The Winner Stands Alone (3 page)

Sit down, the man says again. I wont shoot if you do as youre told. I promise.

Yes, it would be madness on his part to fire that gun on a sunny morning, with cars
driving past outside, people going to the beach, the traffic getting heavier by the
minute, and more pedestrians walking along the pavement. Best to do as the man says, even
if only because shes in no state to do anything else; shes almost fainting.

She obeys. Now she just has to convince him that shes not a threat, to listen to his
deserted husbands lament, to promise him that she has seen nothing, and then, as soon as a
policeman appears, doing his usual round, throw herself to the ground and scream for help.

I know exactly what youre feeling, the man says, trying to calm her. The symptoms of fear
have been the same since the dawn of time. They were the same when men had to face wild
beasts and they continue to be so right up to the present day: blood drains away from the face and the
epidermis, protecting the body and avoiding blood loss, thats why people turn pale. The
intestines relax and release ev- erything, so that there will be no toxic matter left
contaminating the organism. The body initially refuses to move, so as not to provoke the
beast in question by making any sudden movement.

This is all a dream, thinks Olivia. She remembers her parents, who should have been here
with her this morning, but who had been up all night making jewelry because the day looked
likely to be a busy one. A few hours ago, she had been making love with her boyfriend,
whom she believed to be the man of her life, even though he sometimes hit her; they
reached orgasm simultaneously, something that hadnt happened for a long time. After
breakfast, she decided not to take her usual shower because she felt free and full of
energy and pleased with life.

No, this cant be happening. She must try to appear calm.

Lets talk. The reason you bought all my stuff was so that we could talk. Besides, I wasnt
getting up in order to run away.

He presses the barrel of the gun gently against the girls ribs. The elderly couple pass
by, glance at them, and notice nothing odd. Theres that Portuguese girl, they think,
trying, as usual, to im- press some man with her dark eyebrows and childlike smile. Its
not the first time theyve seen her with a strange man, and this one, to judge by his
clothes, has plenty of money.

Olivia fixes them with her eyes, as if trying to tell them whats going on just by looking.
The man beside her says brightly:

Good morning.

The couple move off without uttering a word. Theyre not in the habit of talking to
strangers or of exchanging greetings with street vendors.

Yes, lets talk, says the Russian, breaking the silence. Im not really going to try and
disrupt the traffic. I was just giving that as an example. My wife will realize Im here
when she starts to receive the messages. Im not going to take the obvious route, which
would be to go and meet her. I need her to come to me. This was a possible way out.

I can deliver the messages, if you like. Just tell me which hotel shes staying at.

The man laughs.

You suffer from the youthful vice of thinking youre cleverer than everyone else. The
moment you left here, youd go straight to the police.

Her blood freezes. Are they going to sit on this bench all day? Is he going to shoot her
after all, now that she knows his face?

You said you werent going to shoot.

I promised I wouldnt if you behaved in a more adult fashion and with due respect for my
intelligence.

Hes right. The adult thing to do would be to talk a little about herself. She might arouse
the compassion that is always there in the mind of a madman by explaining that shes in a
similar situation, even though it isnt true.

A boy runs past, an iPod in his ears. He doesnt even turn to look at them.

I live with a man who makes my life hell, and yet I cant leave him.

The look in Igors eyes changes. Olivia thinks shes found a way of escaping from the trap.
Be intelligent. Dont just give up; think of the woman whos mar-

ried to the man sitting next to you. Be honest. Hes cut me off from my friends. Hes always
jealous even though he can get all the women he wants. He criticizes everything I do and says I have no
ambition. He even takes the little money I earn as com- mission.

The man says nothing but stares at the sea. The pavement is filling up with people; what
would happen if she just got to her feet and ran? Would he shoot her? Is it a real gun?

She senses that she has touched on a topic of possible interest to him. It would be best
not to do anything foolish, she thinks, remem- bering the way he spoke and looked at her
minutes before.

And yet, you see, I cant bring myself to leave him. Even if I were to meet the kindest, richest, most generous man in the world, I wouldnt give my boyfriend
up for anything. Im not a masochist, I take no plea- sure in these constant humiliations,
I just happen to love him.

