, he says, as usual. Ive seen a lot of very interesting things, but I prefer to wait until the end of the Festival before passing judgment. In fact, he hasnt seen a single film. Later on, hell talk to Gibson and ask him which he considers to be the best film of the Festival.

The polite, smartly dressed blonde politely shoos the reporter away. She asks if they plan on going to the cocktail party being held by the Belgian government immediately after the show. She says that one of the ministers present would very much like to talk to him. Hamid con- siders the invitation, for he knows that the Belgians have put a lot of money into getting their couturiers a higher profile on the international scene, and thus recover some of the glory they once had as a colonial power in Africa.

Yes, I might just drop in for a glass of champagne, he says. Arent we meeting Gibson straight after this? asks Ewa. Hamid gets the message. He apologizes to the young woman. He had forgotten he had a prior commitment, but will be in touch with the minister later on.

A few photographers spot them and start taking photos. At the moment, they are the only people the press are interested in. Later, theyre joined by a few models who were once all the rage and who pose and smile, sign autographs for some of the ill-dressed people in the audience, and do everything they can to be noticed, in the hope that their faces will once again appear in the press. The photographers turn their lenses on them, knowing that theyre merely going through the motions to please their editors; none of the photos will be published. Fashion is about the present, and the models of three years agoapart from those who keep themselves in the headlines either through care- fully stage-managed scandals or because they really do stand out from the crowdare only remembered by the people who wait behind the metal barriers outside hotels, or by ladies who cant keep up with the speed of change.

The older models who have just arrived are aware of this (and older, of course, means anyone over twenty-five), but the reason theyre in the audience isnt that they want to return to the catwalks, but because theyre hoping to get a role in a film or a career as a pre- senter on some cable TV show.

Who else will be on the catwalk today, aside from the only reason Hamid is here, Jasmine?

Certainly not any of the four or five top models in the world, be- cause they do only what they want to do, always charge a fortune, and would never dream of appearing at Cannes simply to lend prestige to someone elses show. Hamid reckons he will see two or three Class A models, like Jasmine, who will earn around fifteen hundred euros for that evenings work; you have to have a lot of charisma and, above all, a future in the industry; there will probably be another two or three Class B models, professionals who are brilliant on the catwalk, have the right kind of figure, but are not lucky enough to be taking part in any parallel events as special guests at the parties put on by the large conglomerates, and they will earn between six hundred and eight hun- dred euros. The rest will be made up of Class C models, girls who have recently entered the mad world of fashion shows and who earn between two hundred and three hundred euros simply to gain experience.

Hamid knows whats going on in the heads of the girls in that third group: Im going to be a winner. Im going to show everyone just what I can do. Im going to be one of the most famous models in the world, even if that means having to sleep with a few older men.

Older men, however, are not as stupid as they think. The majority of these girls are underage, and in most countries in the world, anyone engaging in underage sex is likely to end up in jail. The legend differs greatly from the reality: no model gets to the top because of her sexual generosity; theres more to it than that.

Charisma. Luck. The right agent. Being in the right place at the right time. And the right time, according to the trend adapters, isnt what these girls new to the fashion world think it is. According to the latest research, everything indicates that the public is tired of seeing strange, anorexic creatures of indefinite age, but with provocative eyes. The casting agencies (who choose the models) are looking for some- thing which is, apparently, extremely difficult to find: the girl next door, that is, someone who is absolutely ordinary and who transmits to everyone who sees her on posters or in fashion magazines the sense that shes just like them. And finding that extraordinary girl who ap- pears to be so ordinary is an almost impossible task.

The days are long gone when mannequins were simply walking clothes hangers, although it has to be said that it is easier to dress some- one thinthe clothes do hang better. The days are gone, too, of hand- some men advertising expensive menswear. That worked well in the yuppie era, toward the end of the 1980s, but not anymore. Theres no set standard for male beauty, and when men buy a product, they want to see someone they can associate with a work colleague or a drinking pal.

