Ewa felt her heart begin to pound. She didn’t need him to say outright: “I killed him.” It was clear that he had.
“Without you I don’t exist. Anything and anyone who tries to separate us or to destroy the little time we have together at this particular moment of our lives gets the treatment they deserve.”
Meaning perhaps that they deserved to be killed? Could such a thing have happened before without her noticing? She drank and drank some more, and Igor began to relax again. Since he never opened his heart to anyone else, he loved their conversations.
“We speak the same language,” he went on. “We see the world in the same way. We complete each other with a perfection that is granted only to those who put love above all else. As I said, without you I don’t exist.
“Look at the Superclass around us. They think they’re so important, so socially aware, because they’re willing to pay a fortune for some useless item at a charity auction or to attend a supper organized to raise funds to help the homeless in Rwanda or to save the pandas in China. Pandas and the homeless are all one to them. They feel special, superior to the average person, because they’re doing something useful. Have they ever fought in a war? No. They create wars, but they don’t fight in them. If the war turns out well, they get all the credit. If not, others get the blame. They’re in love with themselves.”
“My love, I’d like to ask you something else…”
At that point, a presenter climbed onto the stage and thanked everyone for being there that night. The money raised would go toward buying medicine for refugee camps in Africa.
“What he doesn’t say,” Igor went on, as if he hadn’t heard her, “is that only ten percent of the total amount raised will reach its destination. The rest will be used to pay for this event, for the cost of this supper, for the publicity and the organizers, in short, for the people who had the ‘brilliant idea’ in the first place, and all at an exorbitant price. They use poverty as a way to get even richer.”
“So why are we here?”
“Because we need to be. It’s part of my work. I have no intention of saving Rwanda or sending medicine to refugees, but at least I know that I don’t. The other guests here tonight are using their money to wash their consciences and their souls clean of guilt. When the genocide was going on in Rwanda, I financed a small army of friends, who prevented more than two thousand deaths. Did you know that?”
“No, you never told me.”
“I didn’t need to. You know that I care about other people.”
The auction began with a small Louis Vuitton travel bag. It sold for ten times its retail price. Igor watched the auction impassively, while she drank another glass of Spumante and wondered whether she should or shouldn’t ask that question.
An artist danced to a soundtrack provided by Marilyn Monroe and simultaneously painted a picture. The bids for the finished work of art were sky-high—the price of a small apartment in Moscow.
Another glass of wine. Another item sold. For an equally absurd price.
She drank so much that night that she had to be carried back to the hotel. Before he put her into bed and before she fell asleep, she finally got up the courage to ask:
“And what if I were to leave you?”
“Drink less next time.”
“Answer me.”
“That could never happen. Our marriage is perfect.”
Common sense returned, but she knew she had an excuse now and so pretended to be drunker than she was.
“Yes, but what if I did?”
“I’d make you come back, and I’m good at getting what I want, even if that means destroying whole worlds.”
“And what if I met another man?”
He looked at her without rancor, almost benevolently.
“Even if you slept with every man on Earth, my love would still survive.”
AND SINCE THEN, WHAT HAD seemed a blessing began to turn into a nightmare. She was married to a monster, an assassin. What was that story about financing an army of mercenaries to intervene in a tribal war? How many other men had he killed to keep them from troubling their marital peace? She could blame the war, the traumas he had suffered, the hard times he had been through, but many other men had endured the same experiences, without emerging from them convinced that they were the instrument of Divine Justice, carrying out some Grand Plan.
“I’m not jealous,” Igor used to say whenever he or she set off on a business trip, “because you know how much I love you, and I know how much you love me. Nothing will ever happen to destabilize our marriage.”
She was more convinced than ever that this was not love. It was something sick and morbid, which she would either have to accept and live the rest of her life a prisoner to fear, or else free herself as soon as possible, at the first opportunity.
Several opportunities arose, but the most insistent, the most persistent was the very last man with whom she would have imagined building a real relationship: the couturier who was dazzling the fashion world, growing ever more famous, and receiving a vast amount of money from his own country so that the world would understand that the nomadic tribes had solid moral values that were completely at odds with the reign of terror imposed by a religious minority. He was a man who, increasingly, had the world at his feet.
Whenever they met at fashion shows, he would drop whatever other commitments he had, cancel lunches and suppers, just so that they could spend some time together in peace, locked in a hotel room, often without even making love. They would watch television, eat, drink (although he never touched a drop of alcohol), go for walks in parks, visit bookshops, talk to strangers, speak very little of the past, never of the future, and a great deal about the present.
She resisted for as long as she could, and, although she was never in love with him, when he proposed that she leave everything and move to London, she accepted at once. It was the only possible way out of her private hell.
