The Winner Stands Alone (24 page)

Wipe that smile off your face and at least try to look a little con- cerned, says the man
with the white beard, who is dressed, despite the heat, in tweed jacket, tie, and tailored
trousers, an outfit not at all in keeping with the dŽcor or with the subject under
discussion.

What do you mean, sir?

I know how youre feeling. This is the biggest case of your career, in a town where
normally nothing happens. I went through the same inner turmoil when I lived and worked in
Penycae, Swansea. And it was thanks to a very similar case that I got transferred to
Scotland Yard.

My dream is to work in Paris, thinks Savoy, but he says nothing. The man invites him to
take a seat.

I hope you, too, get a chance to realize your professional dream. Anyway, nice to meet
you. Im Stanley Morris.

Savoy decides to change the subject.

The commissioner is afraid that the press will start speculating about there being a
serial killer on the loose.

They can speculate all they like, its a free country. Its the kind of thing that sells
newspapers and brings a little excitement into the dull lives of pensioners who will watch
all the media for any new tidbit on the subject with a mixture of fear and certainty that
it will never happen to them.

I hope youve received a detailed description of the victims. Does the evidence so far
suggest to you a serial killer, or are we dealing here with some sort of revenge killing
on the part of drug cartels?

Yes, I got the descriptions. By the way, they wanted to send them to me by fax, for
heavens sake. How old-fashioned! I asked them to send the information by e-mail, and do
you know what they said? We dont usually do that. Imagine! One of the best-equipped police
forces in the world still relying entirely on a fax machine!

Savoy shifts rather impatiently in his chair. He isnt here to discuss the pros and cons of
modern technology. Lets get down to business, says Dr. Morris, who had been quite a celebrity at Scotland
Yard, but had decided to retire to the South of France and was possibly as glad as Savoy
to have a break from rou- tinein Morriss case one that now revolved around reading, con-
certs, charity teas, and suppers.

Since this is the first time Ive met such a case, could you perhaps tell me whether or not
you agree with my theory that there is only one killer, just so that I know where I stand.

Dr. Morris explains that in theory, yes, hes right: three murders with certain common
characteristics would normally be enough to in- dicate a serial killer. And such murders
were usually confined to one geographical area (in this case, the town of Cannes), and . .
.

Whereas, a mass murderer . . .

Dr. Morris interrupts him and asks him not to misuse terminology. Mass murderers are
terrorists or immature adolescents who go into a school or a snack bar and shoot everyone
in sight, and who are then either shot dead by the police or commit suicide. They have a
pref- erence for guns and bombs that will cause the maximum amount of damage in a short
space of time, usually two to three minutes at most. Such people dont care about the
consequences of their actions because they know exactly how it will end.

In the collective unconscious, the concept of the mass murderer is easier to take on board
because hes clearly mentally unbalanced and therefore easily distinguishable from us. The
serial murderer, on the other hand, touches on something far more complicatedthe destruc-
tive instinct we all carry within us.

He pauses.

Have you read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Steven- son?

Savoy explains that he has so much work that he has little time for reading. Morriss gaze
grows icy.

And do you think I dont have work to do?

No, no, I didnt mean that. Listen, Dr. Morris, Im here on an urgent mission. Im not
interested in discussing technology or literature. I just want to know what conclusions
you drew from the reports.

Im sorry, but Im afraid we cant, in this instance, avoid literature. The Strange Case of
Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is the story of an appar- ently normal individual, Dr. Jekyll,
who, in seeking to explore his own violent impulses, discovers a way of transforming
himself periodically into a creature entirely without morality, Mr. Hyde. We all have
those impulses, Inspector. A serial killer doesnt just threaten our physical safety, he
threatens our sanity too. Because whether we like it or not, we all carry around in us a
great destructive power and have all, at some point, wondered what it would be like to
give free rein to that most repressed of feelingsthe desire to take someone elses life.

There are many reasons for this: wanting to put the world to rights, to get revenge for
something that happened in our childhood, to vent ones suppressed hatred of society, but,
whether consciously or unconsciously, everyone has felt that desire at one time or
another, even if only in childhood.

Another meaningful silence.

I imagine that, regardless of your chosen profession, you must yourself have experienced
this feeling. Tormenting a cat perhaps or torturing some perfectly harmless insect.

Its Savoys turn now to give Morris an icy stare and say nothing. Morris, however,
interprets his silence as consent and continues talking in the same easy, superior tone:

Dont expect to find some visibly unbalanced person with wild hair and a hate-filled leer
on his face. If you ever do have time to read although I know youre a busy manI would
recommend a book by Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem. There she analyzes the trial of
one of the worst serial killers in history. Obviously, Eichmann needed help to carry out
the gigantic task he was given: the purification of the human race. Just a moment.