People who have already seen Jasmine on the catwalk had suggested her to Hamid as the perfect face for his new collection. They said things like: Shes got bags of charisma and yet other women can still identify with her. A Class C model is always chasing contacts and men who claim to be powerful enough to make her a star, but the best publicity you can get in the world of fashionand possibly in all other worlds tooare recommendations from people in the know. Illogical though it may seem, as soon as someone is on the verge of being dis- covered, everyone starts laying bets on their success or failure. Some- times they win, sometimes they lose, but thats the way the market is.

The room is beginning to fill up. The front-row seats are all reserved, and a group of elegantly dressed women and men in suits occupy some of those seats, while the rest remain empty. The general public are seated in the second, third, and fourth rows. The main focus of the photographers attentions is now a famous model, who is mar- ried to a football player and has spent a lot of time in Brazil because, she says, she just adores it. Everyone knows that a trip to Brazil is code for plastic surgery, but no one says so openly. What happens is that, after a few days there, the visitor asks discreetly if a visit to a plastic surgeon might be fitted in between sightseeing trips to the beauties of Salvador and dancing in the Rio carnival. Theres a rapid exchange of business cards and the conversation ends there.

The nice blonde girl waits for the press photographers to finish their work (they, too, ask the model which, in her opinion, is the best film shes seen so far) and then leads her to the one free seat next to Hamid and Ewa. The photographers crowd round and take dozens of photos of the threesomethe great couturier, his wife, and the model- turned-housewife.

Some journalists ask Hamid what he thinks of the Belgian design- ers work. Accustomed to this kind of question, he replies:

Thats what I came here to find out. I hear shes very talented.

The journalists insist, as if they hadnt heard his answer. Theyre nearly all Belgians; the French press arent much interested. The nice blonde girl asks them to leave the guests in peace.

They move away. The ex-model sits down next to Hamid and tries to strike up a conversation, saying that she simply loves his work. He thanks her politely, and if she was expecting the response Lets talk after the show, shes disappointed. Nevertheless, she proceeds to tell him everything thats happened in her lifethe photos, the invita- tions, the trips abroad.

Hamid listens patiently, but as soon as he gets a chance (while the model is briefly talking to someone else), he turns to Ewa to ask her to save him from this dialogue of the deaf. His wife, however, is behaving even more strangely now and refuses to talk. His only alternative is to read the explanatory leaflet about the show.

The collection is a tribute to Ann Salens, who was considered the pioneer of Belgian fashion. She began designing in the sixties and opened a small boutique, but saw at once the enormous potential of the fashions created by the young hippies who were converging on Amsterdam from all over the world. She challengedand triumphed overthe sober styles popular among the bourgeoisie at the time, and saw her clothes worn by various icons, including Queen Paola and that great muse of the French existentialist movement, the singer Juliette GrŽco. She was one of the first to create the kind of fashion show that mixed clothes on the catwalk with lighting, music, and art. Neverthe- less, she was little known outside her own country. She always had a terrible fear of cancer, and as Job says in the Bible, the thing that she greatly feared came upon her. She died of the dread illness and saw her business fail because of her own financial incompetence.

And, as with all things in a world that renews itself every six months, she had been completely forgotten. The designer who was about to show her own collection was displaying considerable courage in seek- ing inspiration in the past instead of trying to invent a future.

Hamid puts the leaflet away in his pocket. If Jasmine isnt all that he hopes, hell go and talk to the designer afterward anyway and see if theres some project they can work on together. Hes always open to new ideas, as long as his competitors are under his supervi- sion.

He looks around him. The spotlights are well positioned, and, to his surprise, there are a good number of photographers present. Maybe the collection really is worth seeing, or perhaps the Belgian government has used its influence with the press, offering air tickets and accommo- dation. Theres another possible explanation for so much interest, but Hamid hopes hes wrong. That reason is Jasmine. If he wants to pro- ceed with his plans, he needs her to be someone completely unknown to the general public. Up until now, hes only heard comments from other people in the fashion business. If her face has already appeared in lots of magazines, then it will be a waste of time taking her on. Firstly, because it means someone has got there before him, and secondly, be- cause it would make no sense to associate her with something fresh and new.