She feels the barrel of the gun pressing into her ribs again. She has said the wrong thing.

Im not like that scoundrel of a boyfriend of yours, he says, his voice full of loathing
now. I worked hard to build up what I have. I worked long and hard, and survived many a
setback. I was always honest in my dealings, although there were, of course, times when I
had to be hard and implacable. I was always a good Christian. I have influential friends,
and Ive always been grateful to them. In short, I did everything right.

I never harmed anyone who got in my way. Whenever possible, I encouraged my wife to do
what she wanted to do, and the result: here I am, alone. Yes, I killed people during the
idiotic war I was sent to fight, but I never lost my sense of reality. Im not one of those
traumatized war veterans who goes into a restaurant and machine-guns people. Im not a
terrorist. Of course, I could say that life has treated me unfairly and taken from me the
most important thing there is: love. But there are other women, and the pain of love
always passes. I need to act, Im tired of being a frog slowly boiling to death.

If you know there are other women and you know that the pain of love will pass, why are
you so upset?

Yes, shes behaving like an adult now, surprised at the calm way in which shes trying to
deal with the madman by her side.

He seems to waver.

I dont really know. Perhaps because Ive been abandoned once too often. Perhaps because I
need to prove to myself just what Im ca- pable of. Perhaps because I lied, and there is
only one woman for me. I have a plan.

What plan?

I told you before. Im going to keep destroying worlds until she realizes how important she
is to me and that Im prepared to run any risk in order to get her back.

The police! They both notice the police car approaching.

Im sorry, says the man. I intended to talk a little more. Life hasnt treated you very
fairly either.

Olivia realizes this is the end. And since she now has nothing to lose, she again tries to
get up. Then she feels the hand of that stranger on her right shoulder, as if he were
fondly embracing her.

Samozashchita Bez Orujiya, or Sambo, as it is better known among Russians, is the art of
killing swiftly with ones bare hands, without the victim realizing what is happening. It
was developed over the centu- ries, when peoples or tribes had to confront invaders
unarmed. It was widely used by the Soviet state apparatus to eliminate people without
leaving any trace. They tried to introduce it as a martial art in the 1980 Moscow
Olympics, but it was rejected as being too dangerous, despite all the efforts of the
Communists of the day to include in the Games a sport which they alone practiced.

Perfect. That way, only a few people know the moves.

Igors right thumb is pressing down on Olivias jugular vein, and the blood stops flowing to
her brain. Meanwhile, his other hand is pressing on a particular point near her armpit,
causing the muscles to seize up. There are no contractions, its merely a question of
waiting two minutes.

Olivia appears to have gone to sleep in his arms. The police car drives by behind them,
using the lane that is closed to other traffic. They dont even notice the embracing
couple; they have other things to worry about this morning, like doing their best to keep
the traf- fic movingan impossible task if carried out to the letter. The latest call over
the radio tells them that some drunken millionaire has just crashed his car a mile or so
away.

Still supporting the girl, Igor bends down and uses his other hand to pick up the cloth
spread out in front of the bench and on which all those tasteless objects were to be
displayed. He adroitly folds up the cloth to form an improvised pillow.

When he sees that no one else is around, he tenderly lays her inert body on the bench. She
looks as if she were asleep; and in her dreams she must be remembering some particularly
lovely day or else having nightmares about her violent boyfriend.

Only the elderly couple had noticed them sitting together. And if the crime were
discoveredwhich Igor doubted, since there were no visible marksthey would describe him to
the police as fairer or darker or older or younger than he really was; there wasnt the
slightest reason to be worried; people never pay much attention to whats going on around
them.

Before leaving, he plants a kiss on the brow of the sleeping beauty and murmurs:

As you see, I kept my promise. I didnt shoot.

He takes a few steps
and his head begins to ache terribly. This is perfectly normal: the blood is flooding the
brain, an understandable reaction in someone who has just been under extreme tension.

Despite the headache, he feels happy. Yes, he has done what he set out to do.

