The Winner Stands Alone

by Paulo Coelho

  She can hear a siren in the distance. It must be the police, cutting their way through the permanently congested traffic in order to reach some important person.

  One of the men puts Javits's arm around his shoulder and more or less carries him toward the door. The siren is getting closer. The other man, still with his hand inside his jacket, keeps looking in all directions. At one point, their eyes meet.

  Javits is being taken up the ramp by one of his friends, and Maureen is wondering how someone so slight can possibly carry such a heavily built man and with so little apparent effort.

  The sound of the siren stops right outside the tent. Javits has, by now, disappeared with one of the friends, but the second man is walking toward her, one hand still inside his jacket.

  "What happened?" she asks, frightened, because years of directing actors have taught her that this man's face is that of a professional killer, a face that looks as if it were carved out of stone.

  "You know what happened," the man says in an accent she can't identify.

  "I saw that he began to feel ill, but what did happen?"

  The man keeps his hand inside his jacket, and at that moment, it occurs to Maureen that this might be a chance to transform a minor incident into a great possibility.

  "Can I help? Can I go with him?"

  The hand in the jacket seems to relax a little, but the eyes watch every move she makes.

  "I'll come with you. I know Javits Wild. I'm a friend of his."

  After what seems like an eternity, but which can't have been more than a fraction of a second, the man turns and walks quickly away toward the Boulevard, without saying a word.

  Maureen's brain is working fast. Why did he say that she knew what had happened? And why did he suddenly lose all interest in her?

  The other guests haven't noticed a thing, apart from the sound of the siren, which they probably attribute to something going on out in the street. Sirens have nothing to do with joy, sun, drinks, contacts, beautiful women, handsome men, with the pale and the tanned. Sirens belong to another world, a world of heart attacks, diseases, and crime. Sirens are of no interest to the people here.

  Maureen's head begins to spin. Something has happened to Javits, and this could be a gift from the gods. She runs to the door and sees an ambulance speeding away, sirens blaring, down the blocked-off lane of the Boulevard.

  "That's my friend," she says to one of the bodyguards at the entrance. "Where have they taken him?"

  The man gives her the name of a hospital. Without pausing to think, Maureen starts running to find a taxi. Ten minutes later, she realizes that there are no taxis in the city, only those summoned by hotel porters, lured by the prospect of generous tips. Since she has no money in her bag, she goes into a pizzeria, shows someone working there the map she has with her, and learns that she must run for at least half an hour to reach her objective.

  She's been running all her life, so half an hour won't make much difference.

  12:53 P.M.

  "Good morning."

  "You mean 'Good afternoon,' don't you?" one of the other girls replies. "It's midday."

  Everything is exactly as she'd imagined. The five other young women waiting all rather resemble her, at least physically. They, however, are heavily made up, wear short skirts and low-cut tops, and are busy with their mobile phones and their texts.

  No one speaks because they know they're soul mates who have all been through the same difficulties and have uncomplainingly faced the same challenges and accepted each knockout blow. They're all trying hard to believe that dreams have no sell-by date, that life can change from one second to the next, that somewhere the right moment is waiting for them, and that this is just a test of their willpower.

  They've all perhaps quarreled with their families, who are convinced their daughters will end up working as prostitutes.

  They've all been on stage and experienced the agony and the ecstasy of seeing the audience and knowing that every eye is fixed on them; they've felt the electricity in the air and heard the applause at the end. They've imagined a hundred times over that there will come a night when a member of the Superclass will be in the audience and visit them in their dressing room after the performance with something more substantial to offer than an invitation to supper, a request for their phone number, or compliments on a job well done.

  To begin with, they accepted a few of those invitations, but the only place they led to was the bed of some powerful, older man--usually married, as all the "interesting" men are--concerned only with notching up another conquest.

  They all had a boyfriend their own age, but when anyone asked if they were married or single, they always answered: "Free and unattached." They thought they were in control of the situation. They've all been told--hundreds of times now--that they have real talent and just need the right opportunity, and that the person there before them is the one who can transform their lives. They've occasionally believed this too. They've fallen into the trap of being overconfident and thinking they were in charge, until the next day came and the phone number they'd been given put them through to the extension of a very grumpy secretary who had no intention of letting them speak to her boss.

