The Winner Stands Alone. Paulo Coelho
weeps in silence because her friends have designer clothes and she has no money. Their adolescent children, instead of learning the real values of faith and hope, dream only of becoming singers or movie stars. Girls in provincial towns lose any real sense of themselves and start to think of going to the big city, prepared to do anything, absolutely anything, to get a particular piece of jewellery. A world that should be directed towards justice begins instead to focus on material things, which, in six months’ time, will be worthless and have to be replaced, and that is how the whole circus ensures that the despicable creatures gathered together in Cannes remain at the top of the heap.
Igor is untouched by this destructive power, for he has one of the most enviable jobs in the world. He continues to earn more money in a day than he could spend in a year, even if he were to indulge in all possible pleasures, legal and illegal. He has no difficulty in finding women, regardless of whether they know how much money he has - he's tested it out on more than one occasion and never failed yet. He has just turned forty, is in good physical shape and, according to his annual check-up, has no health problems. He has no debts either. He doesn't have to wear a particular designer label, go to a particular restaurant, spend his holidays at a beach where ‘everyone’ goes or buy a watch just because some successful sportsman is promoting it. He can sign major contracts with a cheap ballpoint pen, wear comfortable, elegant jackets, handmade by a tailor who has a small shop next to his office, and which carry no label at all. He can do as he likes and doesn't have to prove to anyone that he's rich; he has an interesting job and loves what he does.
Perhaps that's the problem: he still loves what he does. He's sure that this is why the woman who came into the bar some hours earlier is not sitting at his table with him.
He tries to keep thinking, to pass the time. He asks Kristelle for another drink - he knows the waitress's name because an hour ago, when the bar was emptier (people were having supper), he asked for a glass of whisky, and she said that he looked sad and should eat something to cheer himself up. He thanked her for her concern, and was glad that someone should care about his state of mind.
He is perhaps the only one who knows the name of the waitress serving him; the others only want to know the names and, if possible, the job titles - of the people sitting at the tables and in the armchairs.
He tries to keep thinking, but it's gone three o'clock in the morning, and the beautiful woman and her courteous companion - who, by the way, looks remarkably like him - have not reappeared. Maybe they went straight up to their room where they are now making love, or perhaps they're still drinking champagne on one of the yachts where the parties only begin when the other parties are all coming to an end. Perhaps they're lying in bed, reading magazines, ignoring each other.
Not that it matters. Igor is alone and tired and needs to sleep.
He wakes up at 7.22 a.m., much earlier than his body would like, but he hasn't yet adapted to the time difference between Moscow and Cannes. If he was at work, he would already have held two or three meetings with his subordinates and be preparing to have lunch with some new client.
He has another task to fulfil here: he must find someone he can sacrifice in the name of love. He needs a victim, so that Ewa will get his message that very morning.
He has a bath, goes downstairs to have a coffee in an almost deserted restaurant, then sets off along the Boulevard de la Croisette on which nearly all the major luxury hotels are located. There is no traffic because one lane is blocked off and only cars with official permission are being allowed through. The other lane is empty because even the people who live in the city are still only just getting ready to go to work.
He feels no resentment. He has passed the really difficult phase, when he couldn't sleep because he was so filled with pain and hatred. Now he can understand Ewa's feelings: after all, monogamy is a myth that has been rammed down people's throats for far too long. He has read a lot on the subject. It isn't just a matter of excess hormones or vanity, but, as all the research indicates, a genetic configuration found in almost all animals.
Paternity tests given to birds, monkeys and foxes revealed that simply because these species had developed a social relationship very similar to marriage it did not necessarily mean that they had been faithful to each other. In 70 per cent of cases, their offspring turn out to have been fathered by males other than their partners. Igor remembered something written by David Barash, Professor of Psychology at the University of Washington in Seattle, in which he said that the only species in nature that doesn't commit adultery and in which there seems to be 100 per cent monogamy is a flatworm, Diplozoon paradoxutn. The male and female worms meet as adolescents, and their bodies literally fuse together.
This is why he cannot accuse Ewa of anything; she was merely following her human instincts. However, she had been brought up to believe in those unnatural social conventions and must be feeling guilty, thinking that he doesn't love her any more and will never forgive her.
He is, in fact, prepared to do anything, even to send messages that will mean he has destroyed someone's world, just so that she'll know that not only is he willing to welcome her back, he will gladly bury the past and ask no questions.
He sees a young woman setting out her wares on the pavement - various bits of craftwork and jewellery of rather dubious taste.
Yes, she will be the sacrifice. She is the message he must send, a message that will be understood as soon as it reaches its destination. Before going over to her, he observes her tenderly; she doesn't know that in a little while, if all goes well, her soul will be wandering the clouds, free for ever from an idiotic job that will never take her where her dreams would like her to go.
‘How much?’ he asks in perfect French.
‘Which piece do you want, sir?’
‘All of them.’
The young woman - who must be twenty at most - smiles.
‘This isn't the first time someone has asked to buy everything. The next step is usually: “Would you like to go for a walk? You're far too pretty to be here selling these things. I'm …”’
‘No, I'm not. I don't work in the movies, nor am I going to make you an actress and change your life. I'm not interested in the things you're selling either. I just need to talk, and we can do that right here.’
The young woman averts her gaze.
‘My parents make these things, and I'm proud of what I do. One day, someone will come along who'll recognise their value. Please, go away. I'm sure you can find someone else to listen to what you have to say’
Igor takes a bundle of notes out of his pocket and puts them gently down beside her.
‘Forgive my rudeness. I only said I wasn't interested in buying anything to see if you would lower the price. Anyway, my name is Igor Malev I flew in from Moscow yesterday, and I'm still a little jet-lagged.’
‘My name's Olivia,’ says the young woman, pretending to believe his lie.
Without asking her permission, he sits down on the bench beside her. She shifts up an inch or so.
‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘First, take the money’
Olivia hesitates, then, looking around, realises that she has no reason to be afraid. Cars are now driving down the one available lane, young people are heading for the beach and an elderly couple are coming towards them down the pavement. She puts the money in her pocket, not even bothering to count it; she has enough experience of life to know that it's more than enough.
‘Thank you for accepting my offer,’ says the Russian. ‘You asked me what I want to talk about? Well, nothing very important.’
‘You must be here for a reason. You need a reason to visit Cannes at this time of year when the city is as unbearable for the people who live here as it is for the tourists.’
Igor