The Winner Stands Alone (23 page)

And, as with all things in a world that renews itself every six months, she had been
completely forgotten. The designer who was about to show her own collection was displaying
considerable courage in seek- ing inspiration in the past instead of trying to invent a
future.

Hamid puts the leaflet away
in his pocket. If Jasmine isnt all that he hopes, hell go and talk to the designer
afterward anyway and see if theres some project they can work on together. Hes always open
to new ideas, as long as his competitors are under his supervi- sion.

He looks around him. The spotlights are well positioned, and, to his surprise, there are a
good number of photographers present. Maybe the collection really is worth seeing, or
perhaps the Belgian government has used its influence with the press, offering air tickets
and accommo- dation. Theres another possible explanation for so much interest, but Hamid
hopes hes wrong. That reason is Jasmine. If he wants to pro- ceed with his plans, he needs
her to be someone completely unknown to the general public. Up until now, hes only heard
comments from other people in the fashion business. If her face has already appeared in
lots of magazines, then it will be a waste of time taking her on. Firstly, because it
means someone has got there before him, and secondly, be- cause it would make no sense to
associate her with something fresh and new.

Hamid does a few calculations. This event must have been very ex- pensive to put on, but,
like the sheikh, the Belgian government is quite right: fashion for women, sport for men,
celebrities for both sexes, those are the only things that interest everyone and the only
things that can get a countrys image recognized on the international scene. In the case of
fashion, of course, there are often long negotiations with the FŽdŽration to deal with
first. However, he notices that one of the FŽ-

dŽrations directors is sitting alongside the Belgian politicians, so they are clearly
losing no time.

More VIPs arrive, all of them shepherded in by the nice blonde girl. They seem slightly
disoriented, as if theyre not sure quite what theyre doing here. Theyre overdressed, so
this must be the first fashion show theyve attended in France, having come straight from
Brussels. Theyre certainly not part of the fauna currently invading the town to attend the
Film Festival.

There is a five-minute delay. Unlike the Fashion Week in Paris, during which almost no
show begins on time, there are a lot of other things happening in Cannes this week, and
the press cant hang around for long. Then he realizes that hes wrong: most of the
journalists pres- ent are talking to and interviewing the ministers; theyre nearly all
foreigners and from the same country. Only in a situation like this do politics and
fashion meet.

The nice blonde girl goes over to the photographers and asks them to take their places;
the show is about to begin. Hamid and Ewa have not exchanged a single word. She seems
neither happy nor unhappy, and that bodes very ill indeed. If only she would complain or
smile or say something! But she gives no clue as to what is going on inside her.

Best to concentrate on the screen at the far end of the catwalk from behind which the
models will appear. At least fashion shows are some- thing he can understand.

A few minutes ago, the models will have taken off all their under- wear because bras and
pants might leave visible marks underneath the clothes theyll be wearing. The models have
already put on the first item theyll be showing and are waiting for the lights to dim, the
music to start, and for someoneusually a womanto tap them on the back to indicate the
precise moment when they should head out toward the spotlights and the audience.

The different classes of modelA,
B, and Care all suffering from varying degrees of nerves, with the least experienced being
the most excited. Some are saying a prayer, others are trying to peer through the curtain to see if anyone they know is there, or if their mother or father
managed to get a good seat. There must be ten or twelve of them, each with their photo
pinned up above the place where the clothes theyll be wearing are hung up in the order
theyll be worn so that they can change in a matter of seconds and return to the catwalk
looking completely relaxed, as if theyd been wearing the clothes all afternoon. The final
touches have been given to makeup and hair. The models are repeating to themselves:

I mustnt slip. I mustnt trip on the hem. I have been personally chosen by the designer
from sixty other models. Im in Cannes. Theres probably someone important in the audience.
I know that HH is here, and he might choose me for his brand. They say the place is full
of photographers and journalists.

I mustnt smile because thats against the rules. My feet must tread an invisible line. In
these high heels I need to walk as if I were march- ing. It doesnt matter if that way of
walking is artificial or uncomfort- ableI must remember that.

I must reach the mark, turn to one side, pause for two seconds, then come straight back at
the same speed, knowing that as soon as I leave the catwalk, therell be someone waiting to
take off my clothes and put on the next set, and that I wont even have time to look in the
mirror! I have to trust that everything will go well. I need to show off not only my body,
not only the clothes, but the power of my gaze.

