The Winner Stands Alone (17 page)

So Javits began a glorious career. His first films as a distributor were highly
profitable; exhibitors began to believe in his ability to select the best films on the
market; directors and producers were soon queuing up to work with him. To keep up
appearances, he always made sure to accept two or three low-budget projects every six
months, the rest being films made with megabudgets, top-ranking stars, able techni- cians,
and a lot of money to spend on promotion, money that came from groups based in tax havens.
Box-office earnings were deposited in a normal investment fund, above suspicion, which had
shares in the movie.

Fine. The dirty money was thus transformed into a marvelous work of art, which, naturally,
didnt make as much money as was hoped, but was still capable of yielding millions of dollars that would immediately be invested by
one of the partners in the enterprise.

At one point, however, a sharp-eyed tax inspectoror perhaps a whistle-blower at one of the
studiosnoticed one very simple fact: why was it that so many previously unknown producers
were employ- ing big stars and the most talented directors, spending a fortune on pub-
licity, and using only one distributor for their films? The answer: the big studios are
only interested in their own productions, whereas Javits is the hero, the man standing out
against the monopoly of the giant corporations, a David to their Goliath, battling an
unfair system.

A more conscientious tax inspector decided to proceed with his in- vestigation, despite
all these apparently reasonable explanations. He began in great secrecy and learned that
all the companies who had in- vested in the biggest box-office successes were always
limited compa- nies based in the Bahamas, in Panama, or in Singapore. A mole in the tax
office (there is always a mole) warned Javitss backers that they had better find another
distributor to launder money from now on.

Javits was in despair. He had grown accustomed to the millionaire lifestyle and to being
treated as if he were a demigod. He had trav- eled to Cannes, which provided an excellent
front for sorting things out with his backers and personally handing over the codes of
various numbered accounts. He had no idea that he was being followed, that a prison term
would almost certainly ensue, pending decisions made by men in ties in ill-lit offices.
They might let him continue for a while longer, in order to get more proof, or they might
end the story right there.

His backers, however, never took unnecessary risks. Their man could be arrested at any
moment, make a deal with the court, and give details of how the whole scam worked, as well
as naming names and identifying people in photos taken without his knowledge.

There was only one way to solve the problemthey would have to kill him.

Things couldnt be clearer, and Savoy can see exactly how things developed. Now he just
needs to do what he always does. Fill in more forms, draw up a report, hand it to Europol,
and let their bureaucrats find the murderers because its a case that could well lead to promotions and revive
stagnant careers. The investigation has to produce a result, and none of his superiors
would believe that a detective from a small town in France would be capable of making any
major discoveries (be- cause however glitzy and glamorous Cannes was during the Festival,
for the other 350 days of the year it was just a small provincial town).

He suspects that the perpetrator may have been one of the body- guards at the table, since
the poison could only have been administered by someone standing very close. However, he
wont mention that. Hell fill up more paper about the people working in the tent, find no
further witnesses, then close the filehaving first spent a few days exchanging faxes and
e-mails with other more important departments.

Hell go back to his two murders a year, to the fights and the fines, having been so close
to something that could have international reper- cussions. His adolescent dream of
improving the world; contributing to creating a safer, fairer society; getting promoted;
landing a job at the Ministry of Justice; giving his wife and children a more comfortable
life; helping to change the public perception of the law; and showing that there are still
some honest policemen, all came down to the same thingmore paperwork.

The terrace outside the bar is packed, and Igor feels proud of his ability to plan things,
because even though hes never been to Cannes before, he had foreseen precisely this
situation and reserved a table. He orders tea and toast, lights a cigarette, and looks
around him at the same scene you might see in any chic place anywhere in the world: women
who are either anorexic or use too much Botox; ladies dripping with jewelry and eating ice
cream; men with much younger female companions; bored couples; smiling young women sipping
low-calorie drinks and pretending to be listening to what their friends are saying when
theyre really on the lookout for someone more interesting to hove into view.

There is one exception: three men and a woman are sitting at a table strewn with papers
and beer cans, discussing something in low voices and constantly checking figures on a
calculator. They appear to be the only ones who are really engaged in some project, but
that isnt quite true; everyone there is working hard in a way, in search of one thing:
vis-i-bil-i-ty, which, if all goes well, will turn into Fame, which, if all goes well
again, will turn into Power, the magic word that transforms any human being into a
demigod, a remote, inaccessible icon accus- tomed to having his every desire met and to
getting jealous looks when he sweeps past in his limousine with the smoked-glass windows
or in his expensive sports car, someone who no longer has mountains to climb or impossible
conquests to make.

