The Winner Stands Alone

by Paulo Coelho; Margaret Jull Costa

  Sacrifice. Yes, he should have thought of that, but perhaps he needed the experience of destroying those two worlds this morning to be able to see more clearly what is going on. The redemption of love through total surrender. His body will be handed over to the executioners who judge only one’s gestures and who forget about the intentions and reasons that lie behind any act that society considers “insane.” Jesus (who understands that love merits any amount of sacrifice) will receive his spirit, and Ewa will have his soul. She will know what he was capable of: surrender, self-immolation, and all for the sake of one person. He won’t be condemned to death because the guillotine was abolished in France decades ago, but he might spend many years in prison. Ewa will repent of her sins. She’ll come to see him, bring him food, they’ll have time to talk, reflect, love, and even though their bodies do not touch, their souls will be closer than ever. Even if they have to wait years before they can live in the house he intends to build on the shores of Lake Baikal, that period of waiting will purify and bless them.

  Yes, sacrifice. He turns off the shower, looks at his face in the mirror for a moment, and sees not himself, but the Lamb prepared to be slaughtered once again. He puts on the same clothes he was wearing this morning, goes out into the street, heads for the place where the little street vendor used to sit, and goes up to the first policeman he meets.

  “I killed the girl who used to work here.”

  The policeman looks at him and sees a well-dressed man with disheveled hair and dark circles under his eyes.

  “The one who used to sell craftwork?”

  Igor nods.

  The policeman doesn’t take much notice of him. He greets a couple who are walking by, laden with shopping.

  “You should get a maid!”

  “If you’ll pay her wages,” retorts the woman, smiling. “You just can’t get the staff these days!”

  “Oh, come on, money can’t be the reason. You have a different diamond on your finger every week.”

  Igor cannot understand what’s going on. He has just confessed to a murder.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Look, it’s very hot. Go and lie down for a bit. Cannes has a lot to offer its visitors.”

  “But what about the girl?”

  “Did you know her?”

  “I’d never seen her before in my life. She was here this morning. I…”

  “…you saw the ambulance arrive and someone being taken away and concluded she’d been murdered. I don’t know where you’re from, sir, I don’t know if you’ve got children yourself, but just watch out for drugs. People say they’re not as bad as all that, but look what happened to that poor girl.”

  And the policeman moves away without waiting for a response.

  Should Igor have insisted, given more details? Then would the policeman have taken him seriously? But, of course, it’s impossible to kill someone in broad daylight and on the main street in Cannes. He had even been ready to own up to the other world he had destroyed at a party packed with people.

  But the representative of law and order and good manners hadn’t wanted to listen to him. What kind of world was he living in? Would he have to take the gun out of his pocket and start firing in all directions for them to believe him? Would he have to behave like a barbarian who kills for no reason before they would finally listen to him?

  Igor watches the policeman cross the road and go into a snack bar. He decides to wait for a while, just in case he should change his mind, get further information from the police station and come back and ask him for more details of the crime.

  However, he’s pretty certain that won’t happen. He remembers the policeman’s remark to the woman about the diamond on her finger. Did he perhaps know where it came from? Of course not; if he did, he would have taken her straight to the police station and charged her with handling criminal property.

  As far as the woman was concerned, the diamond had magically appeared in some high-class shop, having—as the shop assistants always said—first been cut by Dutch or Belgian jewelers. It would be classified according to cut, color, clarity, and carat weight. The price could vary from a few hundred euros to something most mere mortals would consider truly outrageous.

  A diamond, or brilliant to give it its other name, is, as everyone knows, just a piece of coal that has been worked on by heat and time. Since it contains no organic matter, it is impossible to know how long it takes for its structure to change, although geologists estimate something between three hundred million and a billion years. Diamonds generally form ninety miles below the Earth’s crust and gradually rise to the surface, where they can be mined.

  Diamond is the hardest and most resistant of natural materials, and it takes a diamond to cut another diamond. The particles produced by this process are used in machines made for polishing and cutting. The real importance of diamonds lies in their use as jewels. A diamond is the supreme manifestation of human vanity.

  A few decades ago, in a world that seemed about to return to more practical things and greater social equality, diamonds began to disappear from the market. Then the largest mining company in the world, with its headquarters in South Africa, decided to commission one of the best advertising agencies in the world. Superclass met with Superclass, research was carried out, and the result was a three-word phrase:

  “Diamonds are forever.”

  Problem solved. Jewelers took up the slogan, and the industry began to flourish again. If diamonds are forever, what better way to express one’s love, which, in theory at least, should also be eternal? What better way of distinguishing the Superclass from the other billions of inhabitants who make up the bottom half of the pyramid? The demand for the stones increased and prices started to rise. In a matter of a few years, that same South African company, which had, up until then, set the rules for the international market, found itself surrounded by corpses.

