The next morning the phone rings. It is Alex Deep. The fashion show is tomorrow and there is a press conference in the hotel lobby. I feel sorry for the press and wonder what sorts of questions they could possibly ask on the day before a fashion show. I then recall that I am the press.

I enter the lobby and soon meet Veruska Ramirez, who was Miss Venezuela in 1997. Her ochre skin is Amazonian, her pointed features European, and her unmoving breasts silicone. She is lost world, Old World, and New World. Before becoming Miss Venezuela she cleaned houses for $80 a week. Venezuelans take their beauty pageants seriously, and beauty is the only element of meritocracy that remains fully operative in this country, come junta or high water. Life is good for Ramirez, and she also recently experienced the ultimate Latin American status symbol: a kidnapping.

There is an awkward silence as I realize that she expects to be interviewed. As a fashion reporter it is my professional duty to inquire about her clothes.

"What are you wearing?" I ask.

It comes off sounding a bit pervy, but apparently this is how it's done.

"Max Mara," she says.

Right, then. "So ... tell me about your kidnapping." And away she goes.

"They left me in a very dangerous zone of the city, and when I got out of the car I said, 'Oh my God!' Because I had my high heels on! They wanted autographs!" she says. "When they got in the car, they said, 'Don't worry, cutie! We're not gonna hurt you!' -- 'cause they recognized me!"

We are now playing Latin American abduction survivor. Deep, again wearing head-to-toe Armani, one-ups Ms. Venezuela.

"My brother, he had a gun in his head! They were pointing at his girlfriend! They were saying, 'Let's spread this little girl! You'll feel bad this entire life if I rape your girl!'"

Ms. Venezuela defends her honor: "Well, I told them from the beginning, 'I prefer that you kill me than touch me.'"

She then joins Mr. Venezuela and several other models on the press panel with Carlos Dorado, a tan businessman in a navy-blue suit with gold pinstripes. Dorado is Deep's stepfather and many other things: bestselling author, firebrand journalist, currency-exchange magnate and, most recently, owner of the Casablanca Fashion Group.

I am initially inclined to sit in the back row nursing my Polar beer hangover until it is all over. But I am a fashion reporter, and in less than 24 hours will be the highest-ranking such reporter in this entire nation. I must ask questions about fashion; it is what I do. Soon Deep elbows me in the side. "Come on, man. Ask a question."

New media laws have made criminal any statement that "promotes, condones or incites disrespect for the legitimate authorities and institutions." This means that you can find yourself in jail for speaking ill of Chavez and his cohorts. The week before my arrival a decorated general was given five years for discussing the workings of flamethrowers on national television, in connection with their alleged use by the government as a torture device on soldiers. This is especially remarkable when one considers that flamethrowers are by and large self-explanatory. They throw flames.

Soon I have a question.

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