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.
“Where’s Mario Testino?” I asked Dimitri, as I peeled off the stockings for the last time. “Mathias said maybe he would be photographing me today?”
Dimitri and the redhead looked at each other and laughed.
“Who you think you are?” the woman said, speaking English for the first time. “’eidi Klum? You think I could get ’eidi Klum for one hundred euros? Bah!” She laughed again, now lighting up a cigarette. With her free hand, she gave Dimitri an envelope, through which I could see several currency notes. He shoved it into his pocket, helped me gather the crumpled heap of clothes on the floor, shook the redhead’s hand again, and escorted me out. She completely ignored me, with not so much as a “merci.”
On the landing outside, Dimitri took out ten euros from the envelope, put it into his wallet, and handed me the rest.
“It is not much, but it is a good start for your new career,” he said. “Maybe next time, I can get you more. But you will be able to see these pictures, and to tell your friends. They are for this company’s catalog on its Web site. It will reach many people, and then we will see what other good jobs will come our way.”
“That’s it?!” Juliette exclaimed when I got home and told her about my afternoon. “So much time and fuss for a hundred euros? I told you not to go with this guy. I told you to hold out for something better.”
“I am new to this,” I said sheepishly. “It is fine as a place to begin.”
“Well I can assure you that when Naomi Campbell was first starting out, she didn’t have to subject herself to such humiliation. Pictures on a Web site for some line of clothing in Sentier that nobody has ever heard of? What was Dimitri thinking? This is your reputation! These are things you can never take back! When you become famous, it will haunt you!”
“Everyone has to start somewhere,” I said.
When Dimitri called the next morning to tell me about another job he had lined up for me, Juliette answered the phone.
“Tanaya is doing no such thing,” she said, resolutely. “I am in the fashion business, and I will not permit her to degrade herself this way. She is too beautiful and unique to end up in the awful ads you are finding for her. If you don’t get her something good soon, I will insist that she terminate her contract with you and find a more superior agency.” With that, I heard Juliette slamming the phone down, and I quietly said farewell to my newfound modeling career.
Dimitri didn’t call for a week after that, and I suspected I would never hear from him again. But then he came by the café, just as I was ringing up a takeaway purchase of an Artois and a goat-cheese salad. I felt embarrassed to see him, a little ashamed of the way Juliette had spoken to him. He was a boss to me, although Juliette wasted no time in telling me that it was, actually, he who worked for me.
“One day,” he said, approaching my little corner of the café, “you will not have to rely on this job anymore. One day, I promise you, you will have enough to buy this place if you wanted.”
“It’s OK, Dimitri,” I said quietly. “You don’t have to make all these promises to me. Unlike you, I don’t expect miracles. I am trying to be happy as I am.”
“Well,” he said, taking a deep breath. “Things are about to change, so prepare yourself.”
If Allah was still a witness to my life, I would say that what happened next was a blessing from him. But given that-if I believed my nana-our Almighty was no longer a part of my existence, I had no choice but to concede that what then transpired was mere coincidence, nothing more than me being in the right place at the right time.
Viva, the clothing line that I had modeled for on my first assignment with Dimitri, was apparently up for sale. Dimitri became more and more excited as he began to tell me the news: that although Viva looked like some slipshod operation, it actually sold millions of dollars’ worth of clothes every year, that it was in all the stores and appealed to ordinary women and was a huge moneymaker. That the red-haired woman with the protruding teeth was actually considered one of the smartest people in the business, pinching pennies wherever she could and selling a fortune in clothes.
A fashion tycoon who was interested in acquiring Viva had gone onto its Web site. And there, just days after I had those photographs taken, were pictures of me, smiling nervously into the camera, wearing those sheer knee-high stockings and flat black shoes.
“It seems that he really liked what he saw,” Dimitri said. “He thought that the quality of the pictures was awful, and the clothes selected could have been better. But he liked the look of you,” Dimitri said quietly, rummaging through his breast pocket for his cigarette case. “If they go ahead and buy Viva, they want to make it a very multicultural label, and he thinks you represent that look well. He called me earlier today. He wants to meet with you tonight.”
Karla loaned me a red dress with a V-neck and a ruffle at the hem, Juliette styled my hair into a loose knot, and Teresa strapped some high-heeled shoes onto my feet. Then the three of them came in a taxi with me to the Hôtel Costes, which they had told me was the trendiest hotel in Paris.
