He never asked me about myself. I don’t think he even knew which country I came from. He wasn’t interested in what was going on in my head. That might be one of the most degrading things you can subject someone to, not caring about their mind. The surface was all he was interested in. And he was quick to point out my flaws. My hair was too dry and too frizzy. My skin was too tan. My ears poked out when my hair was tied back. My feet were too big for a certain pair of shoes. My hips were too narrow or too wide, depending on which dress I was trying on.
My suitcase became my wardrobe. I hauled it in and out from beneath my bed in the apartment I shared with four other live mannequins. We were all equally young, all equally lost. I never thought I would be staying there so long.
Watching over us was a matron with stern eyes and pursed lips. Her constant look of disapproval was reinforced by the wrinkles on her face. They meandered downward, from the corners of her mouth towards her chin. The sharp, deep lines on her upper lip made her look angry even when she fell asleep in her armchair in the living room. Her obvious hatred of the beautiful girls she was forced to live with manifested itself in many ways, such as her manic control of our food intake. There was to be no eating after six in the evening. Anyone arriving home later would have to go to bed hungry. She also didn’t let us go out after seven. It was her job to make sure we got our beauty sleep.
She never talked to us. Whenever she had a spare moment, she would sit in a chair in the kitchen and knit tiny sweaters for a child. I always wondered who ended up wearing them. And whether she spent any time with the child. Whether it was hers.
We worked hard during the day. Long days. We put on beautiful dresses, which we showed off at department stores and occasionally in shop windows, holding our backs straight. Old ladies would nip us here and there with their fingers, feeling the fabric, studying the seams, complaining about small details to bring down the price. Sometimes we had to stand still in front of a camera hour after hour, posing. Turning the head, hands, and feet ever so slightly, to find the very best position. Standing perfectly still while the photographer pressed the button. That was what being a live mannequin involved.
With time, I learned what my face looked like from every possible camera angle. I knew that if I squinted just a little — not enough to wrinkle the skin beneath my eyes — my gaze would become more intense, even slightly mystical. I could shift the shape of my body through the mere tilt of a hip.
Monsieur Ponsard oversaw everything very closely. If we looked too pale, he would come over and pinch our cheeks himself. Always keeping his eyes fixed on something other than ours. Those thin, well-manicured fingers of his pinched firmly, and he would nod happily when he saw redness spread across our cheeks. We blinked the tears away.
“Are you crying?”
The temp comes over to where Doris is sitting with her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. She jumps and quickly wipes her cheeks.
“No, no,” she replies, but the tremble in her voice gives her away. She pushes a couple of black-and-white pictures to one side, turns them upside-down.
“Could I have a look?”
Sara, that’s her name, has been to see her a few times now. Doris shakes her head.
“They’re nothing special. Just old pictures. Old friends who are no longer with us. Everyone dies. People try to live for as long as possible, but do you know what? Being the oldest is no fun. There’s no point in living. Not when everyone else is dead.”
“Do you want to show me? Show me a few of the people who meant something to you?”
Doris’s fingers brush the stack of images. Then she pauses, her hand still.
Sara tries again. “Maybe you have a picture of your mother?”
Doris pulls a picture from the pile. Studies it for a moment.
“I didn’t know her very well. Only my first thirteen years.”
“What happened then? Did she die?”
“No, but it’s a long story. Too long to be interesting.”
“You don’t need to tell me if you don’t want to. Pick someone else instead.”
Doris turns over a picture of a young man. He is leaning against a tree trunk, his feet crossed and one hand in his pocket. He’s smiling, his white teeth lighting up his entire face. She quickly turns it upside-down again.
“Handsome. Who is he? Your husband?”
“No. Just a friend.”
“Is he still alive?”
“I don’t actually know. I don’t think so. It’s a long time since we last met. But it would be wonderful if he was.” Doris smiles shrewdly and gently strokes the photograph with the tip of her index finger.
Sara puts an arm around Doris’s shoulders, doesn’t say anything. She is so different from Ulrika. Gentler and much kinder.
“Do you have to stop coming when Ulrika gets back? Can’t you stay longer?”
“I can’t, sadly. Once Ulrika is back, we’re on the usual schedule again. But until then, we’ll make sure we have a good time, you and I. Are you hungry?”
Doris nods. Sara takes out the foil carton and dishes the food onto a plate. She carefully separates the vegetables, meat, and mashed potato, which she smooths with a spoon. Once the food is warm, she slices a tomato and places the pieces in a pretty half-moon.
“There now. Looks good, doesn’t it?” she exclaims happily, putting down the plate.
“Thanks, it’s nice of you to dish it up like that.”
Sara pauses and gives her a questioning look. “What do you mean, like that?”
“You know, so nicely. Not all mixed together.”
“Is your food usually mixed up? Doesn’t sound so good.” She wrinkles her nose. “We’ll have to change that.”
Doris smiles cautiously and takes a bite. The food really does taste better today.
“Pictures are so handy, though.” Sara nods towards the pile of photographs on the table, next to two empty tin boxes. “They help us remember everything we might have forgotten otherwise.”
“And everything we should have forgotten a long time ago.”
“Was that why you were sad when I got here?”
She nods. Her hands are resting on the kitchen table. She brings them together, interlaces the fingers. They’re dry and wrinkled, and her dark-blue veins almost seem to sit on top of the skin. She holds out a photo of a woman and a small child for Sara to look at.
“My mother and my sister,” she says with a sigh, wiping away yet another tear.
Sara takes the picture, studies the two figures for a moment.
“You look like your mother; you have the same twinkle in your eye. It’s the most beautiful thing when you can see the life in people’s eyes.”
Doris nods. “But they’re all dead now. So far away. It hurts.”
“Maybe you should sort them into two piles, then? One for the pictures that give you positive feelings, and one for the negative.”
Sara gets up and starts rifling through the kitchen drawers.
“Here!” she shouts when she finds what