The Winner Stands Alone

by Paulo Coelho; Margaret Jull Costa

  “I’m happy. I’m excited,” he thinks.

  His prayers might well be with the families of the dead, but his heart, after many years of inertia, is returning to the world of the living.

  SAVOY HAD IMAGINED A VAST library full of dusty books, piles of magazines, a desk strewn with papers, but the office is, in fact, painted entirely in immaculate white and furnished with a few tasteful lamps, a comfortable armchair, and a glass table on which sits a large computer screen and nothing else, just a wireless keyboard and a small notepad with an expensive Montegrappa pen lying on it.

  “Wipe that smile off your face and at least try to look a little concerned,” says the man with the white beard, who is dressed, despite the heat, in tweed jacket, tie, and tailored trousers, an outfit not at all in keeping with the décor or with the subject under discussion.

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  “I know how you’re feeling. This is the biggest case of your career, in a town where normally nothing happens. I went through the same inner turmoil when I lived and worked in Penycae, Swansea. And it was thanks to a very similar case that I got transferred to Scotland Yard.”

  “My dream is to work in Paris,” thinks Savoy, but he says nothing. The man invites him to take a seat.

  “I hope you, too, get a chance to realize your professional dream. Anyway, nice to meet you. I’m Stanley Morris.”

  Savoy decides to change the subject.

  “The commissioner is afraid that the press will start speculating about there being a serial killer on the loose.”

  “They can speculate all they like, it’s a free country. It’s the kind of thing that sells newspapers and brings a little excitement into the dull lives of pensioners who will watch all the media for any new tidbit on the subject with a mixture of fear and certainty that it will never happen to them.”

  “I hope you’ve received a detailed description of the victims. Does the evidence so far suggest to you a serial killer, or are we dealing here with some sort of revenge killing on the part of drug cartels?”

  “Yes, I got the descriptions. By the way, they wanted to send them to me by fax, for heaven’s sake. How old-fashioned! I asked them to send the information by e-mail, and do you know what they said? ‘We don’t usually do that.’ Imagine! One of the best-equipped police forces in the world still relying entirely on a fax machine!”

  Savoy shifts rather impatiently in his chair. He isn’t here to discuss the pros and cons of modern technology.

  “Let’s get down to business,” says Dr. Morris, who had been quite a celebrity at Scotland Yard, but had decided to retire to the South of France and was possibly as glad as Savoy to have a break from routine—in Morris’s case one that now revolved around reading, concerts, charity teas, and suppers.

  “Since this is the first time I’ve met such a case, could you perhaps tell me whether or not you agree with my theory that there is only one killer, just so that I know where I stand.”

  Dr. Morris explains that in theory, yes, he’s right: three murders with certain common characteristics would normally be enough to indicate a serial killer. And such murders were usually confined to one geographical area (in this case, the town of Cannes), and…

  “Whereas, a mass murderer…”

  Dr. Morris interrupts him and asks him not to misuse terminology. Mass murderers are terrorists or immature adolescents who go into a school or a snack bar and shoot everyone in sight, and who are then either shot dead by the police or commit suicide. They have a preference for guns and bombs that will cause the maximum amount of damage in a short space of time, usually two to three minutes at most. Such people don’t care about the consequences of their actions because they know exactly how it will end.

  “In the collective unconscious, the concept of the mass murderer is easier to take on board because he’s clearly ‘mentally unbalanced’ and therefore easily distinguishable from ‘us.’ The serial murderer, on the other hand, touches on something far more complicated—the destructive instinct we all carry within us.”

  He pauses.

  “Have you read Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by Robert Louis Stevenson?”

  Savoy explains that he has so much work that he has little time for reading. Morris’s gaze grows icy.

  “And do you think I don’t have work to do?”

  “No, no, I didn’t mean that. Listen, Dr. Morris, I’m here on an urgent mission. I’m not interested in discussing technology or literature. I just want to know what conclusions you drew from the reports.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid we can’t, in this instance, avoid literature. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is the story of an apparently normal individual, Dr. Jekyll, who, in seeking to explore his own violent impulses, discovers a way of transforming himself periodically into a creature entirely without morality, Mr. Hyde. We all have those impulses, Inspector. A serial killer doesn’t just threaten our physical safety, he threatens our sanity too. Because whether we like it or not, we all carry around in us a great destructive power and have all, at some point, wondered what it would be like to give free rein to that most repressed of feelings—the desire to take someone else’s life.

  “There are many reasons for this: wanting to put the world to rights, to get revenge for something that happened in our childhood, to vent one’s suppressed hatred of society, but, whether consciously or unconsciously, everyone has felt that desire at one time or another, even if only in childhood.”

  Another meaningful silence.

  “I imagine that, regardless of your chosen profession, you must yourself have experienced this feeling. Tormenting a cat perhaps or torturing some perfectly harmless insect.”