ANOTHER MESSAGE APPEARS ON HER phone. It can’t be; they haven’t been in touch for two years.
“I’ve just destroyed another world because of you, Katyusha.”
“Who’s it from?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. It doesn’t show a number.”
What she meant to say was that she was terrified.
“We’re nearly there. Remember, we haven’t got much time.”
The limousine has to maneuver its way toward the entrance of the Hotel Martinez. On both sides, behind the metal barriers erected by the police, people of all ages spend the whole day hoping to get a close-up look at some celebrity. They take photos with their digital cameras, tell their friends whom they’ve seen, and send messages over the Internet to the virtual communities they belong to. They would feel the long wait was justified for that one moment of glory: catching a glimpse of an actress, an actor, or even a TV presenter!
Although it’s only thanks to them that the celebrity industry keeps going, they are kept at a safe distance; strategically positioned bodyguards ask anyone going into the hotel for proof that they are staying there or meeting someone. Then you either have to get out the magnetic card that serves as your room key or else be turned away in full view of the public. If you’re having a business meeting or have been invited for a drink at the bar, they give your name to the security people and, with everyone watching, wait to see if what you say is true or false. The bodyguard uses his radio to call reception, and you wait there for what seems like an eternity, and then, finally, after that very public humiliation, you’re allowed in. Those who arrive in limousines, of course, are treated quite differently.
The two doors of the Maybach are opened, one by the chauffeur and the other by the hotel porter. The cameras turn on Ewa and start to shoot; even though no one knows who she is, if she’s staying at the Martinez and has arrived in a fancy car, she must be important. Perhaps she’s the mistress of the man she’s with, and if she is and he’s having an extramarital affair, there’s always a chance they can send the
photos to some scandal rag. Or perhaps the beautiful blonde is a famous foreign celebrity as yet unknown in France. Later, they’ll find her name in the so-called people magazines and be glad that they were once only four or five yards from her.
Hamid looks at the small crowd pressed up against the metal barriers. He has never understood this phenomenon, having been brought up in a place where such things simply don’t happen. Once he asked a friend why there was so much interest in celebrities.
“Don’t assume they’re all fans,” said his friend. “Since time immemorial, men have believed that being close to something unattainable and mysterious can bring blessings. That’s why people make pilgrimages to visit gurus and sacred places.”
“But Cannes?!”
“It can be anywhere they might catch a distant glimpse of some elusive celebrity. For the adoring crowd, a wave from a celebrity is like being scattered with ambrosia dust or manna from heaven.
“It’s the same everywhere. Take, for example, those massive pop concerts that seem more like religious meetings, or the way people are willing to wait outside some sell-out performance at a theater just to see the Superclass entering and leaving. Take the crowds who go to football stadiums to watch a bunch of men chasing after a ball. Celebrities are idols, icons if you like, after all, they do resemble the paintings you see in churches and can become cult images in the bedrooms of adolescents or housewives, and even in the offices of industrial magnates, who, despite their own enormous wealth, envy their celebrity.
“There’s just one difference: in this case, the public is the supreme judge, and while they may applaud today, tomorrow they’ll be equally happy to read some scandalous revelation about their idol in a gossip magazine. Then they can say: ‘Poor thing. I’m so glad I’m not like him.’ They may adore their idol today, but tomorrow they’ll stone and crucify him without a twinge of conscience.”
1:37 P.M.
Unlike the other girls who arrived for work this morning and are now using their iPods and mobile phones to while away the five hours that separate having their makeup and hair done from the actual fashion show, Jasmine is reading a book, a poetry book:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
She had chosen the road less traveled, and though it cost her dearly, it has been worth it. Things arrive at the right moment. Love had appeared when she most needed it and was still there with her now. She did her work with, for, and out of love, or, rather, out of love for one particular person.
Jasmine’s real name is Cristina. Her CV says she was discovered by Anna Dieter on a trip to Kenya, but there was little detail about this, leaving in the air the possibility of a childhood spent suffering and starving, caught up in the middle of a civil war. In fact, despite her black skin, she was born in the very traditional Belgian city of Antwerp, the daughter of parents fleeing the eternal conflicts between Hutus and Tutsis in Rwanda.
One weekend, when she was sixteen, she was helping out her mother on one of the latter’s endless cleaning jobs, when a man came up to them and introduced himself, saying he was a photographer.
“Your daughter is extraordinarily beautiful,” he said. “I’d like her to work with me as a model.”
“You see this bag I’m carrying? It’s full of cleaning materials. I work day and night so that she can go to a good school and, one day, get a university degree. She’s only sixteen.”