Hamid does a few calculations. This event must have been very ex- pensive to put on, but, like the sheikh, the Belgian government is quite right: fashion for women, sport for men, celebrities for both sexes, those are the only things that interest everyone and the only things that can get a countrys image recognized on the international scene. In the case of fashion, of course, there are often long negotiations with the FŽdŽration to deal with first. However, he notices that one of the FŽ-

dŽrations directors is sitting alongside the Belgian politicians, so they are clearly losing no time.

More VIPs arrive, all of them shepherded in by the nice blonde girl. They seem slightly disoriented, as if theyre not sure quite what theyre doing here. Theyre overdressed, so this must be the first fashion show theyve attended in France, having come straight from Brussels. Theyre certainly not part of the fauna currently invading the town to attend the Film Festival.

There is a five-minute delay. Unlike the Fashion Week in Paris, during which almost no show begins on time, there are a lot of other things happening in Cannes this week, and the press cant hang around for long. Then he realizes that hes wrong: most of the journalists pres- ent are talking to and interviewing the ministers; theyre nearly all foreigners and from the same country. Only in a situation like this do politics and fashion meet.

The nice blonde girl goes over to the photographers and asks them to take their places; the show is about to begin. Hamid and Ewa have not exchanged a single word. She seems neither happy nor unhappy, and that bodes very ill indeed. If only she would complain or smile or say something! But she gives no clue as to what is going on inside her.

Best to concentrate on the screen at the far end of the catwalk from behind which the models will appear. At least fashion shows are some- thing he can understand.

A few minutes ago, the models will have taken off all their under- wear because bras and pants might leave visible marks underneath the clothes theyll be wearing. The models have already put on the first item theyll be showing and are waiting for the lights to dim, the music to start, and for someoneusually a womanto tap them on the back to indicate the precise moment when they should head out toward the spotlights and the audience.

The different classes of modelA, B, and Care all suffering from varying degrees of nerves, with the least experienced being the most excited. Some are saying a prayer, others are trying to peer through the curtain to see if anyone they know is there, or if their mother or father managed to get a good seat. There must be ten or twelve of them, each with their photo pinned up above the place where the clothes theyll be wearing are hung up in the order theyll be worn so that they can change in a matter of seconds and return to the catwalk looking completely relaxed, as if theyd been wearing the clothes all afternoon. The final touches have been given to makeup and hair. The models are repeating to themselves:

I mustnt slip. I mustnt trip on the hem. I have been personally chosen by the designer from sixty other models. Im in Cannes. Theres probably someone important in the audience. I know that HH is here, and he might choose me for his brand. They say the place is full of photographers and journalists.

I mustnt smile because thats against the rules. My feet must tread an invisible line. In these high heels I need to walk as if I were march- ing. It doesnt matter if that way of walking is artificial or uncomfort- ableI must remember that.

I must reach the mark, turn to one side, pause for two seconds, then come straight back at the same speed, knowing that as soon as I leave the catwalk, therell be someone waiting to take off my clothes and put on the next set, and that I wont even have time to look in the mirror! I have to trust that everything will go well. I need to show off not only my body, not only the clothes, but the power of my gaze.

Hamid glances up at the ceiling: that is the mark, a spotlight brighter than the others. If the model overshoots that mark or stops beforehand, she wont photograph well, and then the magazine editorsor, rather, the Belgian magazine editorswill choose to show a photo of an- other model. The French press is currently camped outside the hotels or alongside the red carpet or at some evening cocktail party or else eating a sandwich before the main gala supper of the night.

The lights in the room go out, and the spotlights above the catwalk go on.

This is the big moment.

A powerful sound system fills the air with a soundtrack from the sixties and seventies. It transports Hamid to a world he never knew, but which he has heard people talk about. He feels a certain nostalgia for what he has never known and a twinge of angerwhy didnt he get the chance to experience the great dream of all those young people traveling the world?

The first model comes on, and sound fuses with visionthe brightly colored clothes, full of life and energy, are telling a story that happened a long time ago, but one that the world still likes to hear. Beside him, he hears the click and whirr of dozens of shutters. The cameras are re- cording everything. The first model performs perfectlyshe walks as far as the mark, turns to the right, pauses for two seconds, then walks back. She will have approximately fifteen seconds to reach the wings, when she will drop her pose and run to the hanger where the next dress is waiting; she quickly gets undressed, gets dressed even more quickly, takes her place in the queue, and is ready for her next appearance. The designer will be watching everything via closed circuit television, biting her lips and hoping that no one slips up, that the audience under- stands what shes trying to say, that she gets a round of applause at the end, and that the emissary from the FŽdŽration is duly impressed.