  They've threatened to sell their story to the tabloids, saying that they had been deceived, although none of them has ever actually done so because they're still at the stage of thinking: "I mustn't spoil my chances in the acting world."

  One or two may even have shared Gabriela's Alice in Wonderland experience, and now want to prove to their families that they're far more capable than they thought. Their families, of course, have all by now seen their daughters in commercials, on posters and billboards scattered round the city, and, after a few initial arguments, are convinced that those same daughters are on the verge of entering a world of "bright lights and glamour."

  All the girls there believed that their dream was possible, that one day their talent would be recognized, until the penny dropped: there is only one magic word--"contacts." They had all distributed their books as soon as they arrived in Cannes, and now keep a constant eye on their mobile phone, getting invited to whatever launches and events they can and trying their best to get into those they can't, always dreaming that someone will ask them to one of the evening parties or, dream of dreams, award them that greatest of prizes, an invitation to walk down the red carpet at the Palais des Congres. That, however, was probably the most difficult dream to realize, so difficult that they didn't really allow themselves to think about it, in case the feelings of rejection and frustration destroyed their ability to wear the happy face they must wear at all times, even when they're not happy at all.

  Contacts.

  After many cases of mistaken identity, they did find the occasional useful contact, which is why they're here. One such contact had led to a New Zealand producer calling them. None had asked what it was about; they knew only that they had to be punctual because no one has any time to lose, certainly not people in the film industry. The only ones who do are the five young women in the waiting room, busy with their mobile phones and their magazines, compulsively sending texts to see if they've been invited to something later in the day, trying to talk to their friends, and always making a point of saying that they're not free to speak right now because they have an important meeting with a film producer.

  GABRIELA IS THE FOURTH PERSON to be called. She had tried to interpret the look in the eyes of the first three candidates who emerged from the room without saying a word, but then, of course, they're all actresses, capable of hiding any emotion, be it joy or sadness. All three strode determinedly to the door and wished the others a confident "Good luck," as if to say: "No need to be nervous, girls, you've got nothing to lose. The part's mine."

  ONE OF THE WALLS IN the apartment is covered with a black cloth. The floor there is cluttered with all kinds of electric cables and lights covered with a metal mesh, and there's a kind of umbrella with a white cloth spread before it, as well as sound equip
ment, screens, and a video camera. In the corners stand bottles of mineral water, metal briefcases, tripods, bits of paper, and a computer. Sitting on the floor, a bespectacled, thirty-something woman is leafing through Gabriela's book.

  "Awful," she says, not looking up at her. "Awful."

  Gabriela doesn't know quite what to do. Perhaps she should pretend she isn't listening and go over to the group of chain-smoking technicians chatting brightly in one corner or perhaps she should simply stay where she is.

  "This one's awful," said the woman again.

  "That's me."

  She can't help herself. She has run through half of Cannes to get there, waited nearly two hours, imagined yet again that her life is about to change forever (although she's less and less prone to such fantasies now and won't allow herself to get as excited as she used to), and she certainly doesn't need more reasons to be depressed.

  "I know," says the woman, her eyes fixed on the photos. "They must have cost you a fortune. People make a career out of making books, writing CVs, running acting courses, and generally making money out of the vanity of people like you."

  "If you think I'm so awful, why did you call me?"

  "Because we need someone awful."

  Gabriela laughs. The woman finally raises her head and looks her up and down.

  "I liked your clothes. I hate vulgar people."

  Gabriela's dream is returning. Her heart beats faster.

  The woman hands her a sheet of paper.

  "Go over there to the mark."

  Then she turns to the crew.

  "Put those cigarettes out and close the window. I don't want the sound messed up."

  The "mark" is a cross made with yellow tape on the floor. This means that the actor is automatically in the right position for the lighting and the camera.

  "It's so hot in here, I'm sweating. Could I at least go to the bathroom and put a little foundation on, some makeup?"

