The Winner Stands Alone Read online

  They make a secret pact with themselves never to think about the future. They spend much of what they earn on beauty products promising eternal youth. They adore shoes, but they're so expensive; nevertheless, they sometimes treat themselves and buy a pair of the very best. They get clothes from friends in the fashion world at half the usual price. They share a small apartment with their parents, a brother who's at university and a sister who's chosen to be a librarian or a scientist. Everyone assumes the girls must be earning a fortune and frequently ask them for loans, to which the girls agree because they want to appear important, rich, generous, and different from other mortals. When they go to the bank, though, their account is always in the red and they've overshot their credit card limit.

  They acquire hundreds of business cards, meet well-dressed men who make proposals of work they know to be false, but they phone them now and then to keep in touch, conscious that they might need help one day, even though that help comes at a price. They all fall into the same traps. They all dream of easy success, only to realize that it doesn't exist. By seventeen, they have all suffered innumerable disappointments, betrayals, humiliations, and yet still they believe.

  They sleep badly because of the various pills they take. They listen to stories about anorexia--the commonest illness in their world, a kind of mental disturbance caused by an obsession with weight and one's physical appearance, and which culminates in the body rejecting all nourishment. They say it won't ever happen to them, but never notice when the first symptoms appear.

  They step out of childhood straight into a world of glitz and glamour, without passing through adolescence. When asked what their plans are for the future, they always have the answer on the tip of their tongue: "I'm going to study philosophy. I'm just working to pay for my studies."

  They know this isn't true. Or rather, they know that something about these words doesn't ring true, but they can't quite put their finger on what it is. Do they really want a degree? Do they really need that money for their studies? They don't have time for college because there's always a casting session in the morning, a photo shoot in the afternoon, a cocktail party before dark, then another party they have to go to in order to be seen, admired, and desired.

  To other people, they seem to lead a fairy-tale existence. And, for a while, they, too, believe that this is the real meaning of life; after all, they have almost everything they once envied in the girls who appeared in magazines and cosmetic ads. With a little discipline, they can even save a little money, until, after a careful, daily examination of their skin, they discover the first mark left by age. After that, they know it's only a matter of time before a designer or a photographer notices the same thing. Their days are numbered.

  I took the one less traveled by,

  And that has made all the difference.

  Instead of going back to her book, Jasmine gets up, fills her glass with champagne (it's always there, but rarely drunk), picks up a hot dog, and goes over to the window. She stands there in silence, looking out at the sea. Her story is different.

  1:46 P.M.

  He wakes up bathed in sweat. When he looks at the clock on the bedside table, he realizes that he's only been asleep for forty minutes. He's exhausted, frightened, in a state of panic. He had always thought himself incapable of harming anyone, and yet this morning he has already killed two innocent people. It isn't the first time he's destroyed a world, but, before, he had always had good reasons for doing so.

  He dreamed that the girl on the bench near the beach came to see him and instead of condemning him, blessed him. He lay in her lap, weeping and begging her to forgive him, but she seemed not to care about that, and simply stroked his hair and told him not to upset himself. Olivia, the image of generosity and forgiveness. He wonders now if his love for Ewa is worth what he is doing.

  He prefers to believe that it is. The fact that Olivia is on his side, that he met with her on a higher plane closer to the Divine, and that everything has been so much easier than he imagined, all this indicates that there must be a reason behind what is happening.

  IT HADN'T BEEN DIFFICULT TO evade the vigilant eyes of Javits's friends. He knew that such men, as well as being physically prepared to react rapidly and precisely, were trained to memorize each face, follow every movement, second-guess any danger. They probably knew he was armed, which is why they watched him for a while, but relaxed when they realized he didn't constitute a threat. They might even have thought he was in the same line of work and had gone to the tent to check out the place and see if it was safe for his own boss.

  He had no boss. And he was a threat. The moment he went into the tent and decided who would be his next victim, there was no turning back, or only at the risk of losing all self-respect. He saw that the ramp leading into the tent was guarded, but that it was perfectly easy to slip out onto the beach. He left ten minutes after he had arrived, hoping that Javits's friends would notice that he had gone. He then walked round the tent and came back up the ramp reserved for guests at the Hotel Martinez (he had to show his key card) and into the area reserved for the "lunch." Walking on sand in one's shoes wasn't the pleasantest thing in the world, and Igor noticed that he was still feeling tired from the flight, from the fear that his plan might prove impossible to achieve, and from the tension he felt after destroying the universe and future generations of that poor young vendor of craftwork. Nevertheless, he had to go on.

  BEFORE RETURNING TO THE TENT, he took from his pocket the drinking straw that he had made a point of keeping. He opened the small glass flask he had shown to Olivia. It did not, as he had told her, contain petrol, but something quite insignificant: a needle and a piece of cork. Using a thin metal blade, he made a hole in the cork the same diameter as the straw.

