On the Shoe-Trying Bench at RV and under the Spotlight at Saturday Night Live

Su Jin's private plane took off from Luton Airport early the morning after her victory in London.

As they crossed the English Channel, the clouds spread beyond the window like an endless white velvet carpet. The sun had just risen in the east, setting their edges ablaze in a fine line of orange-red.

She reclined in the master suite's spacious leather seat, a Begg & Co cashmere blanket over her knees and a freshly brewed cup of jasmine tea in her hands, gazing absently at the sea of clouds outside.

The flight was only an hour and twenty minutes, not enough for a nap or to finish a paper. It was just enough time to drink her tea, daydream for a while, and land.

[Host, it's time to check in.]

She leaned back in her seat, looking at the gray sky outside. The rain had eased a little, but it was still falling, drops striking the car window and sliding down along invisible paths, leaving crooked trails of water.

[Ten, nine, eight, seven...]

She didn't know what she was thinking about. Perhaps she wasn't thinking about anything at all, only listening to that voice as though it were a song she had heard many times before. She didn't have to pay attention; the lyrics flowed through her mind on their own.

[Three, two, one-ding!]

[Congratulations, host, on completing your one-hundred-and-thirtieth daily check-in!]

[Today's check-in reward: one private island, Tetiaroa, in French Polynesia, approximately 2.4 square kilometers in area, including twelve traditional Polynesian-style villas, a private airstrip, staff quarters, a seawater desalination system, a solar power station, and deepwater dock facilities.

The island was once Marlon Brando's private domain. He first set foot on its beach in 1966 while filming "Mutiny on the Bounty" here. He later bought it and spent the most peaceful thirty years of his life here.

Estimated value: approximately twenty million US dollars. Transfer of ownership has been completed. The system has automatically arranged a private household staff for the island's owner, including two local guides, three boat crew members, a six-person villa maintenance team, and one private chef.]

Su Jin finished reading and laid her phone on her lap.

A gap opened in the clouds outside, and a shaft of sunlight slipped through.

She descended the aircraft stairs, where Fang Ying waited below with a black, straight-handled umbrella.

The rain was light but dense, pattering against the umbrella with a fine, scattered sound, like windblown sand striking metal.

Today she wore a cream-white cashmere turtleneck from The Row and dark charcoal wide-leg trousers from Joseph, with white Common Projects sneakers on her feet. Her hair hung loose, a few strands dampened by the rain and clinging to her temples, framing a face that had been baptized in London's lights and applause.

There was no makeup on that face, but in Paris's gray-white daylight, her skin had a soft, pearlescent whiteness. A faint pink glowed through from beneath the skin on her cheekbones, like a rain-soaked camellia, its petals translucent at the edges, its center burning red.

She got into the car and told the driver, "The Ritz Hotel."

Two

At eleven that morning, Su Jin stood before the floor-length mirror in her Ritz Hotel suite's dressing room.

She had changed out of her flying clothes and chosen a long Khaite silk slip dress-such a deep ink-green it was nearly black, though the green beneath showed through in the light, like water in a deep pool, dark on the surface with light below.

Its straps were two exceptionally fine silk cords that went over her shoulders and crossed at her back, leaving both shoulder blades exposed. With every breath, their edges slid gently beneath her skin, like a pair of folded wings.

The skirt fell straight to her ankles, with a high slit at the side that ran from the outside of her knee to two inches above her ankle, revealing her entire lower leg as she walked.

The fabric was heavyweight silk with a beautiful drape. Against her body, it looked like a layer of wind-dried ink, rippling with a fine sheen as she moved.

Her hair hung loose, the ends curling slightly, London's dryness and Paris's humidity having tamed it together into a curve that was just right, neither too neat nor too casual.

She wore a pair of Bulgari Serpenti earrings-coiling snakes in rose gold set with diamonds, with two tiny emeralds embedded in the snakes' heads. They swayed gently when she turned, like two tiny living snakes whispering beside her ears.

Her feet were bare, without shoes. Her toenails were painted the palest nude pink, nearly invisible unless one looked closely, but in the light they had a thin sheen, like the inside of a shell washed by the sea.

She admired herself in the mirror, then turned and walked out of the dressing room.