He goes over to his computer. He knows that the man with him wants results, but that
simply isnt possible. He needs to educate him and prepare him for the difficult days ahead.

Here it is. Arendt made a detailed analysis of the trial of Adolf Eichmann, who was
responsible for the extermination of six million Jews in Nazi Germany. She says that the
half a dozen psychiatrists charged with examining him had all concluded that he was normal. His psychological profile
and his attitude toward wife, children, mother, and father were all within the social
parameters one expects in a responsible man. Arendt goes on: The trouble with Eichmann was
precisely that so many were like him, and that the many were neither perverted nor
sadistic, that they were, and still are, terribly and terrify- ingly normal. From the
viewpoint of our legal institutions and of our moral standards of judgment, this normality
was much more terrifying than all the atrocities put together. . .

Now he could get down to business.

I notice from the autopsies that there was no sign of sexual abuse...

Dr. Morris, I have a problem to solve and I need to do so quickly. I want to know whether
or not were dealing with a serial killer. No one could possibly rape a man in the middle
of a lunch party or a girl on a public bench in broad daylight.

He might as well have said nothing. Morris ignores him completely and continues.

. . . which is a common feature in many serial killers. Some have what you might call
humane motives. Nurses who kill terminally ill patients, people who murder beggars in the
street, social workers who feel so sorry for certain pensioners or disabled people that
they reach the conclusion theyd be better off in the next lifethere was one such case in
California just recently. There are also people bent on putting society to rights, and in
those cases, the victims tend to be prostitutes.

Dr. Morris, I didnt come here . . . This time Morris raises his voice slightly. And I
didnt invite you. Im doing you a favor. If you want to leave, please do so, but if youre going to stay, please stop interrupting my argument
every two minutes. In order to catch someone, we have to understand the way he thinks.

So you do believe were dealing with a serial killer? I havent finished yet. Savoy controls
himself. After all, why was he in such a hurry?

Wouldnt it be more fun to let the press tie itself in knots and then pre- sent them with
the solution?

Please go on.

Morris moves the monitor so that Savoy can see more clearly. On the large screen is an
engraving, possibly from the nineteenth cen- tury.

This is the most famous of all serial killers: Jack the Ripper. He was active in London in
the second half of 1888, and was responsi- ble for killing five or possibly seven women in
public and semi-public places. He would rip open their bellies and disembowel them. He was
never found. He became a legend, and even today, there are still people trying to uncover
his real identity.

The image on the screen changes to reveal what looks like some- thing from an astrological
chart.

This is the signature of the Zodiac Killer. Hes known to have killed five couples in
California over a period of ten months, mostly courting couples who had parked their cars
in isolated spots. He used to send letters to the police bearing this symbol, which is
rather like a Celtic cross. No one has yet managed to identify him.

Researchers believe that both Jack the Ripper and the Zodiac Killer were people who were
trying to restore moral order and decency to their particular areas. They had, if you
like, a mission to fulfill. And contrary to what the press would have us believe with the
terrifying nicknames they invent, like the Boston Strangler and the Child Killer of
Toulouse, these were ordinary folk who would get together with their neighbors at weekends
and who worked hard to earn a living. None of them ever benefited financially from their
criminal acts.

The conversation is beginning to interest Savoy.

So it could be anyone who came to Cannes to attend the Film Fes- tival...

Yes, having first made a conscious decision to create an atmo- sphere of terror for some
completely absurd reason, for example to overthrow the dictatorship of fashion or to put a
stop to the making of films that provoke violence. The press will come up with some blood-
curdling soubriquet for him and start chasing various leads. Crimes that have nothing to do with the killer will start being attributed to him. Panic will
ensue and only come to an end if by chanceand I repeat, by chancethe killer is caught.
These killers are often only active for a short period of time and then disappear
completely, having left their mark on history. They may perhaps write a diary that will be
discovered after their death, but thats all.

Savoy has stopped looking at his watch. His phone rings, but he decides not to answer. The
subject is far more complicated than he thought.

So you agree with me?

Yes, says the expert from Scotland Yard, the man who had become a legend by solving five
cases that everyone else had given up on.

Why do you think were dealing with a serial killer? Savoy asks.

Morris sees what looks like an e-mail flash up on his computer and he smiles. The
inspector has finally started to show a little respect for what he has to say.