  THEN HE REJOINED THE PARTY, which, by then, was full of guests strolling around, kissing and embracing, giving little yelps of recognition, clutching cocktails of every possible hue just to have something to do with their hands and to keep a check on their anxiety, as they waited for the buffet to open. They could eat then, in moderation, of course, because there were diets and plastic surgery to be considered and suppers at the end of the day, where they would have to eat even though they weren't hungry because that was what etiquette required.

  Most of the guests were older people, which meant that this was an event for professionals. The age of the guests further favored his plan, since almost all of them would need glasses. Needless to say, no one was wearing them because "tired eyes" are a sign of age. There, everyone had to dress and behave like people in the prime of life, "young at heart" and "in excellent health," and to pretend that they were indifferent to what was going on around them because they were preoccupied with other things, when the truth was that they couldn't actually see. Their contact lenses meant that they could just about identify a person a few yards away, and, besides, they would find out soon enough who it was they were talking to.

  Only two of the guests noticed everything and everyone--Javits's "friends." This time, however, they were the ones being observed.

  Igor placed the needle inside the straw, and pretended to put it back in his drink.

  A group of pretty girls standing near Javits's table appeared to be listening, entranced, to the extraordinary tales told by a Jamaican man. In fact, each girl was plotting how to get rid of her rivals and carry the man off to bed because Jamaicans have such a reputation as studs.

  Igor moved closer to Javits, took the straw from the glass, and blew through it, projecting the needle inside in the direction of his victim. He stayed only long enough to see Javits put his hand to his back. Then he left and went straight back to the hotel to try and get some sleep.

  CURARE, ORIGINALLY USED BY SOUTH American Indians for hunting with darts, can also be found in European hospitals because, under controlled conditions, it can be used to paralyze certain muscles, thus facilitating the surgeon's work. A fatal dose--like that on the point of the needle he had shot into Javits's back--coul
d kill a bird in just two minutes. Boar, on the other hand, take fifteen minutes to die, and large mammals--a man, for example--twenty.

  As soon as it gets into the bloodstream, the nervous fibers of the body relax, then stop functioning altogether, causing gradual asphyxia. The strangest thing--or the worst, some might say--is that the victim remains conscious throughout, but cannot move in order to ask for help nor stop the slow process of paralysis overtaking his body.

  If someone cuts his finger on a poisoned dart or arrow during a hunting expedition in the jungle, the Indians know exactly what to do. They use mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and an herbal antidote that they always carry with them because such accidents are commonplace. In cities, the paramedics can do nothing because they think they're dealing with a heart attack.

  Igor did not look back as he walked to the hotel. He knew that just then one of the two "friends" would be frantically searching out the perpetrator, while the other would be ringing for an ambulance, which would arrive quickly enough, but the crew would have little idea what was going on. They would be wearing colorful uniforms and high-visibility jackets, and carrying a defibrillator--to apply a series of shocks to the heart--and a portable electrocardiogram. In the case of curare, the heart seems to be the last muscle affected and continues beating even after brain death has occurred.

  The paramedics would notice nothing strange about his heartbeat, and so would put him on a drip, assuming he was suffering from some form of heat stroke or food poisoning, although they would still take all the usual measures, even applying an oxygen mask. By then, the twenty minutes would be up, and although the body might still be alive, it would now be in a vegetative state.

  YES, HE HAD PLANNED EVERYTHING. He had used his private plane so that he could enter France with an unregistered gun and with the various poisons he had obtained via his connections with the Chechen mafia working in Moscow. Each step, each move had been carefully studied and rehearsed, as if he were planning a business meeting. He had made a list of victims in his head. Apart from the one he had met and talked to, the others were all to be of different classes, ages, and nationalities. He had spent months analyzing the lives of serial killers, using a computer program that was very popular with terrorists and which left no record of any searches you made. He had taken all the necessary steps to escape unnoticed once he had carried out his mission.

  He is sweating. No, it's not remorse--perhaps Ewa really does deserve such a sacrifice--but the thought of the possible futility of the project. He needed the woman he most loved to know he was capable of doing anything for her, including destroying universes, but was it really worth it? Or is it sometimes necessary to accept fate and allow things to develop in their own way and simply wait for people to come to their senses in their own time?

  He's tired. He can't think straight anymore and, who knows, perhaps martyrdom was better than murder, surrendering himself and thus making a greater sacrifice, offering up his own life for love. Jesus was the best example of that. When his enemies saw Jesus defeated and hung upon a cross, they thought it was all over. They felt proud of what they, the victors, had done, convinced that they had put paid to the problem once and for all.

  Igor is confused. His intention was to destroy universes, not relinquish his freedom out of love. In his dream, the girl with the dark eyebrows had resembled Notre Dame de Pietat; the mother with her son in her arms, at once proud and long-suffering.

