The Winner Stands Alone
Page 36
Now.
Maybe this silence is a positive sign; perhaps Igor’s lost concentration. Or it might be the beginning of the end, meaning that he’s said all he has to say.
Now.
In the first fraction of a second, the muscle in his left thigh tenses, propelling him furiously forward in the direction of Absolute Evil; the area of his body shrinks as he hurls himself over Ewa’s lap, arms outstretched. The first second continues, and he sees the gun being pointed directly at his head; the man moves more quickly than he had expected.
His body is still flying toward the gun. They should have talked before. Ewa has never said much about her ex-husband, as if he belonged to a past she preferred not to think about—ever. Even though everything is happening in slow motion, the man draws back as nimbly as a cat. The gun in his hand is perfectly steady.
The first second is just reaching its end. He sees a finger move, but there is no sound, only the feeling of something crushing the bone in the middle of his forehead. His universe is extinguished and with it the memories of the young man who dreamed of being “someone,” his arrival in Paris, his father’s shop, the sheikh, his battle to gain a place in the sun, the fashion shows, the trips abroad, meeting the woman he loves, the days of wine and roses, the laughter and the tears, the last moon on the rise, the eyes of Absolute Evil, the look of terror in his wife’s eyes, all disappear.
“DON’T CRY OUT. DON’T SAY a word. Keep calm.”
Of course she isn’t going to cry out, nor does she need to be told to keep calm. She’s in a state of shock like the animal she is, despite her fine jewelry and her expensive dress. Her blood is no long circulating at its normal speed, her face grows pale, her voice vanishes, her blood pressure plummets. He knows exactly what she’s feeling; he once experienced the same when he saw the rifle of an Afghan warrior pointing at his chest. Total immobility and a complete inability to react. He was only saved because a colleague fired first. He was still grateful to the man who had saved his life; everyone thought he was just his chauffeur, when, in fact, he owned many shares in the company, and he and Igor often talked; indeed, they had spoken that very afternoon when Igor had phoned to ask if Ewa had shown any sign of having received his messages.
Ewa, poor Ewa, sitting there with a man dying in her lap. Human beings are unpredictable; sometimes they react as that fool reacted, knowing that he had no chance of beating him. Weapons are unpredictable too. He expected the bullet to come out the other side of the man’s head, blowing away the top part of the brain, but, given the angle of the shot, it must have pierced the brain, bounced off a bone, and entered the thorax because he’s trembling uncontrollably, but with no sign of any blood.
It must be the trembling, not the shot, that has so shocked Ewa. With one foot, Igor pushes the body to the ground and puts a bullet through the back of the man’s neck. The tremors cease. The man deserves a dignified death; he was, after all, valiant to the end.
THEY ARE ALONE NOW ON the beach. He kneels down in front of her and places the barrel of the gun against her breast. Ewa doesn’t move.
He had imagined a very different ending to this story, with her understanding his messages and giving the two of them a new chance of happiness. He had thought of all the things he would say when they were finally alone again like this, looking out at the calm Mediterranean Sea, smiling and chatting.
He doesn’t want to live with those words stuck in his throat, even if those words are useless now.
“I always thought that one day, we’d walk hand in hand through a park again or along the seashore, finally saying those long-postponed words of love. We would eat out once a week, travel together to places we’d never been to simply for the pleasure of discovering new things in each other’s company.
“While you’ve been away, I’ve been copying poems out in a book so that I could whisper them to you as you fell asleep. I’ve written letters telling you how I felt, letters I would leave where you could find them and then you’d know that I never forgot you—not for a single day, not for a single moment. We would discuss plans for the house you wanted on the shores of Lake Baikal—just for us. I know you had a lot of ideas for that. I planned to have a private airport built there, and, of course, I’d leave the decoration of the house to your good taste, to you, the woman who justified my life and gave it meaning.”
Ewa says nothing, but stares out at the sea before her.
“I came here because of you, only to realize that it was all pointless.”
He squeezes the trigger.
There was almost no sound because the barrel of the gun was pressed against her body. The bullet entered at precisely the right place, and her heart immediately stopped beating. Despite all the pain she had caused him, he didn’t want her to suffer.
If there was a life after death, both of them—the woman who betrayed him and the man who encouraged her—were now walking along, holding hands, in the moonlight fringing the shoreline. They would meet the angel with the dark eyebrows, who would explain everything that had happened and put an end to any feelings of rancor or hatred; at some point, everyone has to leave this planet known as Earth. And, besides, love justifies acts that mere human beings cannot understand, unless they happen to be experiencing what he has experienced.
Ewa’s eyes remain open, but her body grows limp and falls to the sand. He leaves both bodies there, goes over to the rocks, carefully wipes any fingerprints from the gun, and throws it into the sea, as far as possible from the place where they had been sitting contemplating the moon. He goes back up the steps, finds a litter bin on the way, and drops the silencer in. He hadn’t really needed it; the music had reached a crescendo at just the right moment.