  It’s Savoy’s turn now to give Morris an icy stare and say nothing. Morris, however, interprets his silence as consent and continues talking in the same easy, superior tone:

  “Don’t expect to find some visibly unbalanced person with wild hair and a hate-filled leer on his face. If you ever do have time to read—although I know you’re a busy man—I would recommend a book by Hannah Arendt, Eichmann in Jerusalem. There she analyzes the trial of one of the worst serial killers in history. Obviously, Eichmann needed help to carry out the gigantic task he was given: the purification of the human race. Just a moment.”

  He goes over to his computer. He knows that the man with him wants results, but that simply isn’t possible. He needs to educate him and prepare him for the difficult days ahead.

  “Here it is. Arendt made a detailed analysis of the trial of Adolf Eichmann, who was responsible for the extermination of six million Jews in Nazi Germany. She says that the half a dozen psychiatrists charged with examining him had all concluded that he was normal. His psychological profile and his attitude toward wife, children, mother, and father were all within the social parameters one expects in a responsible man. Arendt goes on: ‘The trouble with Eichmann was precisely that so many were like him, and that the many were neither perverted nor sadistic, that they were, and still are, terribly and terrifyingly normal. From the viewpoint of our legal institutions and of our moral standards of judgment, this normality was much more terrifying than all the atrocities put together…’”

  Now he could get down to business.

  “I notice from the autopsies that there was no sign of sexual abuse…”

  “Dr. Morris, I have a problem to solve and I need to do so quickly. I want to know whether or not we’re dealing with a serial killer. No one could possibly rape a man in the middle of a lunch party or a girl on a public bench in broad daylight.”

  He might as well have said nothing. Morris ignores him completely and continues.

  “…which is a common feature in many serial killers. Some have what you might call ‘humane’ motives. Nurses who kill terminally ill patients, people who murder beggars in the street, social workers who feel so sorry for certain pensioners or disabled people that they reach the conclusion they’d be better off in the next life—there was one such
case in California just recently. There are also people bent on putting society to rights, and in those cases, the victims tend to be prostitutes.”

  “Dr. Morris, I didn’t come here…”

  This time Morris raises his voice slightly.

  “And I didn’t invite you. I’m doing you a favor. If you want to leave, please do so, but if you’re going to stay, please stop interrupting my argument every two minutes. In order to catch someone, we have to understand the way he thinks.”

  “So you do believe we’re dealing with a serial killer?”

  “I haven’t finished yet.”

  Savoy controls himself. After all, why was he in such a hurry? Wouldn’t it be more fun to let the press tie itself in knots and then present them with the solution?

  “Please go on.”

  Morris moves the monitor so that Savoy can see more clearly. On the large screen is an engraving, possibly from the nineteenth century.

  “This is the most famous of all serial killers: Jack the Ripper. He was active in London in the second half of 1888, and was responsible for killing five or possibly seven women in public and semi-public places. He would rip open their bellies and disembowel them. He was never found. He became a legend, and even today, there are still people trying to uncover his real identity.”

  The image on the screen changes to reveal what looks like something from an astrological chart.

  “This is the signature of the Zodiac Killer. He’s known to have killed five couples in California over a period of ten months, mostly courting couples who had parked their cars in isolated spots. He used to send letters to the police bearing this symbol, which is rather like a Celtic cross. No one has yet managed to identify him.

  “Researchers believe that both Jack the Ripper and the Zodiac Killer were people who were trying to restore moral order and decency to their particular areas. They had, if you like, a mission to fulfill. And contrary to what the press would have us believe with the terrifying nicknames they invent, like the Boston Strangler and the Child Killer of Toulouse, these were ordinary folk who would get together with their neighbors at weekends and who worked hard to earn a living. None of them ever benefited financially from their criminal acts.”

  The conversation is beginning to interest Savoy.

  “So it could be anyone who came to Cannes to attend the Film Festival…”

  “Yes, having first made a conscious decision to create an atmosphere of terror for some completely absurd reason, for example ‘to overthrow the dictatorship of fashion’ or ‘to put a stop to the making of films that provoke violence.’ The press will come up with some bloodcurdling soubriquet for him and start chasing various leads. Crimes that have nothing to do with the killer will start being attributed to him. Panic will ensue and only come to an end if by chance—and I repeat, by chance—the killer is caught. These killers are often only active for a short period of time and then disappear completely, having left their mark on history. They may perhaps write a diary that will be discovered after their death, but that’s all.”

  Savoy has stopped looking at his watch. His phone rings, but he decides not to answer. The subject is far more complicated than he thought.

  “So you agree with me?”

  “Yes,” says the expert from Scotland Yard, the man who had become a legend by solving five cases that everyone else had given up on.

  “Why do you think we’re dealing with a serial killer?” Savoy asks.

  Morris sees what looks like an e-mail flash up on his computer and he smiles. The inspector has finally started to show a little respect for what he has to say.

