Salaam, Paris by Kavita Daswani

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