10:55 P.M.
Gabriela goes over to the only person she knows.
The guests are now leaving the supper room; the band is playing music from the sixties, the party is beginning, and people are smiling and talking to each other, despite the deafening noise.
“I’ve been looking for you! Where are your friends?”
“Where’s yours?”
“He’s gone. He said there was some problem with the actor and the director, that’s all, and then he left. The only other thing he said was that tonight’s party on the yacht has been canceled.”
Igor realizes what has happened. He hadn’t had the slightest intention of killing someone he greatly admired and whose films he always tried to see whenever he had time. Nevertheless, it’s fate that makes these choices—man is just the instrument.
“I’m leaving. If you like, I can drop you off at your hotel.”
“But the party’s just beginning.”
“Enjoy it, then. I’m flying off early tomorrow morning.”
Gabriela has to make a decision quickly. She can either stay here with that handbag stuffed with paper, in a place where she knows no one, hoping that some charitable soul will give her a lift as far as Croisette, where she will take off her shoes to climb the interminable hill up to the room she’s sharing with four other friends. Or she can accept the offer of this kind man, who probably has some very useful contacts, and who’s a friend of Hamid Hussein’s wife. She had witnessed the start of what looked like an argument, but such things happen every day, and they would soon make it up.
She has a role in a film. She’s exhausted from all the emotions of the day. She’s afraid that she’ll end up drinking too much and spoiling everything. Men will come up to her, asking if she’s on her own and what she’s doing afterward, and if she’d like to visit a jeweler’s with them the following day. She’ll have to spend the rest of the night politely avoiding people, trying not to hurt anyone’s feelings, because you could never be quite sure who you were talking to. It was, after all, one of the most exclusive parties at the Festival.
“Let’s go.”
That’s how a star behaves. She leaves when no one is expecting her to.
They go out to the hotel reception, Gunther (she can’t remember his other
name) asks the receptionist to call a taxi for them, and she tells them they’re in luck; if they’d waited very much longer, they would have had to wait in an enormous queue.
On the way back, she asks him why he lied about what he does. He says he didn’t lie. He used to own a mobile phone company, but had decided to sell it because he felt the future lay in heavy machinery.
And what about his name?
“Igor is an affectionate nickname, the Russian diminutive of Gunther.”
Gabriela is expecting him, at any moment, to come out with the words: “Shall we have a nightcap at my hotel?,” but he doesn’t. He leaves her at the door of the house where she’s staying, shakes her hand, and leaves.
How elegant!
Yes, this has been her first lucky day, the first of many. Tomorrow, when she gets her phone back, she’ll make a collect call to a city near Chicago to tell everyone the big news and ask them to buy the gossip magazines because she’d been photographed going up the steps with the Star. She’ll also tell them that she’s had to adopt a new name. However, if they ask her what’s going to happen next, she’ll change the subject. She has a superstitious belief that one shouldn’t discuss projects until they actually happen. They’ll hear all about it as the news leaks out. Unknown actress chosen for major role. Lisa Winner was the guest of honor at a party in New York. Previously unknown Chicago girl is the new sensation in Gibson’s latest movie. Agent negotiates million-dollar contract with one of the major Hollywood producers.
The sky’s the limit.
11:11 P.M.
“You’re back early?”
“I’d have been here sooner if it wasn’t for the traffic.”
Jasmine kicks off her shoes, drops her bag, and throws herself down on the bed, exhausted and fully clothed. She says:
“The most important words in any language are the short ones: ‘yes,’ for example, or ‘love’ or ‘God.’ They’re all easy to say and they fill up the empty spaces of our universe. But there’s one small word that I have great difficulty in saying, but I’m going to say it now.” She looks at her companion. “No.”
She pats the bed, inviting her companion to join her. Her companion does so and strokes her hair.
“The word ‘no’ has a reputation for being mean, selfish, unspiritual. When we say yes, we think we’re being generous, understanding, polite. But I’m going to say no to you now. I won’t do what you’re asking me or making me do, even though you think it’s in my best interests. You’ll say that I’m only nineteen and don’t yet fully understand life, but going to a party like the one tonight was quite enough for me to know what I do want and what I definitely don’t want.
“I never planned to be a model, and I didn’t even think I was capable of falling in love. I know that love can only survive when it’s free, but whoever said I was anyone’s slave? I’m a slave only to my heart, and in that case my burden is a very light one. I chose you before you chose me. I embarked on what seemed an impossible adventure and never complained about the consequences, whether it was society’s preconceived ideas or resistance from my own family. I overcame all those things so that I could be with you here tonight, in Cannes, savoring the victory of an excellent fashion show, and knowing that there will be other opportunities in life—by your side.”
Her companion lies down next to her, her head in Jasmine’s lap.