The people on the terrace have clearly leaped over certain barriers already; they are not
outside with the photographers, behind the metal barriers, waiting for someone to come out
of the main door and fill their universe with light. They have already made it into the
hotel lobby, and now all they need is fame and power, and they really dont mind what form
these take. Men know that age isnt a problem, all they need are the right contacts. The
young womenwho keep as keen an eye on the terrace as any trained bodyguardknow that theyre
reaching a dangerous age, when any chance of achieving something through their beauty
alone will suddenly vanish. The older women there would like to be recognized and
respected for their gifts and their intelligence, but the diamonds theyre wearing make it
unlikely that their talents will be discovered. The men sitting with their wives are
waiting for someone to pass by and say hello and for everyone to turn and look and think:
He must be well-known, or even famous, who knows?

The celebrity syndrome. It can destroy careers, marriages, and Christian values, and can
blind both the wise and the ignorant. A few examples. Great scientists who, on being given
an important prize, abandon the research that might have helped humanity and decide in-
stead to live off lectures that feed both their ego and their bank bal- ance. The Indian
in the Amazon jungle who, on being taken up by a famous singer, decides that hes being
exploited for his poverty. The campaigner for justice who works hard defending the rights
of the less fortunate, decides to run for public office, wins the election, and subse-
quently considers himself above the law, until hes discovered one day in a motel room with
a prostitute paid for by the taxpayer.

The celebrity syndrome. When people forget who they are and start to believe what other
people say about them. The Superclass, ev- eryones dream, a world without shadows or
darkness, where yes is the only possible answer to any request.

Igor is a powerful man. He has fought all his life to get where he is now. To that end, he
has sat through boring suppers, endless lectures, and meetings with people he loathed, has
bestowed smiles when he would rather have bestowed insults, and insults when he actually
felt genuinely sorry for the poor creatures being singled out for punish- ment, as an example to others. He worked day and night and weekends too, deep in
discussions with lawyers, administrators, officials, and press officers. He started with
nothing just after the fall of the Com- munist regime and he reached the top. He has,
moreover, managed to survive all the political and economic storms that swept his country
during the first two decades of the new regime. And why? Because he fears God and knows
that the road he has traveled in his life is a bless- ing that must be respected; if not,
he will lose everything.

There were, of course, moments when something told him he was forgetting about the most
important part of that blessing: Ewa; but for many years he persuaded himself that she
would understand and accept that it was simply a temporary phase and that soon they would
be able to spend as much time together as they wished. They made great plansjourneys,
cruises, a remote house in the mountains with a blazing log fire, and the certain
knowledge that they could stay there for as long as they wanted, with no need to worry
about money, debts, or obligations. They would find a school for the many children they
planned to have together; they would spend whole afternoons walk- ing through the
surrounding forests; they would have supper at small, cozy local restaurants.

They would have time to garden, read, go to the cinema, and do the simple things that
everyone dreams of doing, the only things truly ca- pable of filling anyones life. When he
got home, his arms full of papers which he would then spread out on the bed, he would ask
her to be patient for a little while longer. When his phone rang on the very day theyd
chosen to go out to supper together, and he had to interrupt their conversation and spend
a long time talking to whoever had called, he would again ask her to be patient. He knew
Ewa was doing everything she could to make things easy for him, although she did complain
now and then, very sweetly, that they needed to make the most of life while they were
still young; after all, they had money enough for the next five generations.

Igor would say: Right, Ill stop today. And Ewa would smile and stroke his cheek, and then
he would remember something important hed forgotten to do and go over to the phone to ring someone or to the computer to send an
e-mail.

A man in his forties
gets up, looks around the terrace, and, brandishing a newspaper, shouts:

Violence and horror in Tokyo says the headline. Seven people killed in a shop selling
electronic toys.

Everyone looks at him.

Violence! They dont know what theyre talking about. This is where you get real violence!

A shudder runs down Igors spine.

If some madman stabs to death a few innocent people, the whole world is shocked, but who
cares about the intellectual violence being perpetrated in Cannes? Our festival is being
killed in the name of a dictatorship. Its not a question of choosing the best film, but of
com- mitting crimes against humanity, forcing people to buy products they dont want,
putting fashion above art, choosing to go to a lunch or a supper rather than watch a film.
Thats disgraceful. Im here to Be quiet, someone says. No one cares why youre here.

Im here to denounce the enslavement of mans desires, for we have stopped using our
intelligence to make choices and instead allow ourselves to be manipulated by propaganda
and lies! People get all steamed up about these stabbings in Tokyo, but they dont give a
damn about the death by a thousand cuts suffered by a whole generation of filmmakers.

The man pauses, expecting a standing ovation, but there isnt even a thoughtful silence.
Everyone resumes their conversations, indifferent to his words. He sits down again, trying
to look dignified, but with his heart in shreds for making such a fool of himself.

Vis-i-bil-i-ty, thinks Igor. The problem
is that no one took any notice. Its his turn to look around. Ewa is staying at the same hotel, and a sixth sense born of
many years of marriage tells him that shes sitting not very far away on that same terrace.
She will have received his mes- sages and is probably looking for him now, knowing that
he, too, must be near.