  “Because of the complete absence of motive. Most of these criminals have what we call a ‘signature’: they choose one type of victim, homosexuals, say, or prostitutes, beggars, courting couples. Others are known as ‘asymmetrical killers’: they kill because they can’t control their impulse to kill. When they reach a point where that impulse is satisfied, they stop killing until the urge to kill again becomes unbearable. I think that is the kind of killer we have here.

  “There are several points to consider in this case. The criminal is highly sophisticated. He has chosen a different weapon each time—his bare hands, poison, and a stiletto knife. He’s not motivated by the usual things: sex, alcohol, or some evident mental disorder. He knows the human anatomy, and that, so far, has been his only ‘signature.’ He must have planned the crimes in advance because the poison he used isn’t easy to obtain, and so we could classify him as a killer with a mission, but one who still doesn’t quite know what that mission is. From what I know of the young girl’s murder, and this is the only clue we have so far, he used a type of Russian martial art called Sambo.

  “I could go further and say that it’s part of his signature to get close to his chosen victim and befriend him or her for a while, but that theory doesn’t fit with the murder committed in the middle of a lunch party on a beach in Cannes. The victim apparently had two bodyguards with him and they would have been sure to react if the killer had gone anywhere near their boss, plus the victim was under surveillance by Europol.”

  Russian. Savoy considers using his phone to ask for an urgent search of all the hotels in Cannes. A man, about forty, well-dressed, slightly graying hair—and Russian.

  “The fact that he used a Russian martial art technique doesn’t mean he himself is Russian,” says Morris, reading Savoy’s mind like the good ex-policeman he is. “Just as we cannot assume he’s a South American Indian because he used curare.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We just have to wait for him to commit his next murder.”

  6:50 P.M.

  Cinderella!

  If people believed more in fairy tales instead of just listening to their husbands and parents—who think everything is impossible—they would be experiencing what she’s experiencing now, being driven along in one of the innumerable limousines that are slowly but surely heading for the steps and the red carpet—the biggest catwalk in the world.

  The Star is by her side, smiling and wearing the obligatory beautifully cut suit. He asks if she’s nervous. Of course not: tension, nerves, anxiety, and fear don’t exist in dreams. Everything is perfect; it’s just like in a movie—the heroine suffers, struggles, and finally achieves everything she has always wanted.

  “If Hamid Hussein decides to go ahead with the project and the film is the success he hopes it will be, then prepare yourself for more such moments.”

  If Hamid Hussein decides to go ahead with the project? Isn’t it all signed and sealed?

  “But I signed a contract when I went to collect my outfit in the Gift Room.”

  “Look, forget what I said. I don’t want to spoil your special moment.”

  “No, please, go on.”

  The Star was expecting the silly girl to say exactly that, and he takes enormous pleasure in doing as she asks.

  “I’ve been involved in loads of projects that begin and never come to anything. It’s all part of the game, but, like I say, don’t worry about that now.”

  “But the contract…”

  “Contracts are there for lawyers to argue over while they earn their money. Please, forget what I said. Enjoy the moment.”

  The “moment” is approaching. Because of the slow traffic, people can see who is inside the cars, despite the smoked-glass windows separating mere mortals from the chosen. The Star waves; hands bang on the window asking him to open it just for a moment, to give them an autograph, to have a photo taken.

  The Star keeps waving, as if he didn’t understand what they wanted and a smile from him was enough to flood the world with light.

  There’s a real air of hysteria out there. Women with their little portable stools on which they must have been sitting and knitting since the morning; men with beer bellies, bored to death, but obliged to accompany their middle-aged spouses, who are dressed to the nines as if they were the ones about to go up the steps and onto the red carpet; children who have
no idea what’s going on, but can sense that it’s something important. Crammed behind the steel barriers that separate them from the line of limousines, stand people of all ages and colors, every one of them wanting to believe that they’re only two yards away from the great legends, when, in fact, they’re separated by thousands of miles; for it isn’t just the steel barrier and the car window keeping them apart, it’s chance, opportunity, and talent.

  Talent? Yes, she wants to believe that talent counts too, but knows that really it’s all the result of a game of dice played by the gods, who choose certain people and place others on the far side of an impassable abyss from where they can only applaud, worship, and, when the tide turns against their gods, condemn.

  The Star pretends to be talking to her, but he’s not actually saying anything, just looking at her and moving his lips, like the great actor he is. He doesn’t do this out of desire or pleasure. Gabriela realizes that he simply doesn’t want to appear unfriendly to his fans outside, but, at the same time, can’t be bothered now to wave and smile and blow kisses.

  “You must think me an arrogant, cynical person with a heart of stone,” he says at last. “If you ever get where you want to get, then you’ll understand what I’m feeling: that there’s no way out. Success is both an addiction and an enslavement, and at the end of the day, when you’re lying in bed with some new man or woman, you’ll ask yourself: was it really worth it? Why did I ever want this?”

  He pauses.

  “Go on.”

  “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

  “Because you want to protect me. Because you’re a good man. Please, go on.”