  Igor knows what he’s talking about. When he helped form an army to get involved in a tribal conflict in Africa, it had proved an extremely difficult task. Not that he regrets it because, although few people knew about the project, he managed to save many lives. He had mentioned it once in passing to Ewa over some now-forgotten supper, but had decided to say no more. When he performed a charitable act, he preferred his right hand not to know what his left hand was doing. Diamonds had helped him save many lives, although that fact will never appear in his biography.

  The policeman who takes no notice when a criminal confesses to a crime, but praises the jewel on the finger of a woman carrying bags packed with toilet paper and cleaning materials, is simply not fit for the job. He doesn’t know that this pointless industry creates about fifty billion dollars a year, employs a vast army of miners, transporters, private security companies, diamond factories, insurance companies, wholesalers, and luxury boutiques. He doesn’t realize that it begins in the mud and has to cross whole rivers of blood before it reaches a shop window.

  The mud is where the miner spends his life looking for the stone that will eventually bring him the fortune he so desires. He finds several and sells each stone for an average of twenty dollars, a stone that will end up costing the consumer ten thousand dollars. But he’s happy enough because, where he lives, people earn less than fifty dollars a year, and five stones are enough for him to enjoy a short but happy life, working as he does in the worst possible conditions.

  THE STONES ARE BOUGHT BY unidentified buyers and immediately passed on to irregular armies in Liberia, in the Congo, and in Angola. In those countries, a man, surrounded by guards armed to the teeth, is designated to go to an airstrip where planes can land illegally. A plane duly lands, a man in a suit gets out, usually accompanied by another man in shirtsleeves, carrying a small suitcase. There is a perfunctory exchange of greetings. The man with the bodyguards hands over a few small packages; perhaps for superstitious reasons, the packages are always made from old tights.

  The man in shirtsleeves takes a special jeweler’s eyeglass f
rom his pocket, puts it to his left eye, and begins to check each piece, one by one. After about an hour and a half, he has a good idea of what he’s dealing with; he then takes a small precision electronic weighing balance from his case and empties the contents of the packages onto the scale. He makes a few calculations on a sheet of paper. The material is placed in the suitcase along with the balance; the man in the suit signals to the armed guards, and five or six of them board the plane. They start to unload large crates, which they pile up beside the airstrip until the plane leaves again. The whole operation takes most of the day.

  The large crates are opened. They contain precision rifles, antipersonnel mines, and bullets that explode on impact, releasing dozens of small, deadly metal balls. The arms are handed out to mercenaries and soldiers, and soon the country finds itself facing another ruthless coup d’état. Whole tribes are murdered, children’s legs or arms are blown off by cluster bombs, women are raped. Meanwhile, a long way away—usually in Antwerp or in Amsterdam—earnest men are working with love and dedication, painstakingly cutting the stones, exhilarated by their own skill, hypnotized by the flashes of light that begin to emerge from each new facet of that piece of coal whose structure was transformed by time. Diamond cutting diamond.

  On the one hand, women screaming in despair beneath a smoke-shrouded sky. On the other, beautiful old buildings seen through the windows of well-lit rooms.

  In 2002, the United Nations adopted a resolution, the Kimberley Process, that tried to trace the origin of diamonds and forbade jewelers from buying any that came from war zones. For some time, the respectable European diamond cutters went back to buying stones from the South African monopoly. However, ways were found of making a diamond “official,” and the resolution became a mere sham that allowed politicians to claim that they were doing something to put an end to “blood diamonds,” as these became known.

  Five years ago, Igor had swapped diamonds for arms and created a small group intended to put an end to a bloody conflict in the north of Liberia, and he had succeeded—only the murderers were killed. Peace returned to the small villages, and the diamonds were sold to jewelers in America, with no awkward questions asked.

  When society doesn’t act to stop crime, men have the right to do whatever they think correct.

  SOMETHING SIMILAR HAD HAPPENED A few minutes ago on that beach. As soon as both murders were discovered, someone would turn to the public and say what they always said:

  “We’re doing our best to identify the murderer.”

  So be it. Once again, ever-generous destiny had shown the way ahead. Sacrifice wasn’t enough. Besides, when he thought about it, Ewa would have found his absence unbearable, with no one to talk to during the long nights and endless days while she awaited his release. She would weep whenever she thought of him in his cold cell, staring at the blank prison walls. And when the time finally came for them to go and live in the house on the shores of Lake Baikal, they might be too old to experience all the adventures they had planned together.

  The policeman comes out of the snack bar and joins him on the pavement.

  “Are you still here, sir? Are you lost? Do you need help?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Like I said, go and have a rest. The sun can be very dangerous at this time of day.”

  He goes back to the hotel and takes a shower. He asks the receptionist to wake him at four, that way he should be rested enough to recover the necessary clarity of mind not to go doing any more such foolish things. He had very nearly ruined his whole plan.

  He phones the concierge and reserves a table on the hotel terrace for when he wakes up; he’d like to drink some tea there undisturbed. Then he lies down, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for sleep to come.