Because of the complete absence of motive. Most of these crimi- nals have what we call a
signature: they choose one type of victim, homosexuals, say, or prostitutes, beggars,
courting couples. Others are known as asymmetrical killers: they kill because they cant
control their impulse to kill. When they reach a point where that impulse is satisfied,
they stop killing until the urge to kill again becomes unbear- able. I think that is the
kind of killer we have here.

There are several points to consider in this case. The criminal is highly sophisticated.
He has chosen a different weapon each timehis bare hands, poison, and a stiletto knife.
Hes not motivated by the usual things: sex, alcohol, or some evident mental disorder. He
knows the human anatomy, and that, so far, has been his only signature. He must have
planned the crimes in advance because the poison he used isnt easy to obtain, and so we
could classify him as a killer with a mission, but one who still doesnt quite know what
that mission is. From what I know of the young girls murder, and this is the only clue we
have so far, he used a type of Russian martial art called Sambo.

I could go further and say that its part of his signature to get close to his chosen
victim and befriend him or her for a while, but that theory doesnt fit with the murder
committed in the middle of a lunch party on a beach in Cannes. The victim apparently had
two bodyguards with him and they would have been sure to react if the killer had gone any-
where near their boss, plus the victim was under surveillance by Eu- ropol.

Russian. Savoy considers using his phone to ask for an urgent search of all the hotels in
Cannes. A man, about forty, well-dressed, slightly graying hairand Russian.

The fact that he used a Russian martial art technique doesnt mean he himself is Russian,
says Morris, reading Savoys mind like the good ex-policeman he is. Just as we cannot
assume hes a South American Indian because he used curare.

So what do we do? We just have to wait for him to commit his next murder.

Cinderella! If people believed more in fairy tales instead of just listening to their husbands and parentswho think everything is impossible they would be experiencing
what shes experiencing now, being driven along in one of the innumerable limousines that
are slowly but surely heading for the steps and the red carpetthe biggest catwalk in the
world.

The Star is by her side, smiling and wearing the obligatory beauti- fully cut suit. He
asks if shes nervous. Of course not: tension, nerves, anxiety, and fear dont exist in
dreams. Everything is perfect; its just like in a moviethe heroine suffers, struggles, and
finally achieves everything she has always wanted.

If Hamid Hussein decides to go ahead with the project and the film is the success he hopes
it will be, then prepare yourself for more such moments.

If Hamid Hussein decides to go ahead with the project? Isnt it all signed and sealed?

But I signed a contract when I went to collect my outfit in the Gift Room.

Look, forget what I said. I dont want to spoil your special moment.

No, please, go on.

The Star was expecting the silly girl to say exactly that, and he takes enormous pleasure
in doing as she asks.

Ive been involved in loads of projects that begin and never come to anything. Its all part
of the game, but, like I say, dont worry about that now.

But the contract . . .

Contracts are there for lawyers to argue over while they earn their money. Please, forget
what I said. Enjoy the moment.

The moment is approaching. Because of the slow traffic, people can see who is inside the
cars, despite the smoked-glass windows sepa- rating mere mortals from the chosen. The Star
waves; hands bang on the window asking him to open it just for a moment, to give them an
autograph, to have a photo taken.

The Star keeps waving, as if he didnt understand what they wanted and a smile from him was
enough to flood the world with light.

Theres a real air of hysteria out there. Women with their little por- table stools on
which they must have been sitting and knitting since the morning; men with beer bellies,
bored to death, but obliged to accom- pany their middle-aged spouses, who are dressed to
the nines as if they were the ones about to go up the steps and onto the red carpet;
children who have no idea whats going on, but can sense that its something important.
Crammed behind the steel barriers that separate them from the line of limousines, stand
people of all ages and colors, every one of them wanting to believe that theyre only two
yards away from the great legends, when, in fact, theyre separated by thousands of miles;
for it isnt just the steel barrier and the car window keeping them apart, its chance,
opportunity, and talent.

Talent? Yes, she wants to believe that talent counts too, but knows that really its all
the result of a game of dice played by the gods, who choose certain people and place
others on the far side of an impassable abyss from where they can only applaud, worship,
and, when the tide turns against their gods, condemn.

The Star pretends to be talking to her, but hes not actually saying anything, just looking
at her and moving his lips, like the great actor he is. He doesnt do this out of desire or
pleasure. Gabriela realizes that he simply doesnt want to appear unfriendly to his fans outside, but, at the same time, cant
be bothered now to wave and smile and blow kisses.