Three

RV's full name was Roger Vivier, and its Paris flagship store stood across from Place Vendôme.

It was a Haussmann-style building, with exquisite carvings on its gray stone exterior. The season's newest designs were displayed in the windows, each pair of shoes set on its own transparent acrylic stand, like an exhibit in a museum.

When Su Jin pushed open the door, the store was well heated, and the air held a faint scent of leather and champagne, mingled together like some sophisticated background music composed expressly for the sense of smell.

She was greeted by the store manager, a French woman in her fifties, wearing a black dress and a silk scarf tied around her neck. Her smile was just right-neither overly eager nor cool, like that of an experienced librarian greeting a regular reader.

"Ms. Su." She gave a slight bow. "The VIP room is ready. Whatever you need, I'll have someone bring it up."

"No need for the VIP room," Su Jin said. "I'd like to try them on downstairs."

The manager was taken aback.

Most of Roger Vivier's VIP clients preferred to try on shoes upstairs-private, quiet, and free from the scrutiny of other customers.

But this young woman stood in the doorway in a silk slip dress, its ink-green hem swaying gently in the warm air, revealing the side slit and a short length of bare calf. She wore nothing on her feet, standing barefoot on the marble floor, the nude pink on her toenails glowing like seashells under the lights.

The manager looked at her for two seconds, then smiled. "All right. I'll have the shoes brought down."

Su Jin sat down on the shoe-trying bench in the middle of the store.

It was a curved, deep-blue velvet bench, wide enough for four or five people to sit side by side. She sat alone in the middle, her back straight, her legs together and tilted slightly to one side, her bare feet resting on the beige carpet.

There was a natural, untrained beauty to the way she sat-not the ramrod-straight, stiff kind corrected by an etiquette teacher, but the relaxed beauty of a cat that looked good wherever it happened to settle.

Her left hand rested on her knee, its fingers long and slender, the knuckles distinct. Her nails were cut short and wore no color, only the thin sheen of a protective coat.

Her right hand braced against the bench, her elbow slightly bent. The edges of her shoulder blades appeared and disappeared between the straps, like a pair of folded wings ready to open at any moment.

The sales assistants brought the shoes over one pair at a time.

They didn't bring a pile for her to choose from. They brought them pair by pair, each on a white velvet tray, carried it before her, crouched down, and raised the tray to her eye level.

If she looked and nodded, she would put them on, stand and take a couple of steps, glance in the mirror, then sit back down, take them off, and put them aside.

If she shook her head, they carried them away.

The first pair was the classic square-buckle heels from the Belle Vivier line, in black patent leather, with seven-centimeter heels and silver metal buckles that glittered under the lights.

After putting them on, she stood and walked to the mirror. The black patent leather and her ink-green silk created a retro, sixties look, like a woman who had stepped out of a Rohmer film and was on her way to a bookstore by the Seine to buy an obscure philosophy book, then sit reading at an outdoor café table while waiting for someone who would never come.

She looked for two seconds and shook her head. Too classic. She didn't want to be a woman in a Rohmer film today.

The second pair was a pair of Viv' Choc Mary Janes in burgundy velvet, with a slender strap across each shoe, its buckle set with a row of tiny rhinestones.

When she put them on, velvet wrapped around the tops of her feet, her toes peeking out from the edge of the straps, the burgundy making her skin look as white as if it had been soaked in milk.

She stood and took a couple of steps, the heels tapping out crisp, short notes on the wooden floor, like hooves on a stone-paved road.

She looked down, then sat back down and took them off. Too sweet. Mary Janes were for young girls. She wasn't a young girl; she had never been one.

The third pair was Très Vivier ankle boots in black matte leather, with square toes, chunky geometric heels, and a gold zipper down each side, the Roger Vivier logo engraved on the pulls.

When she put them on, the tops of the boots sat right at the narrowest part of her ankles, leaving a short length of calf exposed. The ink-green skirt drifted out through the side slit and lay against the boot, like a leaf fallen on black rock.

She stood, walked to the mirror, turned one way, then another.

She wore this pair for a long time, longer than the first two pairs combined. She looked at the woman in the mirror in the ink-green dress and black ankle boots, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly, then sat back down.

She took them off and put them in the "keep" pile.