“I can’t believe you are meeting with one of the key people from Groupe Montaigne,” Juliette said knowledge-ably. “They own everything. You know that brand Gilles Montaigne? Well, that was their first. And then came the beauty brand Lulu Cosmetiques and the shoe line Casanova, and a chain of spas around Europe… it is endless. I am surprised they want to buy Viva, but perhaps I shouldn’t be. After all, if it is a moneymaker…” Her voice trailed off as I stopped listening. None of this meant anything to me, and I found it very hard to get excited about something I had no connection with. It was a bunch of names, as foreign-sounding now as they might have been when I first got to Paris. But Juliette had given me her approval and agreed that I could grant Dimitri a second chance.
My roommates waved good-bye to me as I stepped out of the taxi and into the hotel, which I found strangely dark for a place where people went if they wanted to be seen. Dimitri said he would meet me at seven, along with the man who could potentially be my new boss.
Fifteen minutes after the appointed hour, I was still waiting.
I took a table in a corner and asked for a glass of orange juice, as everyone else around me sipped pink liquids and ice-filled golden nectars from V-shaped glasses. Compared to them, dressed in their own clothes, conversing animatedly with one another, perfectly at ease in this world, I felt something of an imposter. I glanced around the room nervously, wishing I had brought something to read, then realized that I would also have required a miniature flashlight had I done so.
Opposite me, I noticed that I was being stared at. A beautiful Asian woman, dressed in black, was drinking champagne, smiling my way. I genially smiled back before reaching for a plate of stuffed olives in front of me.
Twenty-five minutes later, I was still waiting and had decided that I would give them five more minutes and then leave. The Asian woman slowly got up from the couch, straightened her long black dress, and glided over to me.
“Bonsoir,” she said, extending her hand. “Je m’appelle Claudine. Et vous êtes?”
“Sorry, not so good at French,” I said, swallowing a piece of pimento.
“Oh, not a local, then?” she asked in perfect, untainted English. “In that case, my name is Claire. Claudine just sounds better in these parts when you’re dealing with these people. May I sit?”
She slid into the chair next to me and placed her beaded handbag onto the table. In the candlelit darkness of the room, her skin looked incandescent.
“I saw you sitting here on your own and thought I should come over and say hello. Are you alone?” she asked, bending her head close to mine. I had once seen a show on television in India about women like this, women who preferred other women. Faced with it now, I was terrified.
“I’m actually waiting for someone,” I replied. “Two men,” I felt compelled to add.
A smile appeared on Claire’s face.
“Good. That’s just what I thought,” she said. “Perhaps we can team up?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I am waiting to meet with two men, for my work.”
She smiled once more, and lifted her hand so it rested on my shoulder.
“I manage a small group,” she said. “Very beautiful, cultured women only. And our clients are in the most upper classes-wealthy, powerful, highly accomplished. They need to be seen with only the very best women. I’m going with two of them to Monte Carlo next week, to attend a party being hosted by one of the richest men in Italy. There is room on his jet for one more. I’d love it if you could join us.”
I stared at her blankly.
Claire sat back in her chair, the smile suddenly leaving her face.
“You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? My, how long have you been in Paris? What do you do here?”
I then spotted Dimitri and his client walking toward us. As she stood up to leave, Claire smiled in the direction of the fashion executive I was about to meet, who leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks, calling her by her French name.
“You know each other?” he asked, looking straight at me.
“We just met,” Claire said. “I saw her sitting alone and came over to say hello. Lovely girl. I hope you do good things with her.”
“We plan to,” Dimitri said, ending the interlude. “And I must inform you,” he said, a frisson of coldness entering his eyes, “that mademoiselle here is not one for you.”
“Apologies for the lateness,” said the fashion executive, who introduced himself as Thierry as Claire scuttled away. “Charmed to meet you. May I order you another drink?”
Forty-five minutes later, Thierry and Dimitri had ironed out details that were incomprehensible to me as I sat on my hands and chewed on my bottom lip. For my benefit, they spoke mostly in English, occasionally lapsing into French, talking about endorsements and residuals and commissions and cover shoots. I needn’t really even have been there, although every so often Thierry would look my way, his cool blue eyes setting off his silvery hair. He had a perfect white smile, a few deep crevices in his forehead, and the longest fingers I had ever seen on a man. Apart from making sure he was pronouncing my name correctly, and asking me what it meant, he barely spoke to me. He squinted at my streak a few times, and then looked away again.
By the end of the evening, Dimitri and Thierry shook hands and promised that the paperwork would be signed in the morning. I, however, still had no idea what Dimitri had promised me to until a few days later, when Juliette brought home a copy of Women’s Wear Daily and showed me a feature about Viva, its sale to Groupe Montaigne, and how it was poised to undergo a major revamp, including hiring a new spokesmodel for its next collection.