The show continues. From where he is sitting, both Hamid and the TV cameras can see how elegantly the models walk, how firmly they tread. The people sitting on the sidewho, like the majority of VIPs present, are not used to fashion showswonder why the girls march instead of walking normally, like the models theyre used to seeing on fashion programs. Is this the designer trying to seem original?

No, thinks Hamid. Its because of the high heels. Only by march- ing like that can they be sure they wont stumble. What the cameras showbecause theyre filming head-onisnt really a true represen- tation of whats happening.

The collection is better than he expected, a trip back in time with a few creative, contemporary touches, nothing over-the-top, because the secret of good fashion, as with good cooking, lies in knowing how much of which ingredient to use. The flowers and beads are a reminder of those crazy years, but theyre used in such a way that they seem ab- solutely modern. Six models have now appeared on the catwalk, and he notices that one of them has a pinprick on her knee that makeup cannot disguise. Minutes before, she must have injected herself there with a shot of heroin to calm her nerves and suppress her appetite.

Suddenly, Jasmine appears. Shes wearing a long-sleeved white blouse, all hand-embroidered, and a white below-the-knee skirt. She walks confidently, but, unlike the others, her seriousness isnt put on, its natural, absolutely natural. Hamid glances at the others in the au- dience; everyone in the room is mesmerized by Jasmine, so much so that no one even glances at the model leaving or entering after she has finished her turn and is walking back to the dressing room.

Perfect!

On her next two appearances on the catwalk, he studies every detail of her body, and sees that she radiates something more than just physi- cal beauty. How could one define that? The marriage between Heaven and Hell? Love and Loathing going hand in hand?

As with any fashion show, the whole thing lasts no more than fifteen minutes, even though it has taken months of planning and preparation. At the end, the designer comes onto the catwalk to acknowledge the applause; the lights go up, the music stops, and only then does he real- ize how much hes been enjoying the soundtrack. The nice blonde girl comes over to them and says that someone from the Belgian govern- ment would very much like to speak to him. He takes out his leather wallet and offers her his card, explaining that hes staying at the Hotel Martinez and would be delighted to arrange to meet the following day.

But I would like to talk to the designer and the black model. Do you happen to know which supper theyll be going to tonight? Ill wait here for a reply.

He hopes the nice blonde girl doesnt take too long. The journalists are gathering to ask him the usual questions, or, rather, the same ques- tion repeated by different journalists:

What did you think of the show? Very interesting, he says, which is the answer he always gives. And what does that mean? With the delicacy of a practiced professional, Hamid moves on to the next journalist. Always be polite to the press, but never give a direct answer and say only what seems appropriate at the time.

The nice blonde girl returns. No, they wont be going to the gala supper that night. Despite the presence of all those ministers, Film Fes- tival politics are dictated by a different sort of power.

Hamid says that hell have the necessary invitations sent to them, and his offer is accepted at once. The designer doubtless expected this response, knowing the value of the product she has in her hands.

Jasmine.

Yes, shes the one. He would only rarely use her in a show because shes more powerful than the clothes shes wearing, but as the public face of Hamid Hussein there could be no one better.

Ewa turns on her mobile phone as they leave. Seconds later, an envelope flies across a blue sky, lands at the bottom of the screen, and opens, and all that to say: You have a message.

What a ridiculous bit of animation, thinks Ewa.

Again the name of the caller has been blocked. Shes unsure whether to open the text, but her curiosity is stronger than her fear.

It seems some admirer has found your phone number, jokes Hamid. You dont usually get that many texts.

Maybe youre right.

What she would really like to say is: Dont you understand? After two years together, can you not see that Im terrified, or do you just think Ive got PMS?

She pretends casually to read the message:

Ive destroyed another world because of you. And Im beginning to wonder if its really worth it because you dont appear to understand my message. Your heart is dead.

Whos it from?

I havent the slightest idea. It doesnt give the number. Still, its always nice to have a secret admirer.