Hamid glances up at the ceiling: that is the mark, a spotlight brighter than the others.
If the model overshoots that mark or stops beforehand, she wont photograph well, and then
the magazine editorsor, rather, the Belgian magazine editorswill choose to show a photo of
an- other model. The French press is currently camped outside the hotels or alongside the
red carpet or at some evening cocktail party or else eating a sandwich before the main
gala supper of the night.

The lights in the room go out, and the spotlights above the catwalk go on.

This is the big moment.

A powerful sound system fills the air with a soundtrack from the sixties and seventies. It
transports Hamid to a world he never knew, but which he has heard people talk about. He feels a certain nostalgia for what he has
never known and a twinge of angerwhy didnt he get the chance to experience the great dream
of all those young people traveling the world?

The first model comes on, and sound fuses with visionthe brightly colored clothes, full of
life and energy, are telling a story that happened a long time ago, but one that the world
still likes to hear. Beside him, he hears the click and whirr of dozens of shutters. The
cameras are re- cording everything. The first model performs perfectlyshe walks as far as
the mark, turns to the right, pauses for two seconds, then walks back. She will have
approximately fifteen seconds to reach the wings, when she will drop her pose and run to
the hanger where the next dress is waiting; she quickly gets undressed, gets dressed even
more quickly, takes her place in the queue, and is ready for her next appearance. The
designer will be watching everything via closed circuit television, biting her lips and
hoping that no one slips up, that the audience under- stands what shes trying to say, that
she gets a round of applause at the end, and that the emissary from the FŽdŽration is duly
impressed.

The show continues. From where he is sitting, both Hamid and the TV cameras can see how
elegantly the models walk, how firmly they tread. The people sitting on the sidewho, like
the majority of VIPs present, are not used to fashion showswonder why the girls march
instead of walking normally, like the models theyre used to seeing on fashion programs. Is
this the designer trying to seem original?

No, thinks Hamid. Its because of the high heels. Only by march- ing like that can they be
sure they wont stumble. What the cameras showbecause theyre filming head-onisnt really a
true represen- tation of whats happening.

The collection is better than he expected, a trip back in time with a few creative,
contemporary touches, nothing over-the-top, because the secret of good fashion, as with
good cooking, lies in knowing how much of which ingredient to use. The flowers and beads
are a reminder of those crazy years, but theyre used in such a way that they seem ab-
solutely modern. Six models have now appeared on the catwalk, and he notices that one of
them has a pinprick on her knee that makeup cannot disguise. Minutes before, she must have injected herself there with a shot of heroin to
calm her nerves and suppress her appetite.

Suddenly, Jasmine appears. Shes wearing a long-sleeved white blouse, all hand-embroidered,
and a white below-the-knee skirt. She walks confidently, but, unlike the others, her
seriousness isnt put on, its natural, absolutely natural. Hamid glances at the others in
the au- dience; everyone in the room is mesmerized by Jasmine, so much so that no one even
glances at the model leaving or entering after she has finished her turn and is walking
back to the dressing room.

Perfect!

On her next two appearances on the catwalk, he studies every detail of her body, and sees
that she radiates something more than just physi- cal beauty. How could one define that?
The marriage between Heaven and Hell? Love and Loathing going hand in hand?

As with any fashion show, the whole thing lasts no more than fifteen minutes, even though
it has taken months of planning and preparation. At the end, the designer comes onto the
catwalk to acknowledge the applause; the lights go up, the music stops, and only then does
he real- ize how much hes been enjoying the soundtrack. The nice blonde girl comes over to
them and says that someone from the Belgian govern- ment would very much like to speak to
him. He takes out his leather wallet and offers her his card, explaining that hes staying
at the Hotel Martinez and would be delighted to arrange to meet the following day.

But I would like to talk to the designer and the black model. Do you happen to know which
supper theyll be going to tonight? Ill wait here for a reply.

He hopes the nice blonde girl doesnt take too long. The journalists are gathering to ask
him the usual questions, or, rather, the same ques- tion repeated by different journalists:

What did you think of the show? Very interesting, he says, which is the answer he always
gives. And what does that mean? With the delicacy of a practiced professional, Hamid moves
on to the next journalist. Always be polite to the press, but never give a direct answer and say
only what seems appropriate at the time.