He can do it. And hes happier still because he has freed the soul from that fragile body,
freed a spirit incapable of defending herself against a bullying coward. If her
relationship with her boyfriend had continued, the girl would have ended up depressed and
anxious and devoid of all self-respect, and would have been even more under her boyfriends
thumb.

This had never been the case with Ewa. She had always been capa- ble of making her own
decisions. He had given her both moral and fi- nancial support when she decided to open
her haute-couture boutique; and she had been free to travel as much as she wanted. He had
been an exemplary man and husband. And yet, she had made a mistake: she had been unable to
understand his love or his forgiveness. He hoped, however, that she would receive these
messages; after all, he had told her on the day she left that he would destroy whole
worlds to get her back.

He picks up the throwaway mobile phone he has just bought and on which he has entered the
smallest possible amount of credit. He sends a text message.

It all began, they say, with an unknown nineteen-year-old posing in a bikini for
photographers who had nothing better to do during the 1953 Cannes Festival. She
immediately shot to stardom, and her name became legendary: Brigitte Bardot. And now
others think they can do the same. No one understands the importance of being an actress;
beauty is the only thing that counts.

Thats why women with long legs and dyed hair, the bottle blondes of this world, travel
hundreds or even thousands of miles to be in Cannes, even if only to spend the whole day
on the beach, hoping to be seen, photographed, discovered. They want to escape from the
trap that awaits all women: becoming a housewife, who makes supper for her husband every
evening, takes the children to school every day, and tries to dig up some dirt on her
neighbors monotonous lives so as to have something to gossip about with her friends. What
these women want is fame, glory, and glamour, to be the envy of the other people who live
in their town and of the boys and girls who always thought of them as ugly ducklings,
unaware that they would one day grow up to be a swan or blossom into a flower coveted by
everyone. They want a career in the world of dreams even if they have to borrow money to
get silicone breast implants or to buy some newer, sexier outfits. Drama school? Forget
it, good looks and the right contacts are all you need. The cinema can work miracles,
always assuming, of course, you can ever break into that world. Anything to escape from the prison of the provincial city and
the long, dreary, repetitive days. There are millions of people who dont mind that kind of
life, and they should be left to live their lives as they see fit. However, if you come to
the Festival you must leave fear at home and be prepared for anything: making spur-
of-the-moment decisions, telling lies if necessary, pretending to be younger than you are,
smiling at people you loathe, feigning an interest in people who bore you, saying, I love
you without a thought for the consequences, or stabbing in the back the friend who once
helped you out, but who has now become an undesirable rival. Dont let feelings of remorse
or shame get in your way. The reward is worth any amount of sacrifice.

Fame. Glory. Glamour.

Gabriela finds these thoughts irritating. Its definitely not the best way to start a new
day. Worse, she has a hangover.

At least theres one consolation. She hasnt woken up in a five-star hotel next to a man
telling her to put her clothes on and leave because he has important business to deal
with, like buying or selling films.

She gets up and looks around to see if any of her friends are still in the apartment.
Needless to say theyre not. Theyve long since left for the Boulevard de la Croisette, for
the swimming pools, hotel bars, yachts, possible lunch dates, and chance meetings on the
beach. There are five fold-out mattresses on the floor of the small shared apartment,
hired for the duration at an exorbitant rent. The mattresses are sur- rounded by a tangle
of clothes, discarded shoes, and hangers that no one has taken the trouble to put back in
the wardrobe.

The clothes take up more room here than the people, she thinks.

Not that any of them could even dream of wearing clothes designed by Elie Saab, Karl
Lagerfeld, Versace, or Galliano, but what they have nevertheless takes up most of the
apartment: bikinis, miniskirts, T-shirts, platform shoes, and a vast amount of makeup.

One day Ill wear what I like, but right now, I just need to be given a chance, she thinks.

And why does she want that chance? Quite simple. Because she knows shes the best, despite
her experi- ence at schoolwhen she so disappointed her parentsand despite the challenges shes faced
since in order to prove to herself that she can overcome difficulties, frustrations, and
defeats. She was born to win and to shine, of that she has no doubt.

And when I get what I always wanted, I know Ill have to ask myself: do they love and
admire me because Im me or because Im famous?