You must think me an arrogant, cynical person with a heart of stone, he says at last. If
you ever get where you want to get, then youll understand what Im feeling: that theres no
way out. Success is both an addiction and an enslavement, and at the end of the day, when
youre lying in bed with some new man or woman, youll ask yourself: was it really worth it?
Why did I ever want this?

He pauses. Go on. I dont know why Im telling you this. Because you want to protect me.
Because youre a good man.

Please, go on. Gabriela may be ingenuous about many things, but shes still a woman and knows how to get almost anything she wants out of a man. In this case, the
button to press is vanity.

I dont know why I always wanted this. The Star has fallen into the trap and is now
revealing his more vulnerable side, while, outside, the fans continue to wave. Often, when
I go back to the hotel after an exhausting days work, I stand under the shower for ages,
just listening to the sound of water falling on my body. Two opposing forces are bat-
tling it out inside me: one telling me I should be thanking God and the other telling me I
should abandon it all while theres still time.

At that moment, I feel like the most ungrateful person in the world. I have my fans, but I
cant be bothered with them. Im invited to parties that are the envy of the world, and all
I want is to leave at once and go back to my room and sit quietly reading a good book.
Well-meaning men and women give me prizes, organize events, and do everything to make me
happy, and I feel nothing but exhaustion and embarrassment because I dont believe I
deserve all this, I dont feel worthy of my suc- cess. Do you understand?

For a fraction of a second, Gabriela feels sorry for the man beside her. She imagines the
number of parties he must have to attend in a year, and how there must always be someone
asking him for a photo or an autograph, someone telling him some tedious story to which he pretends to be listening, someone trying to sell him some new project or embarrassing him
with the classic question: Dont you remember me?, someone getting out his mobile phone and
asking him to say a few words to his son, wife, or sister. And he must always be the con-
summate professional, happy, attentive, good-humored, and polite.

Do you understand?

Yes, I do, but I wouldnt mind having those problems one day, although I know Ive a long
way to go before I do.

Only another four limousines and theyll be there. The chauffeur tells them to get ready.
The Star folds down a small mirror from the roof of the car and adjusts his tie; Gabriela
does the same and smooths her hair. She can see a bit of the red carpet now, although the
steps are still out of sight. The hysteria has vanished as if by magic, and the crowd is
now composed of people wearing identity tags round their necks, talking to each other and
taking no notice at all of who is in the cars because theyre tired of seeing the same
scene repeated over and over.

Two more cars. Some steps appear to her left. Men in dinner jacket and tie are opening the
doors, and the aggressive metal barriers have been replaced by velvet cords looped along
bronze and wooden pillars.

Damn! cries the Star, making Gabriela jump. Damn! Look whos over there, just getting out
of her car! Gabriela sees a female Superstar, also wearing a Hamid Hussein dress, who has just stepped onto the red carpet. The Superstar turns her back on the
Palais des Congres, and when Gabriela follows her gaze, she sees the most extraordinary
sight. A human wall, almost nine feet high, filled with endlessly flashing lights.

Good! says the Star, relieved. Shes looking in the wrong direc- tion.

Hes no longer polite and charming and has forgotten all his exis- tential angst. Theyre
not the accredited photographers. Theyre not important.

Why did you say Damn?

The Star cannot conceal his irritation. There is one car to go before its their turn. Cant you see? What planet are you from, child? When we step onto the red carpet, all the
accredited photographers, who are posi- tioned halfway along, will have their cameras
aimed at her!

He turns to the chauffeur and says: Slow down! The chauffeur points to a man in
plainclothes, also wearing an iden-

tity tag, and who is signaling to them to keep moving and not hold up the traffic.

The Star sighs deeply; this really isnt his lucky day. Why did he say all those things to
this mere beginner at his side? Its true that hes tired of the life he leads, and yet he
cant imagine anything else.

Dont rush, he says. Well try and stay down here for as long as possible. Lets leave a good
space between her and us.

Her was the Superstar.

The couple in the car ahead of them dont appear to attract as much attention, although
they must be important because no one gets as far as those steps without having scaled
many mountains in life.

Her companion appears to relax a little, and now its Gabrielas turn to feel tense, not
knowing quite how to behave. Her hands are sweat- ing. She grabs the handbag stuffed with
paper, breathes deeply, and says a prayer.

Walk slowly, says the Star, and dont stand too close to me.

Their limousine draws up alongside the steps. Both doors are opened from outside.

