The Winner Stands Alone (8 page)

Lying on a stainless steel table between Inspector Savoy and the pa- thologist is a
beautiful young woman of about twenty, completely naked. And dead.

Are you sure?

The pathologist goes over to a stainless steel sink, removes his rubber gloves, throws
them in the bin, and turns on the tap.

Absolutely. Theres no trace of drugs.

What happened, then? Could a young woman like her have had a heart attack?

The only noise in the room is that of running water. The patholo- gist thinks:

They always come up with the obvious: drugs, a heart attack . . .

He takes longer than necessary to wash his handsa little suspense never goes amiss. He
applies disinfectant to his arms and throws away the disposable material used in the
autopsy. Then he turns round and asks the inspector to study the body.

No, really, take a good look. Dont be embarrassed. Noticing de- tails is part of your job,
isnt it?

Savoy carefully examines the body. At one point, he reaches out to lift one of the girls
arms, but the pathologist stops him.

No need to touch. Savoy runs his eyes over the girls naked body. He knows quite a lot about her nowOlivia
Martins, the daughter of Portuguese parents, currently going out with a young man of no
fixed profession, who is heavily into Cannes nightlife and is, at that moment, being
interrogated at a police station some way away. A judge issued a search warrant for his
apartment and they found some small flasks of THC (tetrahydro- cannabinol, the main
hallucinogenic element in marijuana, and which can be taken dissolved in sesame oil, which
leaves no smell and has a far stronger effect than when the substance is absorbed through
smoke). They also found six envelopes, each containing a gram of cocaine, and some
bloodstains on a sheet which is now on its way to a laboratory for tests. Hes probably, at
most, a minor dealer. Hes already known to the police, having spent a couple of spells in
prison, but never for physical violence.

Olivia was lovely, even in death. Her dark eyebrows, that childlike air, her breasts . . .
No, he thinks, I mustnt go there. Im a profes- sional.

I cant see anything, he says.

The pathologist smiles, and Savoy finds his smugness slightly ir- ritating. The expert
points to a small, purplish, almost imperceptible mark between the girls left shoulder and
her throat. Then he shows him another similar mark on the right-hand side of her torso,
between two of her ribs.

I could begin by giving you the technical details. Death was caused by obstruction of the
jugular vein and the carotid artery while, simultaneously, similar pressure was being
applied to a particular sheaf of nerves, but so precisely that it caused the complete
paralysis of the upper part of the body . . .

Savoy says nothing. The pathologist realizes that this is not the moment to show off his
knowledge or to make jokes. He feels rather sorry for himself. He works with death on a
daily basis and spends each day surrounded by corpses and grave-faced people. His children
never tell anyone what their father does, and he has nothing to talk about at supper
parties because people hate discussing what they perceive to be macabre topics. He sometimes wonders if he hasnt perhaps chosen the wrong profession.

. . . in short, she was strangled.

Savoy still says nothing. His brain is working very fast: how could someone possibly be
strangled on Boulevard de la Croisette in broad daylight? Her parents had been
interviewed, and they said that their daughter had left the house that morning with the
usual merchan- diseillegal merchandise, it must be said, because street vendors pay no
taxes and are, therefore, banned from trading. Although thats hardly relevant now, he
thinks.

The intriguing thing about this particular case, says the patholo- gist, is that in a
normal case of strangulation, there are marks on both shoulders, that is, in the classic
scene in which the attacker grabs the victim round the throat and the victim struggles to
get free. In this case, only one hand, or, rather, one finger stopped the blood reaching
the brain, while another finger paralyzed the body, rendering her in- capable of fighting
back. This requires a very sophisticated technique and a detailed knowledge of the human
body.

Could she have been killed somewhere else and carried to the bench where we found her?

If so, there would be other marks on her body. That was the first thing I looked for,
assuming she was killed by just one person. When I found no marks, I looked for any
indication that she had been grabbed by the wrists or ankles, if, that is, we were dealing
with more than one killer. But there was nothing to indicate this, indeed, without wishing
to go into more technical detail, there are certain things that happen at the moment of
death which leave traces in the body. Urine, for ex- ample, and . . .