The fourth pair, the fifth, the sixth-each brought a different air.

Satin heels made her look as though she were going to a dinner in Cannes; sequined flats made her look like a wealthy lady living in Beverly Hills; fluorescent sneakers made her look like a street artist coming out of a trendy shop in London's East End.

She tried on shoes for more than twenty minutes, going through over a dozen pairs. In each one, she stood before the mirror for a few seconds, turned to another angle, then made her decision-keep them or not.

Several customers trying on shoes nearby had long since stopped making their own selections. Some stood watching from a short distance away; others secretly filmed her on their phones.

An elderly lady walked straight over and said to her, "Every pair looks good on you. You should buy them all."

Su Jin turned and looked at her.

The lady wore a Chanel tweed suit, her hair dyed chestnut and her makeup immaculate. She looked at least seventy, but her eyes were bright, like two gemstones polished for too long, their surfaces covered in fine scratches, yet the light beneath still sharp.

"Thank you," Su Jin said with a smile, "but I'm not here to stock a store."

The lady laughed, loudly enough to be heard throughout the store. "I like you," she said. "Shoes look good on you, and you speak well, too." She held out her hand.

"My name is Simone."

Su Jin shook her hand. "Su Jin."

"Su Jin," Simone repeated, her French accent giving the two syllables a soft sound, like syrup slowly melting in a hot pan.

"What do you do? Model? Actress?"

"Both," Su Jin said. "And some other things."

"What other things?"

"Investing. Furniture. Vacation rentals. Games." She paused. "And an island."

Simone looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "An island? What kind of island?"

"In French Polynesia. It has coconut trees, a lagoon, and an old house where Marlon Brando once lived."

Simone was silent for two seconds, then let out a short sigh somewhere between astonishment and feeling.

"You," she said, "are more beautiful than your shoes." She reached out and gave the back of Su Jin's hand two gentle pats.

"I'm going home to tell my husband I met a woman who owns an island at Roger Vivier today. He'll be jealous of me."

She turned and walked away, her heels tapping out a crisp, cheerful rhythm on the wooden floor.

Su Jin watched her go, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly.

She turned to the manager and said, "Of the ones I just tried, I'll keep three pairs. I don't want the others. Bring me a few more in styles I haven't tried. Pick whatever you like-anything you think is interesting."

Four

When Su Jin came out of Roger Vivier, she carried a deep-blue shopping bag containing three shoeboxes: the black Très Vivier ankle boots, a pair of Belle Vivier silver strappy sandals, and a pair of white Viv' Run sneakers. An extremely fine fluorescent green line ran across the sneakers from toe to heel, like a bolt of lightning frozen onto a white road.

Fang Ying took the shopping bag and followed her as the two of them walked slowly along the arcade of Place Vendôme.

Su Jin's phone vibrated in her bag. She took it out; the message was from Geneviève Durand.

She was the woman who had spent thirty years styling red-carpet looks in Paris, introduced to her by Madame Lefèvre, the head tailor at Chanel's haute couture atelier.

The message was brief: Ms. Su, I've received an invitation and would like your opinion.

Su Jin replied: What invitation?

Geneviève sent her a forwarded email.

It was from the styling director of "Saturday Night Live." In essence, it said that SNL's fortieth-anniversary special would be recorded the following month, and they wanted to invite several of "the most talked-about faces of the moment" to make appearances as guest hosts.

Su Jin's name was first on the list.

One sentence in the email had been marked in bold: We don't need her to do comedy. She only has to stand there and say a few words, and the audience will laugh.

Her face is the punchline-not the kind of laughter that comes from something comical, but laughter of anticipation and delight.

Su Jin finished reading the email, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly.

She put her phone away without replying immediately.

Back at the Ritz Hotel, she changed her shoes and sat on the sofa by the window, looking at the bronze column in Place Vendôme.

The rain had stopped. Puddles in the square reflected the gray-white sky, and a few pigeons pecked at something beside them.

She picked up her phone and called Geneviève.

"Have you done styling for SNL?" she asked.

Geneviève's voice came through the phone, the ends of her words carrying a hint of a southern French accent.