  "Of course you can, but when you get back, there won't be time to do the recording. We have to hand this stuff over by this afternoon."

  All the other girls who went in must have asked the same question and been given the same answer. Best not to waste time. She takes a paper handkerchief out of her pocket and dabs at her face as she makes her way over to the mark.

  An assistant positions himself by the camera, while Gabriela battles against time, trying to read through what is written on that half sheet of paper.

  "Test number twenty-five, Gabriela Sherry, Thompson Agency."

  "Twenty-five?!" thinks Gabriela.

  "And action," says the woman with the glasses.

  Silence falls.

  "NO, I CAN'T BELIEVE WHAT you're saying. No one can commit a murder for no reason."

  "Start again. You're talking to your boyfriend."

  "No, I can't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder like that for no reason."

  "The words 'like that' aren't in the script. Do you really think that the scriptwriter, who worked on this for months, didn't consider putting those words in, but decided against it because they're useless, superficial, unnecessary?"

  Gabriela takes a deep breath. She has nothing to lose but her patience. She's going to do her best now, then leave, go to the beach, or go back to bed for a while. She needs to rest in order to be in good shape for the evening round of cocktail parties.

  A strange, delicious calm comes over her. Suddenly, she feels protected, loved, grateful to be alive. No one's forcing her to be there, enduring yet another humiliation. For the first time in years, she's aware of her power, a power she had never thought existed.

  "No, I don't believe what you're saying. No one can commit a murder for no reason."

  "Next line."

  There was no need for her to say that. Gabriela was going to continue anyway.

  "We'd better go and see a doctor. I think you need help."

  "No," said the woman in glasses, who was playing the part of the boyfriend.

  "OK, no doctor, then. How about a little walk, and you can tell me exactly what's going on. I love you, you know, and even if no one else in the world cares about you, I do."

  There are no more lines. Another silence. A strange energy fills the room.

  "Tell the other girl out there she can go," says the woman in the glasses to one of the other people present.

  Does this mean what Gabriela thinks it means?

  "Go to the marina at the end of Boulevard de la Croisette, opposite Allee des Palmiers. A boat will be waiting there at 1:55 prompt to take you to meet Mr. Gibson. We're going to send him the video now, but he always likes to meet the people he might be working with."

  A smile appears on Gabriela's face.

  "I said 'might,' I didn't say 'will be working with.'"

  The smile remains. Mr. Gibson!

  1:19 P.M.

  Lying on a stainless steel table between Inspector Savoy and the pathologist is a beautiful young woman of about twenty, completely naked. And dead.

  "Are you sure?"

  The pathologist goes over to a stainless steel sink, removes his rubber gloves, throws them in the bin, and turns on the tap.

  "Absolutely. There's no trace of drugs."

  "What happened, then? Could a young woman like her have had a heart attack?"

  The only noise in the room is that of running water. The pathologist thinks:

  "They always come up with the obvious: drugs, a heart attack..."

  He takes longer than necessary to wash his hands--a little suspense never goes amiss. He applies disinfectant to his arms and throws away the disposable material used in the autopsy. Then he turns round and asks the inspector to study the body.

  "No, really, take a good look. Don't be embarrassed. Noticing details is part of your job, isn't it?"

  Savoy carefully examines the body. At one point, he reaches out to lift one of the girl's arms, but the pathologist stops him.

  "No need to touch."

  Savoy runs his eyes over the girl's naked body. He knows quite a lot about her now--Olivia Martins, the daughter of Portuguese parents, currently going out with a young man of no fixed profession, who is heavily into Cannes nightlife and is, at that moment, being interrogated at a police station some way away. A judge issued a search warrant for his apartment and they found some small flasks of THC (tetrahydrocannabinol, the main hallucinogenic element in marijuana, and which can be taken dissolved in sesame oil, which leaves no smell and has a far stronger effect than when the substance is absorbed through smoke). They also found six envelopes, each containing a gram of cocaine, and some bloodstains on a sheet which is now on its way to a laboratory for tests. He's probably, at most, a minor dealer. He's already known to the police, having spent a couple of spells in prison, but never for physical violence.

  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 cho
sen 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."