The Winner Stands Alone Page 13

  Igor knows what he's talking about. When he helped form an army to get involved in a tribal conflict in Africa, it had proved an extremely difficult task. Not that he regrets it because, although few people knew about the project, he managed to save many lives. He had mentioned it once in passing to Ewa over some now-forgotten supper, but had decided to say no more. When he performed a charitable act, he preferred his right hand not to know what his left hand was doing. Diamonds had helped him save many lives, although that fact will never appear in his biography.

  The policeman who takes no notice when a criminal confesses to a crime, but praises the jewel on the finger of a woman carrying bags packed with toilet paper and cleaning materials, is simply not fit for the job. He doesn't know that this pointless industry creates about fifty billion dollars a year, employs a vast army of miners, transporters, private security companies, diamond factories, insurance companies, wholesalers, and luxury boutiques. He doesn't realize that it begins in the mud and has to cross whole rivers of blood before it reaches a shop window.

  The mud is where the miner spends his life looking for the stone that will eventually bring him the fortune he so desires. He finds several and sells each stone for an average of twenty dollars, a stone that will end up costing the consumer ten thousand dollars. But he's happy enough because, where he lives, people earn less than fifty dollars a year, and five stones are enough for him to enjoy a short but happy life, working as he does in the worst possible conditions.

  THE STONES ARE BOUGHT BY unidentified buyers and immediately passed on to irregular armies in Liberia, in the Congo, and in Angola. In those countries, a man, surrounded by guards armed to the teeth, is designated to go to an airstrip where planes can land illegally. A plane duly lands, a man in a suit gets out, usually accompanied by another man in shirtsleeves, carrying a small suitcase. There is a perfunctory exchange of greetings. The man with the bodyguards hands over a few small packages; perhaps for superstitious reasons, the packages are always made from old tights.

  The man in shirtsleeves takes a special jeweler's eyeglass from his pocket, puts it to his left eye, and begins to check each piece, one by one. After about an hour and a half, he has a good idea of what he's dealing with; he then takes a small precision electronic weighing balance from his case and empties the contents of the packages onto the scale. He makes a few calculations on a sheet of paper. The material is placed in the suitcase along with the balance; the man in the suit signals to the armed guards, and five or six of them board the plane. They start to unload large crates, which they pile up beside the airstrip until the plane leaves again. The whole operation takes most of the day.

  The large crates are opened. They contain precision rifles, antipersonnel mines, and bullets that explode on impact, releasing dozens of small, deadly metal balls. The arms are handed out to mercenaries and soldiers, and soon the country finds itself facing another ruthless coup d'etat. Whole tribes are murdered, children's legs or arms are blown off by cluster bombs, women are raped. Meanwhile, a long way away--usually in Antwerp or in Amsterdam--earnest men are working with love and dedication, painstakingly cutting the stones, exhilarated by their own skill, hypnotized by the flashes of light that begin to emerge from each new facet of that piece of coal whose structure was transformed by time. Diamond cutting diamond.

  On the one hand, women screaming in despair beneath a smoke-shrouded sky. On the other, beautiful old buildings seen through the windows of well-lit rooms.

  In 2002, the United Nations adopted a resolution, the Kimberley Process, that tried to trace the origin of diamonds and forbade jewelers from buying any that came from war zones. For some time, the respectable European diamond cutters went back to buying stones from the South African monopoly. However, ways were found of making a diamond "official," and the resolution became a mere sham that allowed politicians to claim that they were doing something to put an end to "blood diamonds," as these became known.

  Five years ago, Igor had swapped diamonds for arms and created a small group intended to put an end to a bloody conflict in the north of Liberia, and he had succeeded--only the murderers were killed. Peace returned to the small villages, and the diamonds were sold to jewelers in America, with no awkward questions asked.

  When society doesn't act to stop crime, men have the right to do whatever they think correct.

  SOMETHING SIMILAR HAD HAPPENED A few minutes ago on that beach. As soon as both murders were discovered, someone would turn to the public and say what they always said:

  "We're doing our best to identify the murderer."

  So be it. Once again, ever-generous destiny had shown the way ahead. Sacrifice wasn't enough. Besides, when he thought about it, Ewa would have found his absence unbearable, with no one to talk to during the long nights and endless days while she awaited his release. She would weep whenever she thought of him in his cold cell, staring at the blank prison walls. And when the time finally came for them to go and live in the house on the shores of Lake Baikal, they might be too old to experience all the adventures they had planned together.

  The policeman comes out of the snack bar and joins him on the pavement.

  "Are you still here, sir? Are you lost? Do you need help?"

  "No, thank you."

  "Like I said, go and have a rest. The sun can be very dangerous at this time of day."

  He goes back to the hotel and takes a shower. He asks the receptionist to wake him at four, that way he should be rested enough to recover the necessary clarity of mind not to go doing any more such foolish things. He had very nearly ruined his whole plan.

  He phones the concierge and reserves a table on the hotel terrace for when he wakes up; he'd like to drink some tea there undisturbed. Then he lies down, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for sleep to come.