He cant see her, but neither can he stop thinking about herhis obsession. He remembers one
night being driven home in his imported limousine by the chauffeur who doubled as his
bodyguardthey had fought together in Afghanistan, but fortune had smiled on them in very
different waysand remembers asking the driver to stop outside the Hotel Kempinski. He left
his mobile phone and his papers in the car and went up to the terrace bar. Unlike this
terrace in Cannes, the place was almost empty and getting ready to close. He gave a
generous tip to the waiters and asked them to stay open for another hour, just for him.

And that was when he understood. It wasnt true that he would give up work next month or
next year or even next decade. They would never have the house in the country and the
children they dreamed of. He asked himself that night why this was impossible and he had
only one answer.

On the road to power, theres no turning back. He would be an eternal slave to the road hed
chosen, and if he did ever realize his dream of abandoning everything, he would plunge
immediately into a deep depression.

Why was he like that? Was it because of the nightmares he had about the trenches,
remembering the frightened young man hed been then, fulfilling a duty he hadnt chosen and
being forced to kill? Was it because he couldnt forget his first victim, a peasant who had
strayed into the line of fire when the Red Army was fighting the Afghan guer- rillas? Was
it because of the many people who hadnt believed in him and had humiliated him when he was
looking for investors for his mobile phone business? Was it because in the beginning hed
had to associate with shadows, with the Russian mafia eager to launder the money they
earned through prostitution?

Hed managed to repay those questionable loans without himself being corrupted and without owing any favors. Hed managed to ne- gotiate with the shadows
and still keep his own light burning. He knew that the war belonged to the distant past
and that he would never again set foot on a battlefield. Hed found the love of his life.
He was doing the kind of work hed always wanted to do. He was rich, very rich, and, just
in case the Communist regime were to return tomorrow, he kept most of his personal fortune
abroad. He was on good terms with all the political parties. Hed met famous people from
around the world. Hed set up a foundation to care for the orphans of those soldiers killed
during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.

But it was only when he was sitting on that terrace cafŽ near Red Square, knowing that he
had power and money enough to pay the waiters to work all night if necessary, that he
finally understood.

He understood because he saw the same thing happening to his wife. Ewa was also constantly
traveling, and even when she was in Moscow, she would arrive home late and go straight to
her computer as soon as she walked in the door. He understood that, contrary to what most
people think, total power means total slavery. When you get that far, you dont ever want
to give it up. Theres always a new mountain to climb. Theres always a competitor to be
convinced or crushed. Along with two thousand other people, he formed part of the most
exclusive club in the world, which met only once a year in Davos in Switzerland, at the
World Economic Forum. All the members were millionaires, and they all worked from dawn
until late at night, always wanting to go further, never changing tackacquisitions, stock
markets, market trends, money, money, money. They worked not because they needed to, but
because they judged themselves to be necessary; they felt that thousands of families
depended on them and that they had a huge re- sponsibility to their governments and their
associates. They genuinely thought they were helping the world, which might be true, but
they had to pay for this with their own lives.

The following day, he did
something he hated having to do: he went to a psychiatrist. Something must be wrong. He
discov- ered then that he was suffering from an illness that was fairly common among those who had
achieved something beyond the grasp of ordi- nary folk. He was a compulsive worker, a
workaholic. According to the psychiatrist, workaholics run the risk of becoming depressed
when not immersed in the challenges and problems of running a company.

We dont yet know the origin of the disorder, but its associated with insecurity, childhood
fears, and a desire to block out reality. Its as serious an addiction as drugs. Unlike
drugs, however, which diminish productivity, the workaholic makes a great contribution to
the wealth of his country. So its in no ones interests to seek a cure.

And what are the consequences?

You should know, because thats presumably why youve come to see me. The gravest
consequence is the damage it causes to family life. In Japan, one of the countries where
the illness is most common and where the consequences are sometimes fatal, theyve
developed vari- ous ways of controlling the obsession.

Igor couldnt remember listening to anyone in the last two years with the respect and
attention he was paying that bespectacled, musta- chioed man before him.

So there is a way out, then?

When a workaholic seeks help from a psychiatrist that means hes ready to be cured. Only
about one in every thousand cases realizes that he needs help.

Oh, I need help, and I have enough money . . .

Thats what all workaholics say. Yes, I know you have enough money, you all do. I know who
you are as well. Ive seen photos of you at charity balls, at congresses, in private
audience with our presi- dent, who, by the way, shows the same symptoms. Money isnt
enough. What I want to know is this: do you really want to change?

Igor thought of Ewa, of the house in the mountains, the family hed like to have, the
hundreds of millions of dollars he had in the bank. He thought of his position in society
and of the power he possessed and how difficult it would be to give all that up.

Im not saying you should abandon what youre doing, said the psychiatrist, as if hed read his thoughts. Im simply suggesting that you use work as a
source of happiness and not as a compulsion.