The nice blonde girl returns. No, they wont be going to the gala supper that night.
Despite the presence of all those ministers, Film Fes- tival politics are dictated by a
different sort of power.

Hamid says that hell have the necessary invitations sent to them, and his offer is
accepted at once. The designer doubtless expected this response, knowing the value of the
product she has in her hands.

Jasmine.

Yes, shes the one. He would only rarely use her in a show because shes more powerful than
the clothes shes wearing, but as the public face of Hamid Hussein there could be no one
better.

Ewa turns on her mobile
phone as they leave. Seconds later, an envelope flies across a blue sky, lands at the
bottom of the screen, and opens, and all that to say: You have a message.

What a ridiculous bit of animation, thinks Ewa.

Again the name of the caller has been blocked. Shes unsure whether to open the text, but
her curiosity is stronger than her fear.

It seems some admirer has found your phone number, jokes Hamid. You dont usually get that
many texts.

Maybe youre right.

What she would really like to say is: Dont you understand? After two years together, can
you not see that Im terrified, or do you just think Ive got PMS?

She pretends casually to read the message:

Ive destroyed another world because of you. And Im beginning to wonder if its really worth
it because you dont appear to understand my message. Your heart is dead.

Whos it from?

I havent the slightest idea. It doesnt give the number. Still, its always nice to have a
secret admirer.

Three murders. All the statistics have been overturned in only a matter of hours and are
showing an increase of fifty percent.

He goes to his car and tunes in to a special frequency on his radio. I believe theres a
serial killer at work in the town. A voice murmurs something at the other end. The sound
of static cuts out some of the words, but Savoy understands what is being said. No, I cant be sure,
but neither do I have any doubts about it. More comments, more static. Im not mad, sir,
and Im not contradicting myself. For example, I cant be sure that my salary will be deposited in my account at the end of the month, but I
dont actually doubt that it will. Do you see what I mean?

More static and angry words.

No, sir, Im not asking for an increase in salary, Im just saying that certainties and
doubts can coexist, especially in a profession like ours. Yes, all right, lets leave that
to one side and move on to what really matters. The man in hospital has just died, so its
quite possible that on the news tonight three murders will be reported. All we know, so
far, is that each of the three murders was committed using a differ- ent but very
sophisticated technique, which is why no one will suspect that theyre connected, but
suddenly Cannes is being seen as a danger-

ous town. And if this carries on, people are bound to start speculating about whether
there is, in fact, only one murderer. What do you want me to do?

More angry comments from the commissioner.

Yes, theyre here. The boy who witnessed the murder is telling them everything he knows.
The place is swarming with photogra- phers and journalists at the moment. I assumed theyd
all be lined up and waiting by the red carpet, but it seems I was wrong. The problem with
the Festival is that there are too many reporters and nothing to report.

More indignant remarks. He takes a notebook from his pocket and writes down an address.

Fine. Ill go straight to Monte Carlo and talk to him. The static stops. The person at the
other end has hung up. Savoy walks to the end of the pier, places the siren on the roof of his car, puts it on at maximum volume, and races off like a madman, hoping to lure the
reporters away to some nonexistent crime. They, however, wise to this trick, stay where
they are and continue inter- viewing the boy.

Savoy is beginning to feel excited. He can finally leave all that pa- perwork to be
completed by an underling and devote himself to what hes always dreamed of doing: solving
murders that defy all logic. He hopes hes right and that there really is a serial killer
in town terror- izing the population. Given the speed with which news spreads these days,
hell soon be in the spotlight explaining that nothing has yet been proved, but in such a
way that no one quite believes him, thus ensuring that the spotlight will stay on him
until the criminal is found. For all its glamour, Cannes is really just a small provincial
town, where everyone knows everything thats going on, so it shouldnt be that hard to find
the murderer.

Fame and celebrity.

Is he just thinking about himself rather than about the well-being of Cannes citizens?
Then again, whats wrong with seeking a little glory, when every year for years now, hes
been forced to put up with twelve days of people trying to look far more important than they really are? Its infectious.
After all, who doesnt want to gain public recognition for their work, whether theyre
policemen or film directors?