  What does it matter where diamonds are from, as long as they shine?

  In this world, only love deserves absolutely everything. Nothing else makes sense.

  As he has many times before in his life, Igor feels a sense of total freedom. The confusion in his head is slowly disappearing and lucidity is returning.

  He had placed his fate in Jesus’ hands, and Jesus had decided that he should continue with his mission.

  He falls asleep without any feeling of guilt whatsoever.

  1:55 P.M.

  Gabriela decides to walk very slowly to the place where she is to pick up the boat. She needs to put her thoughts in order, she needs to calm down. She is at a point where not only her most secret dreams might become reality, but also her worst nightmares.

  Her phone rings. It’s a text message from her agent.

  CONGRATULATIONS. ACCEPT WHATEVER THEY OFFER. XXX

  She watches the crowds of people who seem to be wandering aimlessly up and down the Boulevard. She, on the other hand, has a goal! She isn’t just another of the opportunists who come to Cannes and don’t know quite where to start. She has a solid CV, some respectable professional baggage, she’s never tried to get ahead in life merely by using her physical attributes, and she has real talent! That’s why she’s been chosen to meet this famous director, without any help from anyone, without having to dress in a provocative manner, without even having time to rehearse her role. He would, of course, take all these things into consideration.

  She stops for a snack—she hasn’t eaten anything all day—and as soon as she takes her first sip of coffee, her thoughts seem to come back down to earth.

  Why had she been chosen?

  What exactly would her role in the film be?

  And what if, when Gibson saw the video of the audition, he decided she wasn’t the person he was looking for?

  “Calm down.”

  She has nothing to lose, she tells herself, but another voice insists:

  “This is your one and only chance.”

  There’s no such thing as a “one and only chance”; life always gives you another chance, but the voice says again:

  “Maybe, but how long before another chance comes along? You know how old you are, don’t you?”

  Of course she does. She’s twenty-five, in a world in which actresses, even the most committed, etc. etc.

  She doesn’t need to go over all that again. She pays for the sandwich and the coffee and makes her way over to the quay, this time trying to control her optimism, telling herself not to refer to other people as “opportunists,” mentally reciting the rules of positive thinking that she can remember, anything to avoid dwelling on that all too imminent meeting.

  “If you believe in victory, then victory will believe in you.”

  “Risk everything in the name of chance and keep well away from everything that offers you a world of comfort.”

  “Talent is a universal gift, but it takes a lot of courage to use it. Don’t be afraid to be the best.”

  It isn’t enough to focus on what great teachers have said, she needs help from the heavens. She starts to pray, as she always does when she’s anxious. She feels the need to make a promise and decides that, if she does get the role, she will walk all the way from Cannes to the Vatican. If the film gets made. If it’s a worldwide success.

  No, it would be enough just to get a part in a film with Gibson because that would attract the attention of other directors and producers. Then she will make the promised pilgrimage.

  She reaches the appointed place, looks at the sea and again at the message she received from her agent; if her agent already knows about it, that must mean the director is serious. But what did “accept whatever they offer” mean? That she should sleep with the director or with the starring actor?

  She’s never done that before, but she’s prepared to do anything now. Besides, who hasn’t dreamed of sleeping with a movie star?

  She looks at the sea again. She could have gone back to the apartment and changed her clothes, but she’s superstitious. If a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt were enough to get her this far, she should at least wait until the end of the day to change her clothes. She loosens her belt and sits in the lotus posi
tion and starts to do some yoga breathing. She breathes slowly, and body, heart, and thoughts all settle into place.

  She sees the launch approaching. A man jumps out and says:

  “Gabriela Sherry?”

  She nods, and the man asks her to go with him. They get into the launch and set off across a sea crowded with yachts of all types and sizes. The man doesn’t say another word, as if he were far away, perhaps dreaming about what might be going on in the cabins of those small boats or how good it would be to own one. Gabriela hesitates: her head is full of questions and doubts, and a sympathetic word can often make a stranger into an ally who might help with valuable tips on how to behave. But she doesn’t know who he is. He might have influence with Gibson or be merely a no-account assistant who gets landed with jobs like picking up unknown actresses and taking them to his boss.

  Best to say nothing.

  Five minutes later, they draw up alongside a huge white boat. The name on the prow is Santiago. A sailor climbs down a ladder and helps her aboard. She passes through the spacious central reception room in which preparations are under way for what looks like a big party later that night. She walks toward the stern of the ship, where there is a small swimming pool, two tables shaded by parasols, and a few sun loungers. Enjoying the afternoon sun are Gibson and the Star!

  “I wouldn’t mind sleeping with either of them,” she thinks, smiling to herself. She feels more confident, although her heart is beating faster than usual.

  The Star looks her up and down and gives her a friendly, reassuring smile. Gibson gives her a firm handshake, gets up, takes one of the chairs from the nearest table, and tells her to sit down.