What are you saying?

That she was killed where she was found and that, judging by the finger marks on her body,
only one person was involved; that since no one saw her trying to run away, she clearly
knew her killer, who was seated on her left side; and that her killer must be someone
highly trained and with an extensive knowledge of the martial arts. Savoy nods his thanks and walks quickly to the exit. On the way, he phones the police
station where the boyfriend is being interrogated.

Forget about drugs, he says. We have a murder on our hands. Try and find out what the
boyfriend knows about martial arts. Im coming straight over.

No, says the voice at the other end. Go straight to the hospital. I think we have another
problem.

A seagull was flying over a beach, when it saw a mouse. It flew down and asked the mouse:

Where are your wings?

Each animal speaks its own language, and so the mouse didnt under- stand the question, but
stared at the two strange, large things attached to the other creatures body.

It must have some illness, thought the mouse. The seagull noticed the mouse staring at its
wings and thought: Poor thing. It must have been attacked by monsters that left it deaf and took away its wings. Feeling sorry for the mouse, the seagull picked it up in its beak and
took it for a ride in the skies. Its probably homesick, the seagull thought while they were
flying. Then, very carefully, it deposited the mouse once more on the ground.

For some months afterward, the mouse was sunk in gloom; it had known the heights and seen
a vast and beautiful world. However, in time, it grew accustomed to being just a mouse
again and came to believe that the miracle that had occurred in its life was nothing but a
dream.

This was a story from her childhood, but right now, shes up in the sky: she can see the
turquoise sea, the luxurious yachts, the people small as ants below, the tents on the
beach, the hills, the horizon to her left, beyond which lay Africa and all its problems. The ground is approaching fast. Its best to view humankind from on high, she thinks. Only
then can we see how very small we are.

Ewa seems bored, either that or nervous. Hamid never really knows whats going on in his
wifes head, even though theyve been together for more than two years now. Cannes, its
true, is a trial for everyone concerned, but he cant leave the Festival any earlier than
planned. Be- sides, she should be used to all this because the life of her ex-husband
hadnt been so very different, with suppers to attend, events to organize, and having
constantly to change country, continent, and language.

Was she always like this or is it that she doesnt love me as much as she did at first?

A forbidden thought. Concentrate on other things, please.

The noise of the engine doesnt allow for conversation, unless you use the headphones with
the microphone attached. Ewa hasnt even picked hers up from the hook beside her seat. Not
that theres any point asking her to put them on so that he can tell her for the thousandth
time that shes the most important woman in his life and that hell do his best to make sure
she enjoys the week at this, her first Cannes Festival. The sound system on board is set
up so that every conversation can be overheard by the pilot, and Ewa hates public displays
of affection.

There they are, in that glass bubble, just about to touch down. He can see the huge white
car, a Maybach, the most expensive and most sophisticated car in the world. Even more
exclusive than Rolls-Royce. Soon theyll be sitting inside, listening to some relaxing
music, and drinking iced champagne or mineral water.

He consults his platinum watch, which is a certified copy of one of the first models
produced in a small workshop in the town of Schaff- hausen. Women can get away with
spending a fortune on diamonds, but a watch is the only piece of jewelry allowed to a man
of good taste, and only the true cognoscenti knew the significance of that watch, which
was rarely advertised in the glossy magazines.

That could be a definition of true sophistication: knowing where to find the very best
even if other people have never heard of it, and pro- ducing the very best too, regardless
of what others might say.

It was already nearly two oclock in the afternoon, and he needed to talk to his stockbroker in New York before trading opened on the stock exchange. When
he arrived, he would make a calljust one with his instructions for the day. Making money
at the casino, as he called the investment funds, was not his favorite sport; however, he
had to pretend to be keeping an eye on what his managers and financial engineers were up
to. He could rely on the protection, support, and vigilance of the sheikh, but
nevertheless he had to demonstrate that he was up-to-date on what was happening.

