The Winner Stands Alone

by Paulo Coelho; Margaret Jull Costa

  A middle-class couple, say, with little money will bring some extremely valuable piece to auction, alleging that they found it in the attic of their grandparents’ old house. The piece is sold for a lot of money, then resold the following week to specialist galleries for ten or twenty times the original price. The “oranges” are happy, thank the gods for their generosity, deposit the money in their joint account, and resolve to invest it in some foreign country, always taking care to leave a small amount—their percentage—in that first account. The gods in this case are the real owners of the paintings who will buy it back from the galleries and put it on the market again, with different vendors this time.

  There are, however, more expensive products still, like the theater and the production and distribution of films. That is where the invisible hands of the money launderers can really make a killing.

  Savoy is now reading about the man currently in intensive care and trying to fill in a few blanks in his own imagination.

  The man had been an actor who dreamed of becoming a major star. He couldn’t find any work—although he still took great care of his physical appearance, as if he really were a star—but he got to know the industry. In middle age, he managed to raise some money from investors and make a couple of films, both of which were resounding flops because they didn’t get the right distribution. Nevertheless, his name appeared on the credits, and he became known in the specialist magazines as someone who had at least tried to make something different from the films being churned out by the big studios.

  Just as he was beginning to despair, unsure what to do with his life, with no one willing to give him another chance, and weary of begging money from people who were only interested in investing in surefire hits, he was approached by a group of people, some of whom were very affable, while others were completely silent.

  They made him an offer. He would start up as a film distributor, and his first purchase should be something guaranteed to reach a wider public. The major studios would offer vast sums of money for the film, but he needn’t worry—any sum offered would be matched by his new friends. The film would be shown in lots of cinemas and earn a fortune. Javits would get what he most needed—a reputation. No one would be likely to delve into the life of a frustrated film producer. Two or three films later, the authorities might start to ask where all the money was coming from, but by then, the first step was safely concealed behind the five-year time limitation on all tax investigations.

  So Javits began a glorious career. His first films as a distributor were highly profitable; exhibitors began to believe in his ability to select the best films on the market; directors and producers were soon queuing up to work with him. To keep up appearances, he always made sure to accept two or three low-budget projects every six months, the rest being films made with megabudgets, top-ranking stars, able technicians, and a lot of money to spend on promotion, money that came from groups based in tax havens. Box-office earnings were deposited in a normal investment fund, above suspicion, which had “shares” in the movie.

  Fine. The dirty money was thus transformed into a marvelous work of art, which, naturally, didn’t make as much money as was hoped, but was still capable of yielding millions of dollars that would immediately be invested by one of the partners in the enterprise.

  At one point, however, a sharp-eyed tax inspector—or perhaps a whistle-blower at one of the studios—noticed one very simple fact: why was it that so many previously unknown producers were employing big stars and the most talented directors, spending a fortune on publicity, and using only one distributor for their films? The answer: the big studios are only interested in their own productions, whereas Javits is the hero, the man standing out against the monopoly of the giant corporations, a David to their Goliath, battling an unfair system.

  A more conscientious tax inspector decided to proceed with his investigation, despite all these apparently reasonable explanations. He began in great secrecy and learned that all the companies who had invested in the biggest box-office successes were always limited companies based in the Bahamas, in Panama, or in Singapore. A mole in the tax office (there is always a mole) warned Javits’s backers that they had better find another distributor to launder money from now on.

  Javits was in despair. He had grown accustomed to the millionaire lifestyle and to being treated as if he were a demigod. He had traveled to Cannes, which provided an excellent front for sorting things out with his backers and personally handing over the codes of various numbered accounts. He had no idea that he was being followed, that a prison term would almost certainly ensue, pending decisions made by men in ties in ill-lit offices. They might let him continue for a while longer, in order to get more proof, or they might end the story right there.

  His backers, however, never took unnecessary risks. Their man could be arrested at any moment, make a deal with the court, and give details of how the whole scam worked, as well as naming names and identifying people in photos taken without his knowledge.

  There was only one way to solve the problem—they would have to kill him.

  Things couldn’t be clearer, and Savoy can see exactly how things developed. Now he just needs to do what he always does. Fill in more forms, draw up a report, hand it to Europol, and let their bureaucrats find the murderers because it’s a case that could well lead to promotions and revive stagnant careers. The investigation has to produce a result, and none of his superiors would believe that a detective from a small town in France would be capable of making any major discoveries (because however glitzy and glamorous Cannes was during the Festival, for the other 350 days of the year it was just a small provincial town).

  He suspects that the perpetrator may have been one of the bodyguards at the table, since the poison could only have been administered by someone standing very close. However, he won’t mention that. He’ll fill up more paper about the people working in the tent, find no further witnesses, then close the file—having first spent a few days exchanging faxes and e-mails with other more important departments.

