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 seeking inspiration in the past instead of trying to invent a future.
HAMID PUTS THE LEAFLET AWAY in his pocket. If Jasmine isn't all that he hopes, he'll go and talk to the designer afterward anyway and see if there's some project they can work on together. He's always open to new ideas, as long as his competitors are under his supervision.
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 accommodation. There's another possible explanation for so much interest, but Hamid hopes he's wrong. That reason is Jasmine. If he wants to proceed with his plans, he needs her to be someone completely unknown to the general public. Up until now, he's 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, because it would make no sense to associate her with something fresh and new.
Hamid does a few calculations. This event must have been very expensive 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 country's image recognized on the international scene. In the case of fashion, of course, there are often long negotiations with the Federation to deal with first. However, he notices that one of the Federation's 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 they're not sure quite what they're doing here. They're overdressed, so this must be the first fashion show they've attended in France, having come straight from Brussels. They're 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 can't hang around for long. Then he realizes that he's wrong: most of the journalists present are talking to and interviewing the ministers; they're 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 something he can understand.
A few minutes ago, the models will have taken off all their underwear because bras and pants might leave visible marks underneath the clothes they'll be wearing. The models have already put on the first item they'll be showing and are waiting for the lights to dim, the music to start, and for someone--usually a woman--to 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 MODEL--A, B, and C--are 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 they'll be wearing are hung up in the order they'll be worn so that they can change in a matter of seconds and return to the catwalk looking completely relaxed, as if they'd been wearing the clothes all afternoon. The final touches have been given to makeup and hair. The models are repeating to themselves:
"I mustn't slip. I mustn't trip on the hem. I have been personally chosen by the designer from sixty other models. I'm in Cannes. There's 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 mustn't smile because that's against the rules. My feet must tread an invisible line. In these high heels I need to walk as if I were marching. It doesn't matter if that way of walking is artificial or uncomfortable--I 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, there'll be someone waiting to take off my clothes and put on the next set, and that I won't 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 won't photograph well, and then the magazine editors--or, rather, the Belgian magazine editors--will choose to show a photo of another 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 anger--why didn't 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 vision--the 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 recording everything. The first model performs perfectly--she 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 understands what she's trying to say, that she gets a round of applause at the end, and that the emissary from the Federation 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 side--who, like the majority of VIPs present, are not used to fashion shows--wonder why the girls "march" instead of walking normally, like the models they're used to seeing on fashion programs. Is this the designer trying to seem original?
No, thinks Hamid. It's because of the high heels. Only by marching like that can they be sure they won't stumble. What the cameras show--because they're filming head-on--isn't really a true representation of what's 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 they're used in such a way that they seem absolutely 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. She's 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 isn't put on, it's natural, absolutely natural. Hamid glances at the others in the audience; 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 physical 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 realize how much he's been enjoying the soundtrack. The nice blonde girl comes over to them and says that someone from the Belgian government would very much like to speak to him. He takes out his leather wallet and offers her his card, explaining that he's 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 they'll be going to tonight? I'll wait here for a reply."
He hopes the nice blonde girl doesn't take too long. The journalists are gathering to ask him the usual questions, or, rather, the same question 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 won't be going to the gala supper that night. Despite the presence of all those ministers, Film Festival politics are dictated by a different sort of power.
Hamid says that he'll 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, she's the one. He would only rarely use her in a show because she's more powerful than the clothes she's 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. She's 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 don't usually get that many texts."
"Maybe you're right."
What she would really like to say is: "Don't you understand? After two years together, can you not see that I'm terrified, or do you just think I've got PMS?"
She pretends casually to read the message:
"I've destroyed another world because of you. And I'm beginning to wonder if it's really worth it because you don't appear to understand my message. Your heart is dead."
"Who's it from?"
"I haven't the slightest idea. It doesn't give the number. Still, it's always nice to have a secret admirer."
5:15 P.M.
Three murders. All the statistics have been overturned in only a matter of hours and are showing an increase of fifty percent.
He goes to his car and tunes in to a special frequency on his radio.
"I believe there's a serial killer at work in the town."
A voice murmurs something at the other end. The sound of static cuts out some of the words, but Savoy understands what is being said.
"No, I can't be sure, but neither do I have any doubts about it."
More comments, more static.