Stop thinking about future glory. That will come of its own accord if you do your job
well. Besides, fame is a very capricious thing. What if youre deemed incapable of carrying
out this mission? Your humili- ation will be public too. Concentrate.

After nearly twenty years in the police force in all kinds of jobs, getting promoted on
merit, reading endless reports and documents, hes reached the conclusion that when it
comes to finding criminals, intuition always plays just as important a part as logic. The
danger now, as he drives to Monte Carlo, isnt the murdererwho must be feeling utterly
exhausted from the sheer amount of adrenaline pump- ing through his veins, not to mention
apprehensive, because someone saw him in the actno, the great danger now is the press.
Journalists also mix logic with intuition. If they manage to establish a link, how- ever
tenuous, between the three murders, the police will lose control of the situation and the
Festival could descend into chaos, with people afraid to walk the streets, foreign
visitors leaving earlier than expected, tradesmen accusing the police of inefficiency, and
headlines in news- papers around the world. After all, a real-life serial killer is always
far more interesting than any screen version.

In the years that follow, the Film Festival wont be the same: the myth of fear will take
root, and the world of luxury and glamour will choose another more appropriate place to
show its wares, and grad- ually, after more than sixty years, the Festival will become a
minor event, far from the bright lights and the magazines.

He has a great responsibility, well, two great responsibilities: the first is to find out
who is committing these murders and to stop him before another corpse turns up on his
patch; the second is to keep the media under control.

He needs to think logically. How many of those journalists, most of whom come from
far-flung places, are likely to know the murder statistics for Cannes? How many of them
will take the trouble to phone the National Guard and ask?

The logical response? None of them. Their minds are focused on what has just happened.
Theyre excited because a major film distribu- tor suffered a heart attack during one of
the Festival lunches. They dont yet know that he was poisonedthe pathologists report is on
the backseat of his car. They dont yet knowand possibly never will that he was also
involved in a huge money-laundering scam.

The illogical response is that theres always someone who thinks more laterally. Its
therefore now a matter of urgency to call a press con- ference and give a full account,
but only of the film directors murder on the beach; that way, the other incidents will be
momentarily forgotten.

An important figure in the world of filmmaking has been killed, so whos going to be
interested in the death of an insignificant young woman? Theyll all reach the same
conclusion as he did at the start of the investigationthat she died of a drug overdose.
Problem solved.

To go back to the murdered film director; perhaps she isnt as im- portant a figure as he
thinks; if she was, the police commissioner would be calling him now on his mobile phone.
The facts are as follows: a smartly dressed man of about forty, with slightly graying
hair, had been seen talking to her as they watched the sunset, the two of them observed by
a young man hiding nearby. After sticking a blade into her with all the precision of a
surgeon, he had walked slowly away, and was now mingling with hundreds and thousands of
other people, many of whom quite possibly fitted his description.

He turns off the siren for a moment and phones his deputy, who had remained at the scene
of the crime and who is probably currently being interrogated by journalists rather than
himself doing the interrogat- ing. Savoy asks him to tell the journalists, whose hasty
conclusions so often get them into trouble, that he is almost certain it was a crime of
passion.

Dont say were certain, just say that the circumstances may indi- cate this, given that
they were sitting close to each other like a courting couple. It clearly wasnt a robbery
or a revenge killing, but possibly a dramatic settling of personal scores.

Be careful not to lie; your words are being recorded and may be used in evidence against
you. But why do I need to say that?

Because that is what the circumstances indicate. And the sooner we give them something to
chew on, the better.

Theyre asking about the weapon used.

Tell them that everything indicates it was a knife, as the witness said.

But hes not sure.

If even the witness doesnt know what he saw, what else can you say apart from everything
indicates that, etc. etc.? Frighten the lad; tell him his words are being recorded by the
journalists and could be used against him later on.

He hangs up before his subordinate starts asking awkward ques- tions.

Everything indicates that it was a crime of passion, even though the victim had only just
arrived in Cannes from the United States, even though she was staying at a hotel alone,
even though, from what they have been able to glean, she had only attended one rather
trivial meeting in the morning, at the MarchŽ du Film next to the Palais des Congres. The
journalists, however, would not have access to that in- formation.