  What does it matter where diamonds are from, as long as they shine?

  In this world, only love deserves absolutely everything. Nothing else makes sense.

  As he has many times before in his life, Igor feels a sense of total freedom. The confusion in his head is slowly disappearing and lucidity is returning.

  He had placed his fate in Jesus' hands, and Jesus had decided that he should continue with his mission.

  He falls asleep without any feeling of guilt whatsoever.

  1:55 P.M.

  Gabriela decides to walk very slowly to the place where she is to pick up the boat. She needs to put her thoughts in order, she needs to calm down. She is at a point where not only her most secret dreams might become reality, but also her worst nightmares.

  Her phone rings. It's a text message from her agent.

  CONGRATULATIONS. ACCEPT WHATEVER THEY OFFER. XXX

  She watches the crowds of people who seem to be wandering aimlessly up and down the Boulevard. She, on the other hand, has a goal! She isn't just another of the opportunists who come to Cannes and don't know quite where to start. She has a solid CV, some respectable professional baggage, she's never tried to get ahead in life merely by using her physical attributes, and she has real talent! That's why she's been chosen to meet this famous director, without any help from anyone, without having to dress in a provocative manner, without even having time to rehearse her role. He would, of course, take all these things into consideration.

  She stops for a snack--she hasn't eaten anything all day--and as soon as she takes her first sip of coffee, her thoughts seem to come back down to earth.

  Why had she been chosen?

  What exactly would her role in the film be?

  And what if, when Gibson saw the video of the audition, he decided she wasn't the person he was looking for?

  "Calm down."

  She has nothing to lose, she tells herself, but another voice insists:

  "This is your one and only chance."

  There's no such thing as a "one and only chance"; life always gives you another chance, but the voice says again:

  "Maybe, but how long before another chance comes along?
You know how old you are, don't you?"

  Of course she does. She's twenty-five, in a world in which actresses, even the most committed, etc. etc.

  She doesn't need to go over all that again. She pays for the sandwich and the coffee and makes her way over to the quay, this time trying to control her optimism, telling herself not to refer to other people as "opportunists," mentally reciting the rules of positive thinking that she can remember, anything to avoid dwelling on that all too imminent meeting.

  "If you believe in victory, then victory will believe in you."

  "Risk everything in the name of chance and keep well away from everything that offers you a world of comfort."

  "Talent is a universal gift, but it takes a lot of courage to use it. Don't be afraid to be the best."

  It isn't enough to focus on what great teachers have said, she needs help from the heavens. She starts to pray, as she always does when she's anxious. She feels the need to make a promise and decides that, if she does get the role, she will walk all the way from Cannes to the Vatican. If the film gets made. If it's a worldwide success.

  No, it would be enough just to get a part in a film with Gibson because that would attract the attention of other directors and producers. Then she will make the promised pilgrimage.

  She reaches the appointed place, looks at the sea and again at the message she received from her agent; if her agent already knows about it, that must mean the director is serious. But what did "accept whatever they offer" mean? That she should sleep with the director or with the starring actor?

  She's never done that before, but she's prepared to do anything now. Besides, who hasn't dreamed of sleeping with a movie star?

  She looks at the sea again. She could have gone back to the apartment and changed her clothes, but she's superstitious. If a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt were enough to get her this far, she should at least wait until the end of the day to change her clothes. She loosens her belt and sits in the lotus position and starts to do some yoga breathing. She breathes slowly, and body, heart, and thoughts all settle into place.

  She sees the launch approaching. A man jumps out and says:

  "Gabriela Sherry?"

  She nods, and the man asks her to go with him. They get into the launch and set off across a sea crowded with yachts of all types and sizes. The man doesn't say another word, as if he were far away, perhaps dreaming about what might be going on in the cabins of those small boats or how good it would be to own one. Gabriela hesitates: her head is full of questions and doubts, and a sympathetic word can often make a stranger into an ally who might help with valuable tips on how to behave. But she doesn't know who he is. He might have influence with Gibson or be merely a no-account assistant who gets landed with jobs like picking up unknown actresses and taking them to his boss.

  Best to say nothing.

  Five minutes later, they draw up alongside a huge white boat. The name on the prow is Santiago. A sailor climbs down a ladder and helps her aboard. She passes through the spacious central reception room in which preparations are under way for what looks like a big party later that night. She walks toward the stern of the ship, where there is a small swimming pool, two tables shaded by parasols, and a few sun loungers. Enjoying the afternoon sun are Gibson and the Star!

  "I wouldn't mind sleeping with either of them," she thinks, smiling to herself. She feels more confident, although her heart is beating faster than usual.

  The Star looks her up and down and gives her a friendly, reassuring smile. Gibson gives her a firm handshake, gets up, takes one of the chairs from the nearest table, and tells her to sit down.

  Then he phones someone and asks for the number of a hotel room. He repeats it out loud, looking at her.

  It was just as she imagined--a hotel room.

  He switches off his phone.

  "When you leave here, go straight to this suite at the Hilton. That's where Hamid Hussein's clothes are on display. You've been invited to tonight's party in Cap d'Antibes."