He might, in the end, have to make two phone calls, but give no concrete instructions on
what to buy or sell. His energy is focused on something else: that afternoon, at least two
actressesone famous and one unknownwill be walking down the red carpet wearing his
dresses. Obviously, he has assistants who can take care of everything, but he likes to be
personally involved, even if only to remind himself that every detail is important and
that he hasnt lost touch with the basis on which he built his empire. Apart from that, he
wants to spend the rest of his time in France trying to enjoy Ewas company to the full,
introducing her to interesting people, strolling on the beach, lunching together in some
small restaurant in a nearby town, or walking along, hand-in-hand, through the vineyards
he can see on the horizon.

He had always felt he was incapable of falling in love with anything other than his work,
although the list of his conquests includes an en- viable series of relationships with
some even more enviable women. The moment Ewa appeared on the scene, though, he was a
different man. They have been together for two years and his love is stronger and more
intense than ever. In love. Him, Hamid Hussein, one of the most famous designers on the
planet, the public face of a gigantic in- ternational conglomerate selling luxury and
glamour. The man who had battled against everything and everyone, who had challenged all
the Wests preconceived ideas about people from the Middle East and their religion, the man
who had used the ancestral knowledge of his tribe to survive, learn, and reach the top.
Contrary to rumor, he was not from a rich oil family. His father had been a seller of
cloth who, one day, had found favor with a sheikh simply because he refused to do as he
was told. Whenever Hamid had doubts about what decision to make, he liked to remember the example he
had received in adolescence: Say no to powerful people, even when doing so means taking a
great risk. It had almost always worked. And on the few occasions when it hadnt, the
consequences were not as grave as he had imagined.

His father had not, alas, lived to see his sons success. When the sheikh started buying up
all the available land in that part of the desert in order to build one of the most modern
cities in the world, his father had had the courage to say to one of the sheikhs
emissaries:

Im not selling. My family has been here for centuries. We buried our dead here. We learned
to survive storms and invaders. We cannot sell the place that God charged us to take care
of.

The emissaries increased their offer. When he still refused, they got angry and threatened
to do whatever was necessary to remove him. The sheikh, too, began to grow impatient. He
wanted to start his proj- ect straightaway because he had big plans. The price of oil had
risen on the international market, and the money needed to be spent before the oil
reserves ran out and any possibility of building an infrastructure to attract foreign
investments vanished.

Still old Hussein refused to sell his property, whatever the price. Then the sheikh
decided to go and speak to him directly.

I can offer you anything you desire, he said.

Then give my son a good education. Hes sixteen now, and there are no prospects for him
here.

Only if you sell me your house.

There was a long silence, then his father, looking straight at the sheikh, said something
the latter had never expected to hear.

You, sir, have a duty to educate your subjects, and I cannot ex- change my familys future
for its past.

Hamid recalls the look of immense sadness in his fathers eyes as he went on:

But if you can at least give my son a chance in life, then I will accept your offer.

The sheikh left without saying another word. The following day, he asked Hamids father to
send his son to him so that they could talk.

After walking down blocked roads, past gigantic cranes, laborers tire- lessly working, and
whole quarters in the process of being demolished, Hamid finally reached the palace that
had been built beside the old port.

The sheikh came straight to the point.

You know that I want to buy your fathers house. There is very little oil left in our
country, and we must wean ourselves off oil and find other paths before the oil wells run
dry. We will prove to the world that we can sell not only oil, but our services too.
Meanwhile, in order to take those first steps, we need to make some major reforms, like
build- ing a good airport, for example. We need land so that foreigners can build on it.
My dream is a just one and my intentions are good. One thing were going to need are more
experts in the field of finance. Now, you heard the conversation between myself and your
father . . .

Hamid tried to disguise his fear, for there were more than a dozen people listening to
their conversation. However, his heart had an answer ready for each question he was asked.