  He goes into the bathroom, puts his head under the shower, and turns on the cold water. Perhaps it's lack of sleep, being in a strange place, in a different time zone, or the fact that he was actually doing the thing he had planned to do, but never thought he would. He remembers the promise he made before the relics of St. Mary Magdalene in Moscow. But is what he's doing right? He needs a sign.

  Sacrifice. Yes, he should have thought of that, but perhaps he needed the experience of destroying those two worlds this morning to be able to see more clearly what is going on. The redemption of love through total surrender. His body will be handed over to the executioners who judge only one's gestures and who forget about the intentions and reasons that lie behind any act that society considers "insane." Jesus (who understands that love merits any amount of sacrifice) will receive his spirit, and Ewa will have his soul. She will know what he was capable of: surrender, self-immolation, and all for the sake of one person. He won't be condemned to death because the guillotine was abolished in France decades ago, but he might spend many years in prison. Ewa will repent of her sins. She'll come to see him, bring him food, they'll have time to talk, reflect, love, and even though their bodies do not touch, their souls will be closer than ever. Even if they have to wait years before they can live in the house he intends to build on the shores of Lake Baikal, that period of waiting will purify and bless them.

  Yes, sacrifice. He turns off the shower, looks at his face in the mirror for a moment, and sees not himself, but the Lamb prepared to be slaughtered once again. He puts on the same clothes he was wearing this morning, goes out into the street, heads for the place where the little street vendor used to sit, and goes up to the first policeman he meets.

  "I killed the girl who used to work here."

  The policeman looks at him and sees a well-dressed man with disheveled hair and dark circles under his eyes.

  "The one who used to sell craftwork?"

  Igor nods.

  The policeman doesn't take much notice of him. He greets a couple who are walking by, laden with shopping.

  "You should get a maid!"

  "If you'll pay her wages," retorts the woman, smiling. "You just can't get the staff these days!"

  "Oh, come on, money can't be the reason. You have a different diamond on your finger every week."

  Igor cannot understand what's going on. He has just confessed to a murder.

  "Did you hear what I said?"

  "Look, it's very hot. Go and lie down for a bit. Cannes has a lot to offer its visitors."

  "But what about the girl?"

  "Did you know her?"

  "I'd never seen her before in my life. She was here this morning. I..."

  "...you saw the ambulance arrive and someone being taken away and concluded she'd been murdered. I don't know where you're from, sir, I don't know if you've got children yourself, but just watch out for drugs. People say they're not as bad as all that, but look what happened to that poor girl."

  And the policeman moves away without waiting for a response.

  Should Igor have insisted, given more details? Then would the policeman have taken him seriously? But, of course, it's impossible to kill someone in broad daylight and on the main street in Cannes. He had even been ready to own up to the other world he had destroyed at a party packed with people.

  But the representative of law and order and good manners hadn't wanted to listen to him. What kind of world was he living in? Would he have to take the gun out of his pocket and start firing in all directions for them to believe him? Would he have to behave like a barbarian who kills for no reason before they would finally listen to him?

  Igor watches the policeman cross the road and go into a snack bar. He decides to wait for a while, just in case he should change his mind, get further information from the police station and come back and ask him for more details of the crime.

  However, he's pretty certain that won't happen. He remembers the policeman's remark to the woman about the diamond on her finger. Did he perhaps know where it came from? Of course not; if he did, he would have taken her straight to the police station and charged her with handling criminal property.

  As far as the woman was concerned, the diamond had magically appeared in some high-class shop, having--as the shop assistants always said--first been cut by Dutch or Belgian jewelers. It would be classified according to cut, color, clarity, and carat weight. The price could vary from a few hundred euros to something most mere mortals would consider truly outrageous.

  A diamond, or brilliant to give it its
other name, is, as everyone knows, just a piece of coal that has been worked on by heat and time. Since it contains no organic matter, it is impossible to know how long it takes for its structure to change, although geologists estimate something between three hundred million and a billion years. Diamonds generally form ninety miles below the Earth's crust and gradually rise to the surface, where they can be mined.

  Diamond is the hardest and most resistant of natural materials, and it takes a diamond to cut another diamond. The particles produced by this process are used in machines made for polishing and cutting. The real importance of diamonds lies in their use as jewels. A diamond is the supreme manifestation of human vanity.

  A few decades ago, in a world that seemed about to return to more practical things and greater social equality, diamonds began to disappear from the market. Then the largest mining company in the world, with its headquarters in South Africa, decided to commission one of the best advertising agencies in the world. Superclass met with Superclass, research was carried out, and the result was a three-word phrase:

  "Diamonds are forever."

  Problem solved. Jewelers took up the slogan, and the industry began to flourish again. If diamonds are forever, what better way to express one's love, which, in theory at least, should also be eternal? What better way of distinguishing the Superclass from the other billions of inhabitants who make up the bottom half of the pyramid? The demand for the stones increased and prices started to rise. In a matter of a few years, that same South African company, which had, up until then, set the rules for the international market, found itself surrounded by corpses.