She knows people who have achieved stardom on the stage and, contrary to her expectations,
theyre not at peace with themselves; theyre insecure, full of doubts, unhappy as soon as
they come offstage. They want to be actors so as not to have to be themselves, and they
live in fear of making the one false step that could end their career.

Im different, though. Ive always been me. Is that true? Or does everyone in her position
think the same?

She gets up and makes
herself some coffee. The kitchen is a mess, and none of her friends has bothered to wash
the dishes. She doesnt know why shes woken up in such a bad mood and with so many doubts.
She knows her job, shes devoted herself to it heart and soul, and yet its as if people
refuse to recognize her talent. She knows what human beings are like, too, especially
menfuture allies in a battle she needs to win soon, because shes twenty-five already and
nearly too old for the dream factory. She knows three things:

(a) that men are less treacherous than women; (b)that they never notice what a woman is
wearing because theyre always mentally undressing her; (c) that as long as youve got breasts, thighs, buttocks,
and belly in good trim, you can conquer the world.

Because of those three things, and because she knows that all the other women shes
competing with try to emphasize their attributes, she pays attention only to item (c) on
her list. She exercises and tries to keep fit, avoids diets, and, illogical though it may
seem, dresses very discreetly. This has worked well so far, and she can usually pass for younger than her
age. Shes hoping that itll do the trick in Cannes too.

Breasts, buttocks, thighs. They can focus on those things now if they want to, but the day
will come when theyll see what she can really do.

She drinks her coffee and begins to understand her bad mood. Shes surrounded by some of
the most beautiful women on the planet! She certainly doesnt consider herself ugly, but
theres no way she can compete with them. She needs to decide what to do. She had thought
long and hard before making this trip, money is tight, and she doesnt have much time in
which to land a contract. She went to various places during the first two days, giving
people a copy of her CV and her photos, but all she achieved was an invitation to last
nights party at a cheap restaurant, with the music at full blast, and where she met no one
from the Superclass. In order to lose her inhibitions, she drank more than she should and
ended up not knowing where she was or what she was doing there. Everything seemed strange
to herEurope, the way people dress, the different languages, the phony jollitywhen the
truth was everyone was wishing they could have been invited to some more important event,
instead of being in that utterly insignifi- cant place, listening to the same old music,
and having to hold shouted conversations about other peoples lives and the injustices
committed by the powerful on the powerless.

Gabriela is tired of talking about these so-called injustices. Thats simply the way it is.
They choose the people they want to choose and dont have to explain themselves to anyone,
which is why she needs a plan. A lot of other young women with the same dream (but not, of
course, with as much talent as she) will be doing the rounds with their CVs and their
photos; the producers who come to the Festival must be inundated with portfolios, DVDs,
business cards.

What would make her stand out?

She needs to think. She wont get another chance like this, largely because shes spent all
her savings on this trip. Andhorror of hor- rorsshes getting old. Shes twenty-five. This
is her last chance. While she drinks her coffee, she looks through the small kitchen window at the dead-end
street down below. All she can see is a tobac- conists and a little girl eating chocolate.
Yes, this is her last chance. She hopes it will turn out quite differently from the first
one.

She thinks back to when she was eleven years old and performing in her first school play
at one of the most expensive schools in Chicago. Her subsequent desire to succeed was not
born of the unanimous ac- claim she received from the audience, composed of fathers,
mothers, relatives, and teachers. Far from it. She was playing the Mad Hatter in Alice in
Wonderland. She had got the partone of the best roles in the playafter auditioning along
with a lot of other girls and boys.

Her first line was: Your hair wants cutting. Then Alice would reply: You should learn not
to make personal remarks, its very rude.

When the long-awaited moment came, a moment she had rehearsed and rehearsed, she was so
nervous that she got the line wrong and said instead: Your hair wants washing. The girl
playing Alice said her next line anyway, and the audience would never have noticed
anything was wrong if Gabriela, who knew she had made a mistake, hadnt promptly lost the
power of speech. Since the Mad Hatter was an es- sential character if the scene was to
continue, and since children are not good at improvising on stage (although they improvise
happily enough in real life), no one knew what to do. Then, after several long minutes,
during which the actors simply looked at each other, the teacher started applauding,
announced it was time for an interval, and ordered every- one offstage.