"I have. I did a few episodes in the nineties. I was still young then, and so was SNL. Later I stopped because the pace was too fast-one episode a week, script revisions every day, and the styling had to follow the jokes. When the jokes changed, the styling had to change too. It was exhausting."

"Would you be willing to go through that again?"

Su Jin spoke slowly.

"Not styling for SNL. For me. From now on, all my red carpets, premieres, events, and shows-you'll handle them.

"Be my personal stylist."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

So long that Su Jin thought the connection had dropped.

Then Geneviève's voice came through, softer than before. "Do you know I'm sixty-two this year?"

"I do."

"Do you know I've worked in styling for forty years, and no one has ever asked me to be their personal stylist?"

"I didn't. But now I do."

"Aren't you afraid I'm too old to keep up with your pace?"

Su Jin leaned back on the sofa, watching the pigeons pecking at the water in the square outside.

"Yesterday you said my face had nothing to fear from any light. My face has nothing to fear from any pace, either.

"If you can't keep up with me, I'll wait for you."

There was silence on the other end again.

This silence lasted even longer. Then Geneviève laughed, a quiet laugh, like someone striking a match in the dark: a hiss, a flash, and then it was out.

"All right. I'll go with you."

"Then come to SNL's styling meeting tomorrow. They're in New York. I'll have someone book your flight."

"No need," Geneviève said. "I'll book it myself. I'm not so old that I need someone else to book my flights."

Su Jin hung up, the corners of her mouth lifting slightly.

She picked up her phone and emailed SNL's styling director: I accept the invitation. I'll bring my own stylist. Her name is Geneviève Durand. You may have heard of her.

Five

Five days later, New York.

SNL's recording studio was in the building at 30 Rockefeller Center. An entire floor was divided into countless small rooms-makeup rooms, prop rooms, a writers' room, and a control room.

There were always people running through the corridors, revised scripts in their hands, lines on their lips. Even when they bumped into someone, they didn't stop, just said "sorry" and vanished around the next corner.

Su Jin arrived at three in the afternoon, four hours before the recording.

Geneviève was already waiting in the makeup room, her toolkit spread open on the vanity, brushes, powder puffs, combs, and scissors arranged as neatly as an army awaiting inspection.

Su Jin sat down in front of the makeup mirror.

Geneviève stood behind her, both hands on her shoulders, looking at her face in the mirror.

"SNL's lighting is very harsh,"

she said. "It shines from above, so the forehead and cheekbones will be overexposed, while the eye sockets and chin will be all shadow. So we need to do the opposite-no highlighter on the forehead and cheekbones. We'll tone them down with matte foundation so they don't reflect too much light. The eye sockets and chin, on the other hand, need brightening. We'll use concealer one shade lighter than your skin to fill in the shadows."

She began to work.

Her movements were quick, but every step was precise, each layer thin as the first frost on a window on a winter morning, melting as soon as the sun came out, but still there for the moment.

Su Jin closed her eyes, feeling the brush travel over her face, from forehead to cheekbones, from the bridge of her nose to her chin, from eyelids to brow bones.

Geneviève's fingers occasionally touched her skin, the pads cool and dry, carrying a faint, bitter aroma of coffee.

"Done," Geneviève said. "Take a look."

Su Jin opened her eyes.

The person in the mirror was still her, but different-not more beautiful, but clearer.

Like a photograph brought into focus, the contours were the same, the features were the same, but the edges were sharper, the layers more distinct. When the light fell on her face, you knew it was meant to fall there, because that was where it looked best.

She said nothing, only nodded once at the mirror.

Geneviève nodded too.

The two women met each other's eyes in the mirror and smiled.

Su Jin stood and changed into the clothes Geneviève had chosen for her-

A cream-white silk blouse from Celine, with a large bow tied at the neck, languid and romantic;

She wore black Saint Laurent tuxedo pants, their creases sharp and their hems falling at her ankles;

On her feet were the silver strappy sandals she had bought at Roger Vivier. Their heels were as thin as needles, but she walked in them with astonishing steadiness.

Her hair fell in big waves, and her earlobes were bare-Geneviève had said she didn't need earrings today. Her face was jewelry enough.

Six

The SNL studio was smaller than Su Jin had imagined.

When she watched it on television, the stage had seemed vast, the audience packed, and the lights dazzlingly bright.