And there is something even more important that no one else on his team knows, indeed,
that no one else in the world knows but him.

The victim had been at the hospital. He and she had talked a little and then hed sent her
awayto her death.

He turns on the siren again, so that the deafening noise can drive away any feeling of
guilt. After all, he wasnt the one who stuck the knife in her.

He could, of course, think: She was obviously there in the waiting room because she had
some connection with the drug mafia and was just checking that the murder had been a
success. That was logical, and if he told his superior about that chance encounter, an
investiga- tion along those lines would immediately be launched. It might even be true;
she had been killed using a very sophisticated method, as had the Hollywood film
distributor. They were both Americans. They had both been killed with sharp implements. It
all seemed to indicate that the same group was behind the killings, and that there really was a connection between
them.

Perhaps hes wrong, and there is no serial killer on the loose. The young woman found dead
on the bench, apparently asphyxiated by an experienced killer, might have met up the
previous night with someone from the group who had come to see the film distributor.
Perhaps she was also peddling drugs along with the craftwork she used to sell.

Imagine the scene: a group of foreigners arrive to settle accounts. In one of Cannes many
bars, the local dealer introduces one of them to the pretty girl with the dark eyebrows,
who, he says, works with them. They end up going to bed together, but the foreigner,
feeling strangely relaxed on European soil, drinks more than he should; the drink loos-
ens his tongue and he says more than he should too. The next morning, he realizes his
mistake and asks the professional hit manevery gang has oneto sort things out.

It all fits so perfectly that it must be true.

It all fits so perfectly that it makes no sense at all. It just wasnt credible that a
cocaine cartel would have decided to hold such a meet- ing in a town which, during the
Film Festival, is heaving with extra police brought in from all over the country, with
private bodyguards, with security guards hired for the various parties, and with
detectives charged with keeping a round-the-clock watch on the priceless jewels being worn
in the streets and elsewhere.

Although if that were true, it would be equally good for his career. A settling of
accounts between mafia men would attract as much pub- licity as a serial killer.

He can relax; whatever the
truth of the matter, he will fi- nally acquire the reputation he has always felt he
deserved.

He turns off the siren. It has taken him half an hour to drive along the motorway and
across an invisible barrier into another country, and hes only minutes from his
destination. His mind, however, is mulling over what are, in theory, forbidden thoughts.

Three murders in one day. His prayers are with the families of the victims, as the politicians always say. And he knows that the state pays him to maintain
order and not to jump up and down with glee when its disrupted in such a violent manner.
Right now, the commissioner will be pacing his office, conscious that he now has two
problems to solve: finding the killer (or killers, because he may not be convinced by Sa-
voys theory) and keeping the press at bay. Everyone is very worried; other police stations
in the region have been alerted and an Identi-Kit picture of the murderer sent via the
Internet to police cars in the area. A politician may even have had his well-deserved rest
interrupted be- cause the chief of police believed the matter to be so very delicate that
he felt it necessary to pass responsibility on to someone higher up the chain of command.

The politician is unlikely to take the bait, telling the chief of police to ensure that
the town returns to normal as soon as possible because millions or hundreds of millions of
euros depend on it. He doesnt want to get involved; he has more important issues to
resolve, like which wine to serve that night to a visiting foreign delegation.

Am I on the right path? Savoy asks himself.

The forbidden thoughts return. He feels happy. This is the high point of a career spent
filling in forms and dealing with trivia. It had never occurred to him that such a
situation would produce in him this state of euphoriahe can, at last, be a real detective,
the man with a theory that goes against all logic, and who will end up being given a medal
because he was the first to see what no one else could. He wont confess this to anyone,
not even to his wife, who would be horrified and assume that he must have temporarily lost
his reason under the strain of working on such a dangerous case.

Im happy. Im excited, he thinks.

His prayers might well be with the families of the dead, but his heart, after many years
of inertia, is returning to the world of the living.

Savoy had imagined a vast
libraryfullofdustybooks,pilesof magazines, a desk strewn with papers, but the office is,
in fact, painted entirely in immaculate white and furnished with a few tasteful lamps, a comfortable armchair, and a glass table on which sits a large computer screen and nothing
else, just a wireless keyboard and a small notepad with an expensive Montegrappa pen lying
on it.