  It wasn't at all as she imagined. The part was hers. And she would be going to a party in Cap d'Antibes, a party in Cap d'Antibes!

  He turns to the Star.

  "What do you think?"

  "I think we should hear what she has to say."

  Gibson nods and makes a gesture meaning "Tell us a little about yourself." Gabriela starts with the drama course she took and the advertisements she's appeared in. She notices that the two men are no longer listening. They must have heard the same story thousands of times. And yet she can't stop, she's talking faster and faster, feeling that she has nothing more to say and that this chance of a lifetime depends on finding just the right word, which she is patently failing to do. She takes a deep breath and tries to appear at ease; she wants to seem witty and so she makes a joke, but she's incapable of departing from the script her agent taught her to follow in such interviews.

  After two minutes, Gibson interrupts her.

  "That's great, but we know all that from your CV. Why don't you talk about you?"

  Some inner barrier suddenly crumbles. Instead of panicking, her voice grows calmer and steadier.

  "I'm just one of millions of people in the world who have always dreamed of being on a yacht like this, looking at the sea, and talking about the possibility of working with at least one of you gentlemen. And you both know that. I doubt there's anything else I might say that will change anything very much. Am I single? Yes. But as is the case with all single women, there's a man back home who's madly in love with me and is waiting for me in Chicago right now, hoping that things here will all go horribly wrong."

  Both men laugh, and she relaxes a little more.

  "I want to get as far as I can, although I know I'm almost at the limit of what's possible, given that in the world of movies, my age is already against me. I know there are lots of people out there with as much or more talent than me, but I was chosen--why I don't know--and I've decided to run with it. This might be my last chance, and perhaps the fact that I'm saying this now will decrease my value, but I have no choice. All my life, I've imagined a moment like this: doing an audition, getting chosen, and being able to work with real professionals. It's finally happened. If it goes no further than this meeting and I return home empty-handed, at least I know I got here because of two qualities: integrity and perseverance.

  "I'm my own best friend and my own worst enemy. Before coming here, I was thinking that I didn't deserve it, that I wouldn't be able to meet your expectations, and that you had probably chosen the wrong candidate. At the same time, my heart was telling me that I was being rewarded because I hadn't given up and had fought to the end."

  She looks away and suddenly feels an intense desire to cry, but controls herself because that might be seen as emotional blackmail. The Star's mellow voice breaks the silence.

  "There are honest people in the movie world, people who value professionalism, just as there are in any industry. That's why I've got where I am today, and the same with our director here. I've been through exactly what you're going through now. We know how you feel."

  Her whole life passes before her eyes. All the years of seeking without finding, of knocking on doors that wouldn't open, of asking and never getting an answer and being met with blank indifference, as if she didn't exist. All the nos she had heard when no one even seemed to notice she was alive and at least deserved a response.

  "I mustn't cry."

  She thinks about all the people who have told her over the years that she's chasing an impossible dream and who, if this turned out right, would be sure to say: "I always knew you had talent!" Her lips start to tremble. It's as if all these thoughts were suddenly flowing out of her heart. She's glad to have had the guts to show that she's human and frail and that being chosen has made a huge difference to her soul. If Gibson were now to change his mind about her, she could take the launch back to shore with no regrets. At the moment of battle, she had shown real courage.

  She depends on othe
r people. It's taken her a long time to learn this lesson, but she's finally accepted that it's true. She knows people who are proud of their emotional independence, although the truth is they're as fragile as she is and weep in private and never ask for help. They believe in the unwritten rule that says, "The world is for the strong" and "Only the fittest survive." If that were true, human beings would never have survived because, as a species, we require care and protection for several years. Her father once told her that we only acquire some ability to survive alone by the age of nine, whereas a giraffe takes a mere five hours and a bee achieves independence in less than five minutes.

  "What are you thinking?" asks the Star.

  "That I don't need to pretend I'm strong, which is an enormous relief. I used to have a lot of problems with relationships because I thought I knew better than anyone else how to get where I wanted. All my boyfriends hated me for this, and I couldn't understand why. Once, though, when I was on tour with a play, I came down with the most terrible flu and couldn't leave my room, even though I was terrified that someone else would take my part. I couldn't eat, I was delirious with fever, and eventually they called a doctor, who ordered me home. I thought I had lost both my job and the respect of my colleagues. But that wasn't the case at all: they showered me with flowers and phone calls. They all wanted to know how I was. Suddenly, I realized that the people I believed to be my rivals, competing for the same place in the spotlight, were really concerned about me. One of the other actresses sent me a card on which she'd written the words of a doctor who went abroad to work in some far-off country. He wrote:

  "'We've all heard about an illness in Central Africa called sleeping sickness. What we should also know is that a similar disease exists that attacks the soul. It's very dangerous because the early stages often go unnoticed. At the first sign of indifference or lack of enthusiasm, take note! The only preventive against this disease is the realization that the soul suffers, suffers greatly, when we force it to live superficially. The soul loves all things beautiful and deep.'"