The decision to sell Alemany Cosmetics sprouted from a conversation with Paula, when for the first time in his life he confessed how bored he was. And being younger, she gave him an answer that glowed with clarity: “It’s your company, Víctor. You’re not obliged to work there. You can choose.” Choose-a word not much used in the Alemany house and always in a negative sense. His sister, for example, had “chosen badly” years back and had suffered the consequences. He, though, whom his father often rebuked for his indecision, had carried off the prize.
Clearly the moment had come to choose, or at least to consider the possibility of doing so … He’d sought advice from Octavi Pujades, of course, and he’d tried to repress this desire for a change that threatened to overwhelm him at a time when the economic situation made good offers and hasty decisions suspect. Prudence, moderation, sense, reasoned arguments that lost their grounds when Octavi’s poor wife was diagnosed with cancer, condemning her to an early death. From that day on, Octavi Pujades could do no more than give him information on their basic proposals, although he still made him keep the negotiation absolutely secret and be cautious in his dealings with those seemingly heaven-sent investors weighed down with cash. Taking advantage of Octavi’s leave, they’d been able to meet numerous times with the future buyers unbeknownst to everyone, especially Sílvia-not that she had the authority to prevent a sale, but the pressure from his sister would have been an added burden to the whole affair. Only the ill-fated Sara could have suspected that her boss and the finance director were up to something, but Víctor was sure of his secretary’s loyalty.
Now, thought Víctor, he couldn’t postpone speaking to Sílvia any longer. He’d been on the verge of coming clean with her at Christmas, and it was more from laziness than fear that he hadn’t, because they’d almost closed the deal. But Octavi had advised him to wait until January, until this last meeting he’d just had, and Víctor came to the conclusion that there was no harm in that, in pretending a little longer, even if it made him feel bad. Like the company dinner, his final act, that pantomime he’d played out like a consummate actor.
And it was in thinking about that event that his memory-that fickle, treacherous faculty-decided to capture the thread going around in his head since the inspector with an Argentine accent had shown him that horrible photo, and linked it to another memory with the force of a punch.
“Every woman wants to feel beautiful.”
The voice of Víctor Alemany, managing director of the laboratories that bear his name, easily dominates the room, despite the statement sounding pompous, out of touch with these times to some ears. However, those present keep their disapproval to ironic expressions, immediately hidden beneath a mask of polite attention; all that can be heard is the odd throat being cleared, the sound of a spoon scraping a dessert plate. Almost a hundred people, in one of the lab rooms effectively converted into a dining room for a night, prepare to listen to the speech, or pretend to, at least. It’s part of the tradition: every year there is a company Christmas dinner, every year the director speaks for a few minutes, every year they applaud respectfully at the end. Then the party, if it can be called that, goes on without further interruptions. So it might be said that the majority of faces observing Víctor Alemany show some interest, the same with which they would listen to the father of the bride who insists on toasting the happy couple. No one expects him to say anything interesting or original, but you have to smile and nod.
On this night, however, after the initial six words, the lights go down little by little until the room is dark and a reproduction of a painting is projected on the wall behind Señor Alemany. A woman with white skin and long blond hair-so long she partly covers her nudity with it-balances on a large shell floating on a calm sea. To her left, suspended in the air, a pair of winged gods embracing each other-they could be angels, although everyone knows they are sexless-blow her blond tresses with their breath and on the other side, a woman dressed in white holds a pink cloak, ready to envelop the recent arrival, as if her beauty is too extreme for mere mortals. Everyone recognizes this image, although there are those who’d have problems getting the exact name of the painting or artist. In any case, it’s not an art-history exam, and another image is immediately superimposed on the previous one. It’s a detail of the same woman, the face of the same golden-haired Venus. Her honey-colored eyes have a lost look; the complexion, although slightly pink-cheeked, is of an unblemished alabaster; the mouth, remains closed, unsmiling. The woman is a stranger to her surroundings. Young, timelessly beautiful.
“The canon of beauty has changed over the centuries.”
Víctor Alemany pronounces his second sentence of the night, an obvious remark that at least is not politically incorrect. It heralds a series of beautiful female faces projected onto the wall with backing music. They follow no chronological order. The serene bust of Nefertiti alternates with the sensual, wild face of an adolescent Brigitte Bardot, and a calm Renaissance madonna gives way to the face, almost Machiavellian in its attractiveness, of Snow White’s stepmother. No one knows who made the selection, but the first impression is that whoever is responsible has a marked preference for blondes. It’s almost a relief when suddenly Grace Jones’s shining ebony face appears and most of those present recognize her as the grave voice of the soundtrack. Shortly afterward the projection finishes and for an instant those present hesitate over whether they should applaud or not. Someone begins, timidly, and others follow. The attempt at applause is halted by Víctor Alemany, who, though acknowledging the gesture with a nod, raises his right hand, like a political leader who knows the best is yet to come.
“For years, we have focused on offering women the chance to feel beautiful, the illusion of recovering lost youth. And more importantly, at a reasonable cost. Our brand has been synonymous with quality and a good price, and it’s these two basic concepts that have carried us for more than six decades.”
He then begins the classic discourse, the one everyone was expecting at the beginning. The one that covers the birth of the company. He goes over the past year: it has been a turbulent period, of restructuring, of change. At the table closest to Víctor Alemany, two people look at each other. Amanda Bonet and Brais Arjona are aware that they’ve been part of these changes: new faces in a company with a history of more than half a century.
The MD continues: difficult years are approaching, no one will be left untouched, but he’s sure they are prepared for the new challenges. The company has made risky decisions, yes, although with a particular vision in mind. The new line of products is already in the market. AC/Young. Those most involved in Young know what is coming. The ad was filmed just before the summer, so the models are lightly tanned. Alfred Santos is the first to come on screen to present the line: soft creams for young skin, an area of the market Alemany Cosmetics hasn’t specifically targeted up to now. Skin that doesn’t need a firming cream, but one that gives it radiance. Also, as Víctor Alemany is well aware, their public objective goes further, because many women between thirty and thirty-five still feel young. So Brais Arjona chose Paula de la Fe, who had achieved a certain notoriety playing the role of a teacher involved with a student in a soap opera, as model for the photos of the whole line. Paula is twenty-nine, although in the series she has just finished her degree and has a youthful appearance. What neither Brais nor anyone from the team could imagine was that their boss and Paula would begin a relationship that contributed an unexpected and, in Sílvia’s opinion, frivolous celebrity to the brand. Víctor would have liked Paula to be with him tonight, but in the end Sílvia’s opinion prevailed-“This is a company dinner”-and he’s decided not to argue with his sister.