Gabriela not only left the stage, she left the school in tears. The following day, she
found out that the scene with the Mad Hatter had been cut, and the actors would instead
move straight on to the game of croquet with the Queen. The teacher said this didnt matter
in the least because the story of Alice in Wonderland is a lot of nonsense anyway, but
during playtime, the other girls and boys ganged up on Gabriela and started beating her.

This wasnt so very unusualit was a fairly regular occurrence and she had learned to defend
herself as energetically as when she, in turn, attacked the weaker children. On this occasion, however, she took the beating
without uttering a word and without shedding a tear. Her reaction was so surprising that
the fight lasted almost no time at all; her schoolmates expected her to scream and shout,
and, when she didnt, rapidly lost interest. For with each blow, Gabriela was think- ing:

Ill be a great actress one day and then youll be sorry.

Who says that children arent capable of deciding what they want to do in life?

Adults do.

And when we grow to be adults ourselves, we believe that we really are wise beings who are
always right. Many children had doubtless been through a similar experience, playing the
role of the Mad Hatter or Sleeping Beauty or Aladdin or Alice, and decided there and then
to abandon the spotlights and the applause. Gabriela, though, had never before lost a
battle; she was the prettiest and most intelligent student in school and always got the
best marks in class; and she knew intuitively that if she didnt fight back at once, she
would be lost.

It was one thing to get a beating from her schoolmatesbecause she could give as good as
she gotbut it was quite another to carry a failure like that around with her for the rest
of her life. As we all know, a fluffed line in a school play, an inability to dance as
well as everyone else, or rude comments passed about skinny legs or a big headwhich all
children have to put up withcan have two radically different con- sequences.

Some people opt for revenge and try to be really good at whatever it is the others thought
they couldnt do. One day, youll envy me, they think.

Most people, however, accept their limitations, and then things tend to go from bad to
worse. They grow up insecure and obedient (although they dream of a day when theyll be
free and able to do what- ever they want), they get married to prove that theyre not as
ugly as other kids said they were (although deep down they still believe they are), they
have children so that no one can say theyre infertile (even though they never wanted kids
anyway), they dress well so that no one can say they dress badly (although they know people will say that anyway).

By the following week, the incident at the play had been forgotten by everyone at school,
but Gabriela had decided that, one day, when she was a world-famous actress, accompanied
by secretaries, bodyguards, photographers, and legions of fans, she would go back to that
school. She would put on a performance of Alice in Wonderland for needy chil- dren, she
would make the news, and her childhood friends would say:

I was on the same stage as her once!

Her mother wanted her to study chemical engineering, and as soon as she finished high
school, her parents sent her to the Illinois Institute of Technology. During the day, she
studied protein paths and the structure of benzene, but she spent her evenings with Ibsen,
Coward, and Shakespeare while attending a drama course paid for with money sent to her by
her parents to buy clothes and course books. She trained with the best professionals and
had excellent teachers. She received good reviews and letters of recommendation, she
performed (without her parents knowledge) as a backup singer for a rock group and as a
belly dancer in a play about Lawrence of Arabia. It was always a good idea to accept any
role that came along. There was always the chance that someone important might be in the
audience, someone who would invite her to her first real audition, and then all those
testing times and all her struggles to gain a place in the spotlight would be over.

The years passed. Gabriela made TV commercials, toothpaste ads, did some modeling work,
and was even tempted to respond to an invi- tation from a group that specialized in
providing escorts for business- men because she desperately needed money to put together a
proper portfolio to send to all the major modeling and acting agencies in the United
States. Fortunately, Godin whom she never lost faith saved her. That same day, she was
offered a job as an extra in a video of a Japanese singer, which was going to be filmed
beneath the viaduct of the Chicago El. She was paid much more than she expected
(apparently the producers had demanded a fortune in fees for the foreign cast), and with
that extra money she managed to produce the vital book of photos (or book, as its known in every language in the world), which also cost much more than she
had imagined.