Olivia was lovely, even in death. Her dark eyebrows, that childlike air, her breasts…“No,” he thinks, “I mustn’t go there. I’m a professional.”
“I can’t see anything,” he says.
The pathologist smiles, and Savoy finds his smugness slightly irritating. The expert points to a small, purplish, almost imperceptible mark between the girl’s 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 hasn’t 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 merchandise—illegal merchandise, it must be said, because street vendors pay no taxes and are, therefore, banned from trading. “Although that’s hardly relevant now,” he thinks.
“The intriguing thing about this particular case,” says the pathologist, “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 incapable 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 example, 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. I’m coming straight over.”
“No,” says the voice at the other end. “Go straight to the hospital. I think we have another problem.”
1:28 P.M.
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 didn’t understand the question, but stared at the two strange, large things attached to the other creature’s 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. “It’s 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, she’s 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. “It’s 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 what’s going on in his wife’s head, even though they’ve been together for more than two years now. Cannes, it’s true, is a trial for everyone concerned, but he can’t leave the Festival any earlier than planned. Besides, she should be used to all this because the life of her ex-husband hadn’t 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 doesn’t love me as much as she did at first?”
A forbidden thought. Concentrate on other things, please.
The noise of the engine doesn’t allow for conversation, unless you use the headphones with the microphone attached. Ewa hasn’t even picked hers up from the hook beside her seat. Not that there’s any point asking her to put them on so that he can tell her for the thousandth time that she’s the most important woman in his life and that he’ll 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 they’ll 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 Schaffhausen. 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 producing the very best too, regardless of what others might say.
It was already nearly two o’clock 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 call—just 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 actresses—one famous and one unknown—will 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 hasn’t 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 Ewa’s 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 enviable 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 international conglomerate selling luxury and glamour. The man who had battled against everything and everyone, who had challenged all the West’s 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 hadn’t, the consequences were not as grave as he had imagined.
His father had not, alas, lived to see his son’s 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 sheikh’s emissaries:
“I’m 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 project 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. He’s 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 exchange my family’s future for its past.”
Hamid recalls the look of immense sadness in his father’s 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 Hamid’s father to send his son to him so that they could talk. After walking down blocked roads, past gigantic cranes, laborers tirelessly 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 father’s 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 building 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 we’re 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. I’m sure we could do the same here. I’m 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 don’t 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 concerned 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 Majesty, know what I want.”
The court listened in amazement to hear this boy not only challenging their region’s great leader, but refusing to accept his own father’s wishes. The sheikh, however, smiled.
“And where does one study haute couture?”
“In France or Italy, working with the great masters. There are universities where one can study, but there’s no substitute for experience. It won’t 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 they’ve 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 it’s 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 father’s 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 ha
nd. 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 wife’s hand and whispers in her ear:
“I hope you enjoyed the lunch. They’re 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, I’m feeling really frightened. I’ve just received a text on my mobile phone and I know who sent it, even though I can’t 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 penetrates 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.”
“That’s impossible. He has no business in Cannes.”
She would like to have said: “You may be right. I’ve just received a text. We should board the next plane out of here.”
The Winner Stands Alone Page 9