. . . so tell me, what do you want to do? asked the sheikh. I want to study haute couture.
The other people present looked at each other. They might not even have known what he meant. My father sells much of the cloth he buys to foreigners, who then turn his cloth into designer clothes and earn a hundred times more from it than he does.
Im sure we could do the same here. Im convinced that fashion could be one way of breaking
down the prejudices the rest of the world has about us. If they could be made to see that
we dont dress like barbarians, they would find it easier to accept us.

This time, he heard murmurings in the court. Was he talking about clothes? That was
something for Westerners, who were more con- cerned with how people looked on the outside
than with what they were like inside.

On the other hand, the price my father is paying is very high. I would prefer to keep our
house. I will work with the cloth he has, and if Merciful God so desires it, I will
realize my dream. I, like Your Maj- esty, know what I want. The court listened in amazement to hear this boy not only challeng- ing their regions
great leader, but refusing to accept his own fathers wishes. The sheikh, however, smiled.

And where does one study haute couture?

In France or Italy, working with the great masters. There are uni- versities where one can
study, but theres no substitute for experience. It wont be easy, but if Merciful God so
wishes, I will succeed.

The sheikh asked him to come back later that afternoon. Hamid strolled down to the port
and visited the bazaar, where he marveled at the colors, the cloths, and the embroidery.
He loved visiting the bazaar and it saddened him to think that it would soon be destroyed
because a part of the past and part of tradition would be lost. Was it possible to stop
progress? Would it be sensible to try and stop the development of a nation? He remembered
the many nights he had sat up late drawing by candlelight, copying the clothes the Bedouin
wore, afraid that tribal costumes would also one day be destroyed by the cranes and by
foreign investment.

At the appointed hour, he returned to the palace. There were even more people with the
sheikh now.

I have made two decisions, said the sheikh. First, I am going to pay your expenses for a
year. We have enough boys interested in a career in the financial sector, but you are the
first to express a wish to learn sewing. It seems utter madness, but then everyone tells
me my dreams are mad too, and yet look where theyve got me. I cannot go against my own
example.

On the other hand, none of my assistants has any contacts among the people you mentioned,
and so I will be paying you a small monthly allowance to keep you from having to beg in
the streets. You will return a winner; you will represent our country, and its important
that other nations should learn to respect our culture. Before leaving, you will have to
learn the languages of the countries to which you are going. Which languages are they?

English, French, and Italian. I am most grateful to you for your generosity, but what
about my father . . .

The sheikh gestured to him to be silent.

My second decision is as follows. Your fathers house will remain where it is. In my dreams
it will be surrounded by skyscrapers, no sun will enter its windows, and, in the end, he
will have to move. However, the house will stay there forever. In the future, people will
remember me and say: He was a great man because he changed his country. And he was just
because he respected the rights of a seller of cloth.

The helicopter lands at the
very end of the pier, and he leaves aside his memories. He gets out first and then
proffers Ewa a helping hand. He touches her skin and looks proudly at this blonde woman,
all dressed in white, her clothes glowing in the sunlight, her other hand holding on to
the lovely, discreet beige hat she is wearing. They walk past the ranks of yachts moored
on either side, toward the car that awaits them and the chauffeur standing with the door
already open.

He holds his wifes hand and whispers in her ear:

I hope you enjoyed the lunch. Theyre great collectors of art, and it was very generous of
them to provide a helicopter for us.

Yes, I loved it.

But what Ewa really means is: No, I hated it. Worse, Im feeling really frightened. Ive
just received a text on my mobile phone and I know who sent it, even though I cant
identify the number.

They get into the vast car made for just two people, the rest being empty space. The
air-conditioning is set at the ideal temperature, the music is exactly right for such a
moment, and no outside noise pen- etrates their perfect isolation. He sits down on the
comfortable leather seat, opens the mini-bar in front of them, and asks if Ewa would like
some champagne. No, she says, mineral water will be fine.

I saw your ex-husband yesterday in the hotel bar, before we left for supper.