He caught me looking around the room, and he suddenly appeared ashamed. “Please, sit,” he said, sweeping an empty pizza box off a chair and onto the floor. “You’ve come all this way. Please.”
I took a seat and looked up at him expectantly.
“I get this reaction often,” he said. “The name of my company sounds very impressive. Then people come here and see it is one person in an office. I have just started this business,” he explained.
“And do you really have offices in New York and Beijing?” I asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “I have a cousin in each city, and they do the same thing there. OK, they have their offices in their bedrooms,” he said with a laugh. “But look,” he said, leaping out from behind his desk and reaching for a thick photo album that sat on a shelf above his head. He leafed through its pages, stopping at one and turning the book around to show me: It was a faraway shot of a dimly lit stage, atop which were a string of thin girls in brightly colored evening gowns.
“This was a fashion show in China, and we found all the models in Europe,” he said. “They wanted foreign girls, and we could provide them. And see, here,” he said, opening the book to another page, containing a large black-and-white photo of a beautiful girl lying in a field. “That’s Nadia. I spotted her, like I did with you. She was on the Metro. A student, so very pretty. Now she is doing some shows in Milan. Small ones, but she’s happy, and we are earning a little commission also.”
He shut the book, satisfied that he had vindicated himself. “I never asked you your name,” he said, offering me a cigarette.
“Tanaya. It’s Urdu. I’m Muslim,” I replied, feeling the need to immediately identify myself.
“Bravo!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “I don’t know of a single other Muslim model working in Paris, or in fact in all of Europe. You know, Muslims are hot right now.” He grinned.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean in movies, and music, and books-everything to do with Islam seems very popular, like people everywhere are craving an understanding of such a mysterious religion. I think when people find out that you are Muslim, they will love it. It will be in all the news. And that will make your job as a new fashion model so much easier.” He nodded sagely, as if his work was done.
He opened a drawer and pulled out two pieces of paper, stapled together at one corner.
“This is a standard contract,” he said. “It’s exactly what all the top agencies in Paris use. Only, because we are not so established, our commission is less. You pay me only ten percent of any modeling job you have, starting from the time you sign. Believe me, it is a good deal. Other agencies charge more than double that.”
I looked over the contract, which was bilingual, and realized I didn’t even understand the English part of it. It was something that my grandfather would have been able to help me with, or Shazia. But seeing as neither one of them was around, I settled on the next best option and told Dimitri that I would take the contract home.
The girls weren’t that much help. While Karla said that the terms of the contract were standard and that I would be protected, Juliette sniffed at the mention of a modeling agent she had never heard of before, and Teresa thought that I should leap at the opportunity.
“If you give me a few days, I’m sure I can find you a contact at one of the bigger and better modeling agencies in Paris,” Juliette advised. “I work in fashion,” she said of her receptionist job. “I know those people.”
She may have been right, but I felt a queer loyalty to the bald little Greek man who had followed me down the street one day and offered me the chance of a lifetime.
“This man is willing to take a chance on me,” I said to Juliette. “Maybe his office is small and nobody knows him, but he seemed kind. I think I will go ahead and do it.”
Chapter Thirteen
From the day that I signed and returned the contract to an ecstatic Dimitri, who proudly labeled me “number five” in his small coterie of models, I waited for something to happen. I wasn’t quite sure what, exactly: Dimitri had been vague about what to expect next, saying only that he would call me if there was a casting I would be suitable for. He had, in the meantime, arranged to have some photos taken of me. Juliette had said that these things normally happen in a studio, where I would be surrounded by hair and makeup artists, bright lights, and a team of people headed up by a fast-talking photographer. I was instead asked to stand in a corner at Dimitri’s office while a young Slovakian man who spoke no English clicked away with exactly the same Konica camera that my grandfather had had for twenty years. I brushed my own hair, applied some lipstick, and Dimitri told me to pout into the camera, goldfish-style.
“Headshot only,” he said, to no one in particular. “You cannot be photographed from the neck down until you have something more stylish on. Your ensembles are beguiling, but nobody will understand them.”
He took the roll of film from the young photographer, plopped it into his pocket, and said: “Now, we wait.”
So I went on as if nothing had changed, working in the café, cooking for the girls, behaving as if my family hadn’t disowned me and as if I had never worn pink hot pants under a steaming hot spotlight.
When Dimitri did finally call me, I could tell that he was forcing himself to sound enthusiastic.
“You will love this,” he said. “And the clients-very important fashion company-they will love you. I am sure of it. They have already booked you based on your headshot alone, for their new campaign. Are you available at three this afternoon?”
When I asked Mathias if I could go, he hugged me.
“I knew you would get your big break!” he said. “Who is it? Dior? Chanel? This is going to be wonderful, so exciting. I hear these shoots are amazing-champagne to relax you, a gorgeous spread if you are hungry, fun music to set the mood. You will be draped in chiffon and silk. You will feel like a star. I wonder who will be shooting you today… maybe Mario Testino? I heard he was in town. Oh, that would be something!”
I looked at him puzzled, his blue eyes shining with laughter.
“Off you go,” he said. “Enjoy.”
Dimitri asked me to meet him at the Metro station closest to him. We jumped on the next train, and as we rumbled through the underground tunnels of Paris, it was too noisy to talk. He took me by the hand when we arrived at our destination, led me up a flight of dank stairs, past a man playing the viola, and back up into daylight. I had no idea where we were, having never been to this part of Paris before. We turned a corner into a narrow side street and up another flight of stairs into a short building. Along the way I noticed dozens of people pushing along racks of clothing-sequined gowns and lace pants and checked suits-all covered in filmy cellophane and hung from steel poles. I guessed that this was what Juliette meant when she referred to “the world of fashion.”
In a second-floor office, we were greeted by a sullen receptionist who looked me over a couple of times and then pointed to the back with her thumb. Dimitri accompanied me to a room, empty but for a changing screen, a full-length mirror, and a couple of freestanding lights. A heavyset woman with red hair, round glasses, and protruding teeth walked in, shook hands with Dimitri, and looked me over as the receptionist had done. Draped over her arm were several hangers of clothes, and she flung them at me and told me to get behind the screen and put the first one on. I looked over at Dimitri, who nodded.
Behind the screen, there was nowhere to hang anything, so I let the entire lot fall onto the floor. I picked up a brown suit that, when I put it on, seemed to fit well, although it scratched me around the collar and under the arms. I stepped out from behind the screen, and the red-haired woman nodded approvingly, giving me half a smile. From a bag she was carrying, she pulled out a pair of sheer black knee-high stockings and flat black shoes and told me to put them on. She asked me if I had brought a hairbrush or any makeup, and I shook my head. The scowl returned, and then she turned around and yelled out something to someone in another room. A petite girl came scurrying in, holding a comb in one hand and a small makeup kit in another, and in under five minutes gave me a ponytail, false lashes, and bright red lips. I didn’t know much about fashion, but I did know that I didn’t look very good, but Dimitri only smiled and repeated, “Jolie, jolie,” as if in so doing I would, indeed, suddenly become pretty again. The red-haired woman nodded, shoved the other girl out of the way and, from yet another bag, pulled out a camera. Moving back a few feet, she asked me to pose in different ways-arms folded in front, one hand on waist, too much smile, too little smile-and made me repeat it all until, eleven outfits and two hours later, we were done.