“That’s the ideal age,” said the photographer, handing his card to Cristina. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
They carried on walking, but her mother noticed that her daughter kept the card.
“Don’t be deceived. That isn’t your world. They just want to get you into bed.”
Cristina didn’t need to be told this. Even though all the girls in her class envied her and the boys all wanted to take her to parties, she was keenly aware of her origins and her limitations.
She still didn’t believe it when the same thing happened again. She had just gone into an ice-cream parlor when an older woman remarked on her beauty and said that she was a fashion photographer. Cristina thanked her, took her card, and promised to phone her, even though she had no intention of doing so and even though becoming a model was the dream of every girl her age.
Given that things never happen only twice, three months later, she was looking in the window of a shop selling extremely expensive clothes, when the owner of the shop came out to speak to her.
“What do you do for a living?”
“You should really be asking me what will I be doing. I’m going to study to be a vet.”
“Well, you’re on the wrong path. Wouldn’t you like to work with us?”
“I haven’t got time to sell clothes. Whenever I can, I help my mother.”
“I’m not suggesting you sell anything. I’d like you to do a few photo shoots wearing our designs.”
And if it hadn’t been for an episode that occurred a few days later, these encounters would have been nothing but pleasant memories to look back on when she was married with children, loved by her family and fulfilled by her career.
She was with some friends at a nightclub, dancing and feeling glad to be alive, when a group of ten boys burst in, shouting. Nine of them were carrying clubs with razor blades embedded in them and were ordering everyone to get out. Panic spread, and people started running. Cristina didn’t know what to do, although her instincts told her to remain where she was and look the other way.
Before she could do anything, however, she saw the tenth boy take a knife out of his pocket, go over to one of her friends, grab him from behind, and slit his throat. The gang left as quickly as they had appeared, while the other people present were either screaming, trying to run away, or sitting on the floor, crying. A few went over to the victim to see if they could help, knowing that it was too late. Others, like Cristina, simply stared at the scene in shock. She knew the murdered boy and the murderer too, and even knew the motive for the crime (a fight in a bar shortly before they had gone to the nightclub), but she seemed to be floating somewhere in the clouds, as if it had all been a dream from which she would soon wake up, drenched in sweat, relieved to know that all nightmares come to an end.
This, however, was no dream.
It took only a few minutes for her to return to earth, screaming for someone to do something, screaming for people to do nothing, screaming for no reason at all, and her screams seemed to make people even more nervous. Then the police arrived, carrying guns, and were followed by paramedics and then detectives, who lined all the young people up against the wall and started questioning them, demanding to see their documents, their mobile phones, their addresses. Who had killed the boy and why? Cristina could say nothing. The body, covered by a sheet, was taken away. A nurse forced her to take a pill and told her that she must on no account drive home, but take a taxi or use public transport.
Early the next morning, the phone rang. Her mother had decided to spend the day at home with her daughter, who seemed somehow detached from the world. The police insisted on speaking to Crist
ina directly, saying that she must be at the police station by midday and ask for a particular inspector. Her mother refused. The police threatened her, and so, in the end, Cristina and her mother had no choice.
THEY ARRIVED AT THE APPOINTED time. The inspector asked Cristina if she knew the murderer.
Her mother’s words were still echoing in her mind: “Don’t say anything. We’re immigrants, they’re Belgians. We’re black, they’re white. When they come out of prison, they’ll track you down.” So she said:
“I don’t know who the boy was. I’d never seen him before.”
She knew that by saying this, she risked losing her love of life.
“Of course you know who he was,” retorted the policeman. “Look, don’t worry, nothing’s going to happen to you. We’ve arrested almost the whole group, and we just need witnesses for the trial.”
“I don’t know anything. I was nowhere near. I didn’t see who did it.”
The inspector shook his head in despair.
“You’ll have to repeat that at the trial,” he said, “knowing that you’re committing perjury, that is, lying to the judge, a crime for which you could spend as long in prison as the murderers themselves.”
Months later, she was called as a witness. The boys were all there with their lawyers and seemed almost to be enjoying the situation. One of the other girls who had been at the club that night identified the murderer in court.
Then it was Cristina’s turn. The prosecutor asked her to identify the person who had slit her friend’s throat.
“I don’t know who did it,” she said.
She was black and the daughter of immigrants. She had a student grant from the government. All she wanted was to recover her will to live, and to feel once again that she had a future. She had spent weeks staring at her bedroom ceiling, not wanting to study or to do anything. The world in which she had lived up until then did not belong to her anymore. At sixteen, she had learned in the hardest way possible that she was incapable of fighting for her own security. She needed to leave Antwerp, to travel the world, to recover her joy and her strength.
The Winner Stands Alone Page 11
