The Winner Stands Alone (4 page)

She was always telling herself that she was just at the beginning of her career, even
though the days and months were beginning to fly by. She might have been picked to play
Ophelia in Hamlet while she was in the drama course, but life mostly offered her only ads
for deodorants and beauty creams. Whenever she went to an agency to show them her book and
the letters of recommendation from teachers, friends, and colleagues, she found the
waiting room full of girls who looked very like her, all of them smiling, all of them
hating each other, and all doing whatever they could to get something, anything, that
would give them visibility, as the professionals called it.

She would wait hours for her turn to come, and meanwhile read books on meditation and
positive thinking. She would end up sitting opposite someonemale or femalewho ignored the
letters and went straight to the photos, not that they ever commented on those either.
They would make a note of her name. Sometimes, she would be called in for an audition,
about one in ten of which bore fruit. There she would be again, with all her talent (or so
she thought), standing in front of a camera and a lot of ill-mannered people, who were
always telling her: Relax, smile, turn to the right, drop your chin a little, lick your
lips. And the result: a photo of a new brand of coffee.

And what happened when she wasnt called? She felt rejected, but soon learned to live with
that and come to see it as a necessary experi- ence, a test of her perseverance and faith.
She refused to accept the fact that the drama course, the letters of recommendation, the
CV listing minor roles performed in minor theaters, were of no use at all . . .

Her mobile phone rang. ...noneatall. It continued to ring. She was still traveling back in
time as she gazed out at the tobacco-

nists and at the little girl eating chocolate, then she finally emerged from her reverie,
realized what was happening, and answered the phone.

A voice at the other end was saying that she had an audition in two hours time. She had an audition!

In Cannes!

So it had been worth crossing the ocean, arriving in a city where all the hotels were
full, meeting up at the airport with other young women in exactly the same position as she
(a Pole, two Russians, and a Brazil- ian), and going round knocking on doors until they
found that shared, exorbitantly priced apartment. After all those years of trying her luck
in Chicago and traveling now and then to Los Angeles in search of more agents, more
advertisements, more rejections, it turned out that her future lay in Europe!

In two hours time?

She couldnt catch a bus because she didnt know the routes. She was staying high up on a
steep hill and had only been down it twice so farto distribute copies of her book and to
go to that stupid party last night. On both occasions, when she reached the bottom of the
hill, she had hitched a lift from complete strangers, usually single men in mag- nificent
convertibles. Everyone knew Cannes to be a safe place, and all women know that good looks
help when trying to get a ride, but she couldnt leave anything to chance this time, she
would have to resolve the problem herself. Auditions follow a rigorous timetable, that was
one of the first things you learn at any acting agency. She had noticed on her first day
in Cannes that the traffic was almost permanently grid- locked, and so all she could do
was get dressed and leave at once. She would be there in an hour and a half; she
remembered the hotel where the producer was staying because it was on the pilgrimage route
she had followed yesterday, in search of some opportunity, some opening.

Now the problem was what to wear.

She fell upon the suitcase she had brought with her, chose some Armani jeans made in China
and bought on the black market in Chi- cago for a fifth of the real price. No one could
say they were fake be- cause they werent: everyone knew that the Chinese manufacturers
sent eighty percent of what they produced to the original stores, with the remaining
twenty percent being sold off by employees on the side. It was, shall we say, excess
stock, surplus to requirements.

She was wearing a white DKNY T-shirt, which had cost more than the jeans. Faithful to her
principles, she knew that the more discreet the clothes, the better. No short skirts, no
plunging necklines, because if other women had been invited to the audition, that is what
they would be wearing.

She wasnt sure about her makeup. In the end, she opted for a very light foundation and an
even lighter application of lip liner. She had already lost a precious fifteen minutes.

People are never satisfied. If they have a little, they want more. If they have a lot,
they want still more. Once they have more, they wish they could be happy with little, but
are incapable of making the slightest effort in that direction.

Is it just that they dont understand how simple happiness is? What can she want, that girl
in the jeans and white T-shirt who just came running past? What could be so urgent that it
stopped her taking time to contemplate the lovely sunny day, the blue sea, the babies in
their strollers, the palms fringing the beach?

Dont run, child! Youll never escape the two most important pres- ences in the life of any
human being: God and death. God accompanies your every step and will be annoyed because he
can see that youre not paying attention to the miracle of life. Or indeed death. You just
ran past a corpse and didnt even notice.

Igor has walked past the scene of the crime several times now. At one point, he realized
that his comings and goings might arouse sus- picion and so decided to remain a prudent
two hundred yards from the scene, leaning on the balustrade that looked out over the
beach. Hes wearing dark glasses, but theres nothing suspicious about that, not only
because its a sunny day, but because in a celebrity town like Cannes, dark glasses are
synonymous with status.

Hes surprised to see that its almost midday, and yet no one has realized that theres a
person lying dead on the main street of a city which, at this time of year, is the focus
of the worlds attention.