Three days later, a shiny black car came by the café to pick me up and to take me to a photography studio off rue Cambon. When I walked in, still in the salwar kameez I had worn to work that day, everybody stopped talking. A tall and extremely thin British man named Robert welcomed me, telling me he would be taking the pictures.
“Do you know what I’m doing?” I asked, realizing how stupid the question sounded.
“New international ad campaign for Viva,” he said, stepping back and looking at me, as if through a camera lens. “You’re their girl. Super exciting. Brand-new collection. The clothes are hot, finally,” he added.
A blond woman with a friendly face guided me to a lit-up mirror in one corner, a tall chair set in front of it. From a large black suitcase she fished out dozens of eyeshadows and lip glosses, laying them out in front of me and asking me if I had any preferences. In the mirror, I saw Dimitri entering the studio and making his way toward me.
“Dimitri, I am grateful for what you have done, but I must make one thing clear,” I blurted out before he even had the chance to say hello.
“You need to tell me what I am doing before I start doing it. I arrived here, and felt like a fool. I know that my career is in your hands, but I need to know what you are up to with me. I am sure I will agree to it, but you must tell me.”
He nodded sheepishly.
“I didn’t want you to concern yourself with these boring details. Just trust me. I am capable,” he said.
“I am sure of that,” I said as the blond woman applied foundation to my face with a wedge-shaped sponge. “But this is my life too. Let’s be partners in it.”
Compared to the exercise in humiliation I had undergone the previous week during my first real modeling job, this particular event was almost enjoyable. Everyone in the studio was uniquely focused on me, weighing in on whether my hair should be flatter or fuller, whether to go with the pink lipstick or the burgundy. Lights were moved around, music turned on so I could, Robert said, “get into the mood,” and food was brought to me on pale green ceramic platters. When the time came for me to be photographed, I was told to stand on a large X-mark taped onto the floor, a sheath of thick white paper behind me. Robert told me where to look, where to put my hands, how much or little to smile, and I followed his instructions without thinking. He told me he could see that I was new to this but that I would pick it up in no time, and I felt reassured by that. He would only look frustrated when I lapsed into the habit-one that I thought all models had-of pouting like some coy Bollywood heroine about to be romanced for the first time.
“Stop that,” he said when I did it for the fifth time. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like an idiot.”
Even though Robert told me that he would have to take hundreds of pictures to find the perfect few that the company would use, I was still amazed at how long it took and how many outfits I was asked to change into. At one point, five people in the room were debating the merits of a particular belt, or would spend twenty minutes rearranging a cuff on my shirt. I couldn’t imagine that the people who read the magazines these pictures would be used in would notice if a crease or a fold wasn’t exactly where it should be. I did more poses than at one of my yoga classes back home-hands on hips, hands on butt, hands in air, legs crossed and then set apart, hair in ponytail one minute or spilling onto my shoulders the next. Even I, as accustomed as I was to the sight of me, didn’t realize I had this many faces.
Five hours later, Robert announced that we were done. As his assistants packed everything away, he said he wanted to show me some Polaroids which, he explained, were always taken at the start of each session to make sure the lighting was right.
“In the end, I think this is the one they’ll go with,” he said. He lifted up a small square, showing me a photo of a girl I couldn’t recognize. She was wearing skinny low-cut jeans that were held up by a thick belt covered in stones, and a sunshine yellow halter top. Her hair was combed completely straight and parted in the center. Large hoop earrings dangled from her ears, a thick ring studding her middle finger. She stood there, legs about a foot apart, her right thumb hooked through one of her belt loops. She looked like me, but older, sleeker, smarter-like in one of Nilu’s magazines. She had, in her eyes, not even a hint of the fear of Allah preparing to destroy her. Her face betrayed none of the sadness of being made an orphan, and showed no sign of the loss of an entire life before this, an entire culture. As I stared at the sunny strength of the girl in the photo, I started to cry, knowing that I so much wanted to be her, but never could.
Robert, who had momentarily left my side to go check something with his assistant, turned around when he heard me sob.
“Gosh, they’re not that bad, are they?” he asked, a look of genuine anxiety crossing his face.
“Oh no!” I said. “It’s not that. They’re very good. That’s why I’m crying.”
He looked at me, puzzled, and shook his head. I felt his hand rest on my lower back, and he turned to kiss me on the cheek, ignoring the tears that seemed to have collected by my earlobe. I felt his eyelashes flutter against my face, and it caused a tingle to run up and down my body. I drew in a sharp intake of breath, shocked at the newness of the sensation, and quickly moved away.