But when she actually stood in the wings, she saw that the stage was only so big, the audience seating was only a few rows deep, and the lights beating down from overhead were as hot as a summer afternoon.

But that heat wasn't physical. It was emotional-hundreds of people sitting in the dark, waiting for her to come out, waiting for her to speak, waiting for her to make them laugh.

That anticipation had a temperature. It was like a pot of water on the verge of boiling, its surface already covered with tiny bubbles, needing only one last blast of heat.

Su Jin stood in the wings, waiting for her cue.

Geneviève stood beside her and gave her shirt collar one final adjustment.

The bow was a little crooked. She retied it, her fingers flying, and in three seconds had made a perfect, symmetrical bow.

"Are you nervous?" she asked.

Su Jin shook her head. "No."

"You should be," Geneviève said.

"You look your best when you're nervous. Your eyes light up, your lips turn red, and your cheekbones take on a natural flush. Makeup can't create any of that."

Su Jin looked at her, the corners of her mouth lifting. "Then I'll try to be nervous."

Geneviève laughed.

It was the first time Su Jin had heard her laugh out loud. It was short but loud, like someone clapping once in an empty room.

"Go on."

Su Jin walked onto the stage.

The moment the lights fell on her, the audience fell silent.

It wasn't a nervous silence, but a stunned one-the kind that came when hundreds of people saw a face that shouldn't exist in reality at the same time, and their bodies reacted before their brains could process what they were seeing.

Then the applause began. It wasn't polite applause, but the kind that said, "Oh my God, it's really her," mixed with laughter and whistles. Someone shouted, "Su Jin, I love you!"

She walked to her mark at center stage and came to a stop.

Light poured down from overhead. Geneviève's prediction had been exactly right-the matte foundation absorbed most of the harsh light hitting her forehead and cheekbones, leaving only a soft sheen, as though filtered through frosted glass. Concealer had filled in the shadows around her eye sockets and chin, giving them a warm, breathing luminosity under the lights.

She stood there, her cream-white shirt glowing under the spotlight. The bow's shadow fell across her collarbone, like a white butterfly perched there, its wings still fluttering gently.

The black tuxedo pants made her legs look even longer. Her silver sandals flashed under the lights, and the exceptionally thin strap across each one traced the curve of her instep just right.

The host was a comedian in his forties, balding and wearing round-framed glasses. When he smiled, his mouth stretched wide, showing a row of slightly crooked teeth.

Standing beside Su Jin, he was half a head shorter than her, but his presence was no less commanding.

"Su Jin," he said, "you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen. I'm not flattering you; I'm stating a fact. Just like when I say, 'It's Wednesday,' 'The earth is round,' or 'Su Jin is the most beautiful person I've ever seen'

"-those are all facts."

The audience laughed.

Su Jin smiled too, a faint smile that curved her lips and showed a small row of even teeth.

It wasn't an amused smile. It held a touch of resignation and a touch of indulgence, like an adult watching a child perform a magic trick, spotting the flaw but applauding anyway.

"You're from MIT,"

the host continued. "You studied computer vision. Could you explain what computer vision is?"

Su Jin thought for a moment. "It's about getting computers to understand images.

"For example, you're looking at me right now. Your eyes turn light signals into electrical signals, your brain turns those electrical signals into images, and your visual cortex processes those images into information

"-you see my face, you know it's a face, you know it's looking at you, and you know it's smiling at you.

"Computer vision gets computers to do the same thing."

The host looked at her and was silent for two seconds. "So are you smiling at me right now?"

"Yes."

"Can computer vision recognize that?"

"Yes. But a computer can only recognize that 'this is a smiling face.'

"It doesn't know whether that face is smiling because it thinks you're funny or because it feels sorry for you."

The audience laughed even harder.

The host clutched his chest and put on a wounded expression. "You feel sorry for me?"

Su Jin looked at him, her smile widening. "I think you're very funny."

The host let out a sigh of relief, turned to the audience, and spread his arms.

"Did you hear that? She said I'm very funny."

Then he turned back to Su Jin, his expression suddenly serious.

"Su Jin, you're a top student at MIT, an investor, an actress, and a fashion icon. Is there anything you can't do?"

Su Jin thought for a moment. "I can't cook."

