“We don’t yet know the origin of the disorder, but it’s associated with insecurity, childhood fears, and a desire to block out reality. It’s as serious an addiction as drugs. Unlike drugs, however, which diminish productivity, the workaholic makes a great contribution to the wealth of his country. So it’s in no one’s interests to seek a cure.”
“And what are the consequences?”
“You should know, because that’s presumably why you’ve come to see me. The gravest consequence is the damage it causes to family life. In Japan, one of the countries where the illness is most common and where the consequences are sometimes fatal, they’ve developed various ways of controlling the obsession.”
Igor couldn’t remember listening to anyone in the last two years with the respect and attention he was paying that bespectacled, mustachioed man before him.
“So there is a way out, then?”
“When a workaholic seeks help from a psychiatrist that means he’s ready to be cured. Only about one in every thousand cases realizes that he needs help.”
“Oh, I need help, and I have enough money…”
“That’s what all workaholics say. Yes, I know you have enough money, you all do. I know who you are as well. I’ve seen photos of you at charity balls, at congresses, in private audience with our president, who, by the way, shows the same symptoms. Money isn’t enough. What I want to know is this: do you really want to change?”
Igor thought of Ewa, of the house in the mountains, the family he’d like to have, the hundreds of millions of dollars he had in the bank. He thought of his position in society and of the power he possessed and how difficult it would be to give all that up.
“I’m not saying you should abandon what you’re doing,” said the psychiatrist, as if he’d read his thoughts. “I’m simply suggesting that you use work as a source of happiness and not as a compulsion.”
“Yes, I can do that.”
“And what would be your main motive for doing so? All workaholics think they’re happy doing what they’re doing, and none of their friends, who are in the same position, will see why they should seek help.”
Igor lowered his eyes.
“Shall I tell you what your main motive is? As I said before, you’re destroying your family.”
“No, it’s worse than that. My wife is starting to show the same symptoms. She’s been distancing herself from me ever since a trip we made to Lake Baikal. And if there’s anyone in the world I would be capable of killing again for…”
Igor realized he’d said too much, but the psychiatrist seemed entirely unmoved.
“If there’s anyone in the world for whom I would do anything, absolutely anything, that person is my wife.”
The psychiatrist summoned his assistant and asked her to make a series of appointments. He didn’t consult his patient to see if he would be available on those dates; it was part of the treatment to make it quite clear that any other commitment, however important, could be postponed.
“May I ask a question?”
The psychiatrist nodded.
“Couldn’t overwork also be considered rather noble? A proof of my deep respect for the opportunities God has given me in this life? A way of putting society to rights, even if sometimes I have to use methods that are a little…”
Silence.
“A little what?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Igor left the consulting room feeling both confused and relieved. Perhaps the psychiatrist had failed to understand the essence of what he did. Life has its reasons. We are all of us linked, and often it’s necessary to cut out the malignant tumors so that the rest of the body can remain healthy. People are locked up in their selfish little worlds; they make plans that don’t include their fellow man; they believe the planet is simply land to be exploited; they follow their instincts and desires and care nothing for the collective well-being of society.
He wasn’t destroying his family, he simply wanted to leave the world a better place for the children he dreamed of having, a world without drugs or wars or people trafficking, a world in which love would be the great force uniting all couples, peoples, nations, and religions. Ewa would understand this, even if their marriage was currently going through a crisis, a crisis doubtless sent by the Evil One.
The following day, he asked his secretary to cancel all subsequent appointments with the psychiatrist; he had more important things to do. He was drawing up a great plan to purify the world, a plan for which he would need help; indeed, he’d already contacted a group prepared to work with him.
Two months later, the wife he loved left him—because of the Evil that had possessed her, because he hadn’t been able to understand her feelings.
THE SOUND OF A CHAIR being shifted returns him to the reality of Cannes. Before him sits a woman holding a glass of whisky in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She’s well-dressed but visibly drunk.
“May I sit here? All the other tables are occupied.”
“You already are sitting here.”