Suddenly, an immense roar seems to fill the universe, shouts coming from all sidesshe
hadnt realized until then that she was in a sound- proof car and could hear nothing. The
Star gets out, smiling, as if his tantrum of two minutes ago had never happened and as if
he were still the center of the universe, despite his apparently true confessions to her
in the car. He is a man in conflict with himself, his world, and his past, and who cannot
now turn back.

What am I thinking about? Gabriela tells herself. I should be concentrating on the moment,
on going up the steps!

They both wave to the unimportant photographers and spend some time there. People hold out
scraps of paper to him, and he signs autographs and thanks his fans. Gabriela isnt sure whether she should remain by his side
or continue up toward the red carpet and the en- trance to the Palais des Congres;
fortunately, shes saved by someone holding out pen and paper and asking for her autograph.

How she wishes this ceremony were being broadcast live to the whole world and that her
mother could see her arriving in that daz- zling dress, accompanied by a really famous
actor (about whom shes beginning to have her doubts, but, no, she must drive away such
nega- tive thoughts), and see her giving the most important autograph of her twenty-five
years of life! She cant understand the womans name, so she smiles and writes something
like with love.

The Star comes over to her. Come on. The way ahead is clear now. The woman to whom she has
just addressed an affectionate mes-

sage reads what shes written and says angrily: I dont want your autograph! I just need
your name so that I can identify you in the photo. Gabriela pretends not to hear; nothing in the world can destroy
this magic moment. They start going up the steps, with policemen forming a kind of security cordon, even though the public are a long way off now. On either side, on the
buildings faeade, gigantic plasma screens reveal to the poor mortals outside what is going
on in that open-air sanctuary. Hysterical screams and clapping can be heard in the
distance. When they reach a broader step, as if they had reached the first floor, she no-
tices another crowd of photographers, except this time, they are prop- erly dressed and
are shouting out the Stars name, asking him to turn this way, no, this way, just one more
shot, please, a little closer, look up, look down! Other people pass them and continue up
the steps, but the photographers arent interested in them. The Star has lost none of his
glamour; he looks as if he doesnt care and jokes around to show how relaxed and at ease he
is with all this.

Gabriela notices that the photographers are interested in her too, al- though, of course,
they dont shout out her name (theyve no idea who she is), imagining that she must be his
new girlfriend. They ask them to stand together so that they can get a photo of the two of them. The Star obliges for a
few seconds, but keeps a prudent distance and avoids any physical contact.

Yes, theyve successfully managed to avoid the Superstar, who will, by now, have reached
the door of the Palais des Congres to be greeted by the president of the Film Festival and
the mayor of Cannes.

The Star gestures to her to continue up the stairs, and she obeys.

She looks ahead and sees another gigantic screen strategically placed so that people can
see themselves. A loudspeaker announces:

Andnowwehave...

And the voice gives the name of the Star and of his most famous film. Later, someone tells
her that everyone inside the room is watch- ing the same scene being shown on the plasma
screen outside.

They go up the remaining steps, reach the door, greet the presi- dent of the Festival and
the mayor, and go inside. The whole thing has lasted less than three minutes.

Now the Star is surrounded by people who want to talk to him and flatter him and take
photos (yes, even the chosen take photos of them- selves with famous people). Its
suffocatingly hot inside, and Gabriela starts to worry that her makeup will run . . .

Her makeup!

She had completely forgotten. Shes supposed to go through a door on the left where someone
will be waiting for her outside. She walks mechanically down some steps and past a couple
of security guards. One of them asks if shes going outside for a smoke and intends coming
back in for the film. She says no and carries on.

She crosses another series of metal barriers and no one asks her anything because shes
leaving, not trying to get in. She can see the backs of the crowd who are still waving and
shouting at the limousines that continue to arrive. A man comes toward her, asks her name,
and tells her to follow him.

Can you just wait a minute?

The man seems surprised, but nods his assent. Gabriela has her eyes fixed on an old
carousel, which has possibly been there since the beginning of the last century and which continues to turn, while the children riding it
rise up and down.

Can we go now? asks the man politely. Just one more minute. Well be late. Gabriela can no
longer hold back the tears, the tension, the fear, and the terror of the three minutes she has just lived through. She sobs convulsively, not
caring about her makeup now, which someone will fix for her anyway. The man offers her his
arm to lean on, so that she wont stumble in her high heels, and they start walking across
the square toward the Boulevard de la Croisette. The noise of the crowd grows ever more
distant, and her sobs grow ever louder. Shes crying out all the tears of the day, the
week, and the years she had spent dreaming of that moment, and which was over before she
could even take in what had happened.