The host was taken aback. "Really?"

"Really. I can't even boil an egg. I don't know what water looks like when it boils."

The audience laughed. The host laughed too.

"Then what do you usually eat?"

"I have a chef. His name is Pierre. He can do everything except let me into the kitchen."

"Why?"

"Because once I went in to take a look and knocked over a pot of soup.

"He called me a 'kitchen killer.'"

The host turned to the audience and spread his hands.

"She can do everything and has everything, but she can't boil an egg. That's the little bit of face God saved for himself when he created her."

The audience erupted in thunderous applause.

Su Jin stood at center stage, the lights falling on her, her cream-white shirt like a reflective sail under the spotlight.

She stood there with a smile on her lips and a light in her eyes, wrapped in the warm glow of hundreds of people watching her at once.

As she spoke, that face was so close to them that they forgot it was a face rated by the Ninety-Nine-Point System, a face at the limit of human possibility. All they remembered was that she was a real girl, a little clumsy, who couldn't boil an egg.

After the show finished recording, Su Jin's Instagram following rose from thirty million to thirty-five million.

The hour in which she gained followers fastest was the very hour her "I can't boil an egg" segment aired.

The most-liked comment read: "She stood on the SNL stage in a Celine shirt, Saint Laurent pants, and Roger Vivier sandals, with millions watching her online. She said she couldn't boil an egg.

"She has no idea how adorable she is."

The second read: "I saw the candid shots of her trying on shoes at Roger Vivier. She stood barefoot on the carpet, and every pair she put on looked like her own skin."

The third read: "She poached Geneviève Durand to be her personal stylist.

"Geneviève Durand has spent forty years doing red carpets and worked with Cate Blanchett, Tilda Swinton, and Huppert. Yet she was willing to become Su Jin's personal stylist. This isn't about money; it's about the person. Su Jin is the kind of person you're willing to put in extra effort for."

Su Jin sat in a dressing room at 30 Rockefeller Plaza, her makeup removed and her own clothes back on-a light gray Acne Studios crewneck sweatshirt and dark blue Mother jeans. On her feet were the white sneakers she had bought at Roger Vivier, the fluorescent green lines across them like little bolts of lightning under the fluorescent lights.

She leaned back in her chair, reading the comments on her phone, and the corners of her mouth lifted.

Geneviève was packing her tool case, slipping brushes back into their pouch one by one and stacking compacts in the case's compartments. Her movements were unhurried, like a surgeon counting instruments after an operation.

"You did very well tonight," she said without looking up. "Not because of what you said, but because you stood there and made them feel you were a person. Not an island, not a face, not a long list of titles."

Su Jin looked at her. "How did you know I couldn't boil an egg?"

Geneviève looked up, the corners of her mouth lifting. She closed her tool case, picked it up, and walked to the door, then looked back at Su Jin.

"Three tomorrow afternoon, at my place. We'll discuss your look for Berlin."

Su Jin nodded. "Okay."

Geneviève opened the door and left.

Su Jin was alone in the dressing room. She sat in the chair, looking at her makeup-free face in the mirror. Her skin was still white, but not the kind of white brought out by the lights. It came from beneath the surface and carried the warmth of her body.

She stood, picked up her phone, and sent Shen Nian a message: After Berlin, we're going to Milan. It's time to make that chair.

Shen Nian replied instantly with one character: Nian.

Su Jin looked at the character, slipped her phone into her pocket, and walked out of the dressing room.

People were still running through the corridor, carrying scripts revised who knew how many times and muttering to themselves.

She stepped aside to let a crew member carrying props pass. The person ran past, then glanced back at her and nearly ran into the wall.

She smiled and continued on her way. Outside the window at the end of the corridor, New York's nightscape spread out below, the neon lights of Times Square tinting the horizon an ambiguous orange-red.

She stood there, watching the lights as she waited for the elevator. It arrived, and the doors opened onto an empty car. She stepped inside and pressed the button for the first floor.

The elevator doors slowly closed, shutting out the clamor of the corridor and the lights of the dressing room.

She leaned against the elevator wall and watched the floor numbers tick down from thirty: twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven-one floor at a time, steady and sure, like her life.

In no hurry, but never stopping.