“The person who made me realize this was a man, a foreigner, whom I met tonight while I was at the party, lost in the crowd, not knowing what to say. I asked him what he was doing there, and he said that he’d lost his love and come here to look for her, but wasn’t sure anymore whether she really was what he wanted. He asked me to look around at the other guests. We were, he said, surrounded by people who were full of certainties, glories, and conquests, but they weren’t enjoying themselves. They think they’re at the peak of their careers and the inevitable descent frightens them. They’ve forgotten that there’s still a whole world to conquer because…”
“…because they’ve got used to life as it is.”
“Exactly. They have lots of things but few aspirations. They’re full of problems solved, projects approved, businesses that prosper without them having to do anything. Now all that’s left is the fear of change, which is why they go from party to party, from meeting to meeting, so as not to have time to think, and to meet the same people over and over and be able to believe that everything’s the same. Certainties have replaced passions.”
“Take off your dress,” says her companion, preferring to say nothing more.
Jasmine gets up, takes off her dress, and slips between the sheets.
“You take your clothes off too and put your arms around me. I really need to feel your arms around me because today I thought you were going to let me go.”
She does as Jasmine asks and turns out the light. Jasmine falls asleep at once in her arms. She, however, lies awake for some time, staring up at the ceiling, thinking that sometimes a nineteen-year-old girl, in all her innocence, can be wiser than a forty-one-year-old woman. However fearful and insecure she may feel right now, she’ll be forced to grow. She’ll have a powerful enemy in HH, who will doubtless create as many obstacles as he can to prevent her taking part in the Fashion Week in October. First, he’ll insist on buying her name, and when that proves impossible, he’ll try to discredit her with the Fédération, saying that she failed to keep her word.
The next few months will be very difficult.
What HH doesn’t know, indeed, what no one knows, is that she possesses an absolute power that will help her overcome all difficulties: the love of the young woman now lying in her arms. For her, she would do anything—anything, that is, except kill.
With her, she is capable of anything—even winning.
1:55 A.M.
His company jet already has the engines running. Igor sits in his favorite seat—second row on the left—and waits for takeoff. As soon as the seat-belt sign is turned off, he goes to the bar, serves himself a generous measure of vodka, and drinks it down in one.
For a moment, he wonders if he really had succeeded in sending those messages to Ewa, while he was busy destroying worlds. Should he have been more explicit, adding a further note or a name or something like that? That would have been terribly risky—people might think he was a serial killer.
And he wasn’t: he had an objective, which, fortunately, had changed in time.
The thought of Ewa doesn’t weigh on him as much as it used to. He doesn’t love her as he once did, and he doesn’t hate her as he came to hate her. With time, she will disappear completely from his life, which is a shame because he’s unlikely to find another woman like her, for all her defects.
He goes back to the bar, pours himself another vodka, and again drinks it down in one. Will they realize that a single person was responsible for extinguishing those worlds? It doesn’t matter. His only regret is the moment he decided to give himself up to the police in the afternoon. Fate, however, was on his side and he managed to complete his mission.
Yes, he had won, but the winner doesn’t stand alone. His nightmares are at an end. An angel with dark eyebrows is watching over him and will teach him which path to follow from now on.
ST. JOHN’S DAY,
19 MARCH 2008
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I could not possibly have written this book without the help of the many people who, whether openly or in confidence, gave me access to the information it contains. When I began my research, I never imagined that I would find so much of interest behind the façade of the world of glitz and glamour. Apart from the friends who have asked for their names not to be mentioned, I would like to thank Alexander Osterwald, Bernadette Imaculada Santos, Claudine and Elie Saab, David Rothkopf (the inventor of the term “Superclass”), Deborah Williamson, Fátima Lopes, Fawaz Gruosi, Franco Cologni, Hildegard Follon, James W. Wright, Jennifer Bollinger, Johan Reckman, Jörn Pfotenhauer, Juliette Rigal, Kevin Heienberg, Kevin Karroll, Luca Burei,
Maria de Lourdes Débat, Mario Rosa, Monty Shadow, Steffi Czerny, Victoria Navaloska, Yasser Hamid, and Zeina Raphael, all of whom collaborated directly or indirectly in the writing of this book. I must confess that, for the most part, they collaborated indirectly, since I never usually discuss the subject of a book when I’m writing it.
About the Author
PAULO COELHO is one of the most widely read authors in the world. His books have sold more than 100 million copies worldwide, have been translated into 68 languages, and have been published in 150 countries. He was named a United Nations Messenger of Peace in 2007.
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Also by Paulo Coelho
The Alchemist
The Pilgrimage
The Valkyries
By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept
The Fifth Mountain
Veronika Decides to Die
Warrior of Light: A Manual
Eleven Minutes
The Zahir
The Devil and Miss Prym
The Witch of Portobello
Brida
Credits
Jacket photographs © Daniel Weisser/Westend 61 GmbH/Alamy (woman); Andrew Hobbs/Getty Images (red carpet)
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
THE WINNER STANDS ALONE. Copyright © 2008 by Paulo Coelho. English translation copyright © 2009 by Margaret Jull Costa. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.