  He’ll go back to his two murders a year, to the fights and the fines, having been so close to something that could have international repercussions. His adolescent dream of improving the world; contributing to creating a safer, fairer society; getting promoted; landing a job at the Ministry of Justice; giving his wife and children a more comfortable life; helping to change the public perception of the law; and showing that there are still some honest policemen, all came down to the same thing—more paperwork.

  4:16 P.M.

  The terrace outside the bar is packed, and Igor feels proud of his ability to plan things, because even though he’s never been to Cannes before, he had foreseen precisely this situation and reserved a table. He orders tea and toast, lights a cigarette, and looks around him at the same scene you might see in any chic place anywhere in the world: women who are either anorexic or use too much Botox; ladies dripping with jewelry and eating ice cream; men with much younger female companions; bored couples; smiling young women sipping low-calorie drinks and pretending to be listening to what their friends are saying when they’re really on the lookout for someone more interesting to hove into view.

  There is one exception: three men and a woman are sitting at a table strewn with papers and beer cans, discussing something in low voices and constantly checking figures on a calculator. They appear to be the only ones who are really engaged in some project, but that isn’t quite true; everyone there is working hard in a way, in search of one thing: vis-i-bil-i-ty, which, if all goes well, will turn into Fame, which, if all goes well again, will turn into Power, the magic word that transforms any human being into a demigod, a remote, inaccessible icon accustomed to having his every desire met and to getting jealous looks when he sweeps past in his limousine with the smoked-glass windows or in his expensive sports car, someone who no longer has mountains to climb or impossible conquests to make.

  The people on the terrace have clearly leaped over certain ba
rriers already; they are not outside with the photographers, behind the metal barriers, waiting for someone to come out of the main door and fill their universe with light. They have already made it into the hotel lobby, and now all they need is fame and power, and they really don’t mind what form these take. Men know that age isn’t a problem, all they need are the right contacts. The young women—who keep as keen an eye on the terrace as any trained bodyguard—know that they’re reaching a dangerous age, when any chance of achieving something through their beauty alone will suddenly vanish. The older women there would like to be recognized and respected for their gifts and their intelligence, but the diamonds they’re wearing make it unlikely that their talents will be discovered. The men sitting with their wives are waiting for someone to pass by and say hello and for everyone to turn and look and think: “He must be well-known, or even famous, who knows?”

  The celebrity syndrome. It can destroy careers, marriages, and Christian values, and can blind both the wise and the ignorant. A few examples. Great scientists who, on being given an important prize, abandon the research that might have helped humanity and decide instead to live off lectures that feed both their ego and their bank balance. The Indian in the Amazon jungle who, on being taken up by a famous singer, decides that he’s being exploited for his poverty. The campaigner for justice who works hard defending the rights of the less fortunate, decides to run for public office, wins the election, and subsequently considers himself above the law, until he’s discovered one day in a motel room with a prostitute paid for by the taxpayer.

  The celebrity syndrome. When people forget who they are and start to believe what other people say about them. The Superclass, everyone’s dream, a world without shadows or darkness, where yes is the only possible answer to any request.

  Igor is a powerful man. He has fought all his life to get where he is now. To that end, he has sat through boring suppers, endless lectures, and meetings with people he loathed, has bestowed smiles when he would rather have bestowed insults, and insults when he actually felt genuinely sorry for the poor creatures being singled out for punishment, as an example to others. He worked day and night and weekends too, deep in discussions with lawyers, administrators, officials, and press officers. He started with nothing just after the fall of the Communist regime and he reached the top. He has, moreover, managed to survive all the political and economic storms that swept his country during the first two decades of the new regime. And why? Because he fears God and knows that the road he has traveled in his life is a blessing that must be respected; if not, he will lose everything.

  There were, of course, moments when something told him he was forgetting about the most important part of that blessing: Ewa; but for many years he persuaded himself that she would understand and accept that it was simply a temporary phase and that soon they would be able to spend as much time together as they wished. They made great plans—journeys, cruises, a remote house in the mountains with a blazing log fire, and the certain knowledge that they could stay there for as long as they wanted, with no need to worry about money, debts, or obligations. They would find a school for the many children they planned to have together; they would spend whole afternoons walking through the surrounding forests; they would have supper at small, cozy local restaurants.

  They would have time to garden, read, go to the cinema, and do the simple things that everyone dreams of doing, the only things truly capable of filling anyone’s life. When he got home, his arms full of papers which he would then spread out on the bed, he would ask her to be patient for a little while longer. When his phone rang on the very day they’d chosen to go out to supper together, and he had to interrupt their conversation and spend a long time talking to whoever had called, he would again ask her to be patient. He knew Ewa was doing everything she could to make things easy for him, although she did complain now and then, very sweetly, that they needed to make the most of life while they were still young; after all, they had money enough for the next five generations.

  Igor would say: “Right, I’ll stop today.” And Ewa would smile and stroke his cheek, and then he would remember something important he’d forgotten to do and go over to the phone to ring someone or to the computer to send an e-mail.