"I'm not mad, sir, and I'm not contradicting myself. For example, I can't be sure that my salary will be deposited in my account at the end of the month, but I don't actually doubt that it will. Do you see what I mean?"
More static and angry words.
"No, sir, I'm not asking for an increase in salary, I'm just saying that certainties and doubts can coexist, especially in a profession like ours. Yes, all right, let's leave that to one side and move on to what really matters. The man in hospital has just died, so it's quite possible that on the news tonight three murders will be reported. All we know, so far, is that each of the three murders was committed using a different but very sophisticated technique, which is why no one will suspect that they're connected, but suddenly Cannes is being seen as a dangerous town. And if this carries on, people are bound to start speculating about whether there is, in fact, only one murderer. What do you want me to do?"
More angry comments from the commissioner.
"Yes, they're here. The boy who witnessed the murder is telling them everything he knows. The place is swarming with photographers and journalists at the moment. I assumed they'd all be lined up and waiting by the red carpet, but it seems I was wrong. The problem with the Festival is that there are too many reporters and nothing to report."
More indignant remarks. He takes a notebook from his pocket and writes down an address.
"Fine. I'll go straight to Monte Carlo and talk to him."
The static stops. The person at the other end has hung up.
Savoy walks to the end of the pier, places the siren on the roof of his car, puts it on at maximum volume, and races off like a madman, hoping to lure the reporters away to some nonexistent crime. They, however, wise to this trick, stay where they are and continue interviewing the boy.
Savoy is beginning to feel excited. He can finally leave all that paperwork to be completed by an underling and devote himself to what he's always dreamed of doing: solving murders that defy all logic. He hopes he's right and that there really is a serial killer in town terrorizing the population. Given the speed with which news spreads these days, he'll soon be in the spotlight explaining that "nothing has yet been proved," but in such a way that no one quite believes him, thus ensuring that the spotlight will stay on him until the criminal is found. For all its glamour, Cannes is really just a small provincial town, where everyone knows everything that's going on, so it shouldn't be that hard to find the murderer.
Fame and celebrity.
Is he just thinking about himself rather than about the well-being of Cannes' citizens? Then again, what's wrong with seeking a little glory, when every year for years now, he's been forced to put up with twelve days of people trying to look far more important than they really are? It's infectious. After all, who doesn't want to gain public recognition for their work, whether they're policemen or film directors?
"Stop thinking about future glory. That will come of its own accord if you do your job well. Besides, fame is a very capricious thing. What if you're deemed incapable of carrying out this mission? Your humiliation will be public too. Concentrate."
After nearly twenty years in the police force in all kinds of jobs, getting promoted on merit, reading endless reports and documents, he's reached the conclusion that when it comes to finding criminals, intuition always plays just as important a part as logic. The danger now, as he drives to Monte Carlo, isn't the murderer--who must be feeling utterly exhausted from the sheer amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins, not to mention apprehensive, because someone saw him in the act--no, the great danger now is the press. Journalists also mix logic with intuition. If they manage to establish a link, however tenuous, between the three murders, the police will lose control of the situation and the Festival could descend into chaos, with people afraid to walk the st
reets, foreign visitors leaving earlier than expected, tradesmen accusing the police of inefficiency, and headlines in newspapers around the world. After all, a real-life serial killer is always far more interesting than any screen version.
In the years that follow, the Film Festival won't be the same: the myth of fear will take root, and the world of luxury and glamour will choose another more appropriate place to show its wares, and gradually, after more than sixty years, the Festival will become a minor event, far from the bright lights and the magazines.
He has a great responsibility, well, two great responsibilities: the first is to find out who is committing these murders and to stop him before another corpse turns up on his patch; the second is to keep the media under control.
He needs to think logically. How many of those journalists, most of whom come from far-flung places, are likely to know the murder statistics for Cannes? How many of them will take the trouble to phone the National Guard and ask?
The logical response? None of them. Their minds are focused on what has just happened. They're excited because a major film distributor suffered a heart attack during one of the Festival lunches. They don't yet know that he was poisoned--the pathologist's report is on the backseat of his car. They don't yet know--and possibly never will--that he was also involved in a huge money-laundering scam.
The illogical response is that there's always someone who thinks more laterally. It's therefore now a matter of urgency to call a press conference and give a full account, but only of the film director's murder on the beach; that way, the other incidents will be momentarily forgotten.