A couple are approaching the bench now, visibly irritated. They start shouting at the
sleeping beauty; theyre the girls parents, angry because she isnt working. The man shakes
her almost violently. Then the woman bends over, obscuring Igors field of vision.

Igor knows what will happen next.

The mother screams. The father takes his mobile phone from his pocket and moves away,
clearly agitated. The mother is shaking her daughters unresponsive body. Passersby stop,
and now he can remove his dark glasses and join them as one more curious onlooker.

The mother is crying, clinging to her daughter. A young man gently pushes her away and
attempts mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but soon gives up; Olivias face already has a
slight purple tinge to it.

Someone call an ambulance!

Several people dial the same number, all of them feeling useful, important, caring. He can
already hear the sound of the siren in the distance. The mothers screams are growing
louder. A young woman tries to put a comforting arm around her, but the mother pushes her
away. Someone attempts to sit the body up, and someone else tells them to lay her down
again because its too late to do anything.

Its probably a drug overdose, the person next to him says. Young people today are a lost
cause.

Those who hear the comment nod sagely. Igor remains impassive while he watches the
paramedics unload their equipment from the am- bulance, apply electric shocks to Olivias
heart, while a more experi- enced doctor stands by, not saying a word, because although he
knows theres nothing to be done, he doesnt want his colleagues to be accused of
negligence. They place Olivias body on the stretcher and put it in the ambulance, the
mother still clinging to her daughter. After a brief discussion, they allow the mother to
get in too, and the ambulance speeds away.

No more than five minutes have passed between the couple discov- ering the body and the ambulance leaving. The father is still standing there, stunned, not
knowing where to go or what to do. Forgetting whom hes speaking to, the same person who
made the comment about a drug overdose goes over to the father and gives him his version
of the facts:

Dont worry, sir. This kind of thing happens every day around here.

The father does not respond. Hes stilling holding his mobile phone and staring into space.
He either doesnt understand the remark or has no idea what it is that happens every day,
or else hes in a state of shock that has sent him immediately into some unknown dimension
where pain does not exist.

The crowd disperses as quickly as it appeared. Only two people remain: the father still
clutching his phone and the man who has now taken off his dark glasses and is holding them
in his hand.

Did you know the girl? Igor asks. There is no reply. Its best to do as everyone else has
done, keep walking along the Boulevard de la Croisette and see what else is happening on this sunny morning in Cannes.
Like the girls father, he doesnt know quite what he is feeling: he has destroyed a world
he will never be able to rebuild, even if he had all the power in the world. Did Ewa
deserve that? From the womb of that young woman, Oliviathe fact that he knows her name
troubles him greatly because that means shes no longer just a face in the crowdmight have
sprung a genius who would have gone on to discover a cure for cancer or drafted an
agreement that would ensure that the world could finally live in peace. He has destroyed
not just one person, but all the future generations that might have sprung from her. What
has he done? Was love, however great and however intense, sufficient justification for
that?

He had chosen the wrong person as his first victim. Her death will never make the news and
Ewa wont understand the message.

Dont think about it, its done now. You have prepared yourself to go much further than
this, so carry on. The girl will understand that her death was not in vain, but was a
sacrifice in the name of a greater love. Look around you, see whats happening in the city, behave like a normal citizen.
Youve already had your fair share of suffering in this life; now you deserve a little
peace and comfort.

Enjoy the Festival. This is what you have been preparing yourself for.

Even if hed had his
swimmingthingswithhim,hewouldhave found it difficult to get anywhere near the seashore.
The big hotels had, it seems, acquired the rights to great swaths of beach which they had
filled with their chairs, logos, waiters, and bodyguards, who, at every entry point,
demanded the guests room key or some other form of identification. Other areas were
occupied by huge white tents, where some production company, brewery, or cosmetics firm
was launch- ing its latest product at a so-called lunch. People here were dressed
normally, if by normal you mean a baseball cap, bright shirt, and light-colored trousers
for men, and jewelry, loose top, Bermudas, and low-heeled shoes for women.

Dark glasses were de rigueur for both sexes, and there was little bare flesh on show
because members of the Superclass were too old for that now, and any such display would be
considered ridiculous or, rather, pathetic.

Igor noticed one other thing: the mobile phone. The most impor- tant item of clothing.

It was essential to be receiving a constant stream of messages or calls, to be prepared to
interrupt any conversation in order to answer a call that was not in the least urgent, to
stand keying in endless texts via an SMS. They had all forgotten that these initials mean
Short Mes- sage Service and instead used the keypad as if it were a typewriter. It was
slow, awkward, and could cause serious damage to the thumb, but what did it matter? At
that very moment, not only in Cannes, but in the whole world, the ether was being filled
with messages like Good morning, my love, I woke up thinking about you and Im so glad to
have you in my life, Ill be home in ten minutes, please have my lunch ready and check that
my clothes were sent to the laundry, or The party here is a real drag, but I havent got anywhere else to go, where are you? Things
that take five minutes to be written down and only ten seconds to be spoken, but thats the
way the world is. Igor knows all about this because he has earned hundreds of millions of
dollars thanks to the fact that the phone is no longer simply a method of communicat- ing
with others, but a thread of hope, a way of believing that youre not alone, a way of
showing others how important you are.