  A MAN IN HIS FORTIES gets up, looks around the terrace, and, brandishing a newspaper, shouts:

  “‘Violence and horror in Tokyo’ says the headline. ‘Seven people killed in a shop selling electronic toys.’”

  Everyone looks at him.

  “Violence! They don’t know what they’re talking about. This is where you get real violence!”

  A shudder runs down Igor’s spine.

  “If some madman stabs to death a few innocent people, the whole world is shocked, but who cares about the intellectual violence being perpetrated in Cannes? Our festival is being killed in the name of a dictatorship. It’s not a question of choosing the best film, but of committing crimes against humanity, forcing people to buy products they don’t want, putting fashion above art, choosing to go to a lunch or a supper rather than watch a film. That’s disgraceful. I’m here to—”

  “Be quiet,” someone says. “No one cares why you’re here.”

  “I’m here to denounce the enslavement of man’s desires, for we have stopped using our intelligence to make choices and instead allow ourselves to be manipulated by propaganda and lies! People get all steamed up about these stabbings in Tokyo, but they don’t give a damn about the death by a thousand cuts suffered by a whole generation of filmmakers.”

  The man pauses, expecting a standing ovation, but there isn’t even a thoughtful silence. Everyone resumes their conversations, indifferent to his words. He sits down again, trying to look dignified, but with his heart in shreds for making such a fool of himself.

  “VIS-I-BIL-I-TY,” THINKS IGOR. “THE PROBLEM is that no one took any notice.”

  It’s his turn to look around. Ewa is staying at the same hotel, and a sixth sense born of many years of marriage tells him that she’s sitting not very far away on that same terrace. She will have received his messages and is probably looking for him now, knowing that he, too, must be near.

  He can’t see her, but neither can he stop thinking about her—his obsession. He remembers one night being driven home in his imported limousine by the chauffeur who doubled as his bodyguard—they had fought together in Afghanistan, but fortune had smiled on them in very different ways—and remembers asking the driver to stop outside the Hotel Kempinski. He left his mobile phone and his papers in the car and went up to the terrace bar. Unlike this terrace in Cannes, the place was almost empty and getting ready to close. He gave a generous tip to the waiters and asked them to stay open for another hour, just for him.

  And that was when he understood. It wasn’t true that he would give up work next month or next year or even next decade. They would never have the house in the country and the children they dreamed of. He asked himself that night why this was impossible and he had only one answer.

  On the road to power, there’s no turning back. He would be an eternal slave to the road he’d chosen, and if he did ever realize his dream of abandoning everything, he would plunge immediately into a deep depression.

  Why was he like that? Was it because of the nightmares he had about the trenches, remembering the frightened young man he’d been then, fulfilling a duty he hadn’t chosen and being forced to kill? Was it because he couldn’t forget his first victim, a peasant who had strayed into the line of fire when the Red Army was fighting the Afghan guerrillas? Was it because of the many people who hadn’t believed in him and had humiliated him when he was looking for investors for his mobile phone business? Was it because in the beginning he’d had to associate with shadows, with the Russian mafia eager to launder the money they earned through prostitution?

  He’d managed to repay those questionable loans without himself being corrupted and without owing any favors. He’d managed to negotiate with the shadows and still keep his own light bu
rning. He knew that the war belonged to the distant past and that he would never again set foot on a battlefield. He’d found the love of his life. He was doing the kind of work he’d always wanted to do. He was rich, very rich, and, just in case the Communist regime were to return tomorrow, he kept most of his personal fortune abroad. He was on good terms with all the political parties. He’d met famous people from around the world. He’d set up a foundation to care for the orphans of those soldiers killed during the Soviet invasion of Afghanistan.

  But it was only when he was sitting on that terrace café near Red Square, knowing that he had power and money enough to pay the waiters to work all night if necessary, that he finally understood.

  He understood because he saw the same thing happening to his wife. Ewa was also constantly traveling, and even when she was in Moscow, she would arrive home late and go straight to her computer as soon as she walked in the door. He understood that, contrary to what most people think, total power means total slavery. When you get that far, you don’t ever want to give it up. There’s always a new mountain to climb. There’s always a competitor to be convinced or crushed. Along with two thousand other people, he formed part of the most exclusive club in the world, which met only once a year in Davos in Switzerland, at the World Economic Forum. All the members were millionaires, and they all worked from dawn until late at night, always wanting to go further, never changing tack—acquisitions, stock markets, market trends, money, money, money. They worked not because they needed to, but because they judged themselves to be necessary; they felt that thousands of families depended on them and that they had a huge responsibility to their governments and their associates. They genuinely thought they were helping the world, which might be true, but they had to pay for this with their own lives.

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, HE DID something he hated having to do: he went to a psychiatrist. Something must be wrong. He discovered then that he was suffering from an illness that was fairly common among those who had achieved something beyond the grasp of ordinary folk. He was a compulsive worker, a workaholic. According to the psychiatrist, workaholics run the risk of becoming depressed when not immersed in the challenges and problems of running a company.