And it was leading the world into a state of utter madness. For a mere five euros a month,
via an ingenious system created in London, a call center would send you a standard message
every three minutes. When you know youre going to be talking to someone you want to im-
press, you just have to dial a particular number to activate the system. The phone rings,
you pick it up, open the message, read it quickly, and say Oh, that can wait (of course it
can: it was written to order). This way, the person youre talking to feels important, and
things move along more quickly because he realizes hes in the presence of a very busy
person. Three minutes later, the conversation is interrupted by another message, the
pressure mounts, and the user of the service can decide whether its worth turning off his
phone for a quarter of an hour or lying and saying that he really must take this call, and
so rid himself of a disagreeable companion.

There is only one situation in which all mobile phones must be turned off. Not at formal
suppers, in the middle of a play, during the key moment in a film, or while an opera
singer is attempting the most difficult of arias; weve all heard someones mobile phone go
off in such circumstances. No, the only time when people are genuinely concerned that
their phone might prove dangerous is when they get on a plane and hear the usual lie: All
mobile phones must be switched off during the flight because they might interfere with the
onboard systems. We all believe this and do as the flight attendants ask.

Igor knew when this myth had been created: for years now, airlines had been doing their
best to convince passengers to use the phones at- tached to their seat. These cost ten
dollars a minute and use the same transmission system as mobile phones. The strategy didnt
work, but the myth lingered on; they had simply forgotten to remove the warn-

ing from the list of dos and donts that the flight attendant has to read out before
takeoff. What no one knew was that on every flight, there were always at least two or
three passengers who forgot to turn their phones off, and besides, laptops access the
Internet using exactly the same system as mobiles. And no plane anywhere in the world has
yet fallen out of the sky because of that.

Now they were trying to modify the warning without alarming the passengers too much and
without dropping the price. You could use your mobile phone as long as it was one you
could put into flight mode. Such phones cost four times as much. No one has ever explained
what flight mode is, but if people choose to be taken in like this, thats their problem.

He keeps walking. Hes troubled
by the last look the girl had given him before she died, but prefers not to think about it.

More bodyguards, more dark glasses,
more bikinis on the beach, more light-colored clothes and jewelry attending lunches, more
people hurrying along as if they had something very important to do that morning, more
photographers on every corner attempting the impossible task of snapping something
unusual, more magazines and free newspapers about whats happening at the Festival, more
people handing out flyers to the poor mortals who havent been invited to lunch in one of
the white tents, flyers advertising restaurants on the top of the hill, far from
everything, where little is heard of what goes on in Boulevard de la Croisette, up there
where models rent apartments for the duration of the Festival, hoping theyll be summoned
to an au- dition that will change their lives forever.

All so unsurprising. All so predictable. If he were to go into one of those tents now, no
one would dare ask for his identification because its still early and the promoters will
be afraid that no one will come. In half an hours time, though, depending on how things
go, the security guards will be given express orders to let in only pretty, unaccompanied
girls. Why not try it out?

He follows his impulse; after all, hes on a mission. He goes down some steps, which lead
not to the beach, but to a large white tent with plastic windows, air-conditioning, and
white chairs and tables, largely empty. One of the security guards asks if he has an
invitation, and he says that he does. He pretends to search his pockets. A receptionist
dressed in red asks if she can help.

He offers her his business card, bearing the logo of his phone com- pany and his name,
Igor Malev, President. Hes sure his name is on the list, he says, but he must have left
his invitation at the hotel; hes been at a series of meetings and forgot to bring it with
him. The reception- ist welcomes him and invites him in; she has learned to judge men and
women by the way they dress, and President means the same thing worldwide. Besides, hes
the president of a Russian company! And ev- eryone knows how rich Russians like to show
off their wealth. There was no need to check the list.

Igor enters, heads straight for the barits a very well-equipped tent; theres even a dance
floorand orders a pineapple juice because it suits the atmosphere and, more important,
because the drink, deco- rated with a tiny blue Japanese umbrella, comes complete with a
black straw.

He sits down at one of the many empty tables. Among the few people present is a man in his
fifties, with hennaed mahogany brown hair, fake tan, and a body honed in one of those gyms
that promise eternal youth. Hes wearing a torn T-shirt and is sitting with two other men,
who are both dressed in impeccable designer suits. The two men turn to face Igor, and he
immediately turns his head slightly, but con- tinues to study them from behind his dark
glasses. The men in suits try to work out who this new arrival is, then lose interest.

Igors interest, however, increases.

The man does not even have a mobile phone on the table, although his two assistants are
constantly fielding calls.

Given that this badly dressed, arrogant fellow has been let into the tent; given that he
has his mobile phone turned off; given that the waiter keeps coming up to him and asking
if he wants anything; given that he doesnt even deign to respond, but merely waves him away, he is obviously someone
very important.