“It’s just not possible,” says the woman, as if she’d known him for years. “It’s simply not possible. The police made me leave the hospital. And the man for whose sake I traveled by train for almost a whole day, for whom I rented a hotel room at twice the normal price, is now hovering between life and death. Damn!”
Is she from the police? Or does what she’s saying have nothing to do with what he thinks it does?
“Anyway, what are you doing here, if you don’t mind my asking? Aren’t you hot? Wouldn’t you be cooler without your jacket on, or are you trying to impress everyone with your elegance?”
As usual, people choose their own destiny, and this woman is doing just that.
“I always wear a jacket regardless of the temperature. Are you an actress?”
The woman gives an almost hysterical laugh.
“Yes, let’s say I’m an actress, yes I am. I’m playing the part of someone who has had the same dream since she was an adolescent, has grown up with it, battled seven miserable years of her life to make it a reality, who’s mortgaged her house, worked ceaselessly…”
“Oh, I know what that’s like.”
“No, you don’t. It means thinking about just one thing day and night, going to places uninvited, shaking hands with people you despise, phoning once, twice, ten times until you get the attention of people who aren’t worth half what you are, who don’t have half your courage, but who’ve reached a certain position and are determined to take out on you all their domestic frustrations by making your life impossible…”
“…it means only finding pleasure in pursuing your dream, having no other diversions, finding everything else deadly dull, and ending up destroying your family.”
The woman looks at him, taken aback. She no longer seems drunk.
“Who are you? How do you know what I’m thinking?”
“I was thinking about exactly the same thing when you arrived. And I don’t in the least mind you asking me what I’m doing here. I think I can help you.”
“No one can help me. The only person who could is now in the intensive care unit. And from what I could glean before the police arrived, he probably won’t survive. Oh God!”
She drinks the remaining whisky in her glass. Igor signals to the waiter, who ignores him and goes to serve another table.
“I’ve always preferred a cynical compliment to a bit of constructive criticism. Please, tell me I’m beautiful and that I’ve got what it takes.”
Igor laughs.
“How do you know I can’t help you?”
“Are you by any chance a film distributor? Do you have contacts and a chain of cinemas around the world?”
They were perhaps referring to the same person. If so and if this was a trap, it was too late to run away. He’s obviously being watched, and as soon as he stands up, he’ll be arrested. He feels his stomach contract, but why should he be afraid? Only a short time ago, he’d tried, without success, to hand himse
lf over to the police. He’d chosen martyrdom, offered up his freedom as a sacrifice, but that gift had been rejected by God. Now, however, the heavens had obviously reconsidered their decision.
He must think how best to deal with what will ensue: the suspect is identified, a woman pretending to be drunk is sent on ahead to confirm the facts. Then, very discreetly, a man will walk over and ask him to come with him for a little chat. That man will be a policeman. Igor has what looks like a pen in his jacket pocket, but that will arouse no suspicions; the Beretta though will give him away. He sees his whole life flash before him.
Could he use the gun to defend himself? The policeman who is sure to appear as soon as he has been identified will have colleagues watching the scene, and Igor will be dead before he can make so much as a move. On the other hand, he didn’t come here to kill innocent people in a barbarous, indiscriminate way; he has a mission, and his victims—or martyrs for love as he prefers to call them—are serving a greater purpose.
“No, I’m not a distributor,” he says. “I have absolutely nothing to do with the world of cinema, fashion, or glamour. I work in telecommunications.”
“Good,” says the woman. “So you must have money. You must have had dreams in your life, so you know what I’m talking about.”
He’s beginning to lose the thread of the conversation. He signals to another waiter. This time the waiter comes over and Igor orders two cups of tea.
“Can’t you see I’m drinking whisky?”
“Yes, but as I said, I think I can help you. To do that, however, you need to be sober and aware of what you’re doing.”
Maureen feels a change come over her. Ever since this stranger proved himself able to read her thoughts, she feels as if she were being restored to reality. Perhaps he really can help her. It’s been years since anyone tried to seduce her with that most clichéd of chat-up lines in the film business: “I have some very influential friends.” There’s nothing more guaranteed to change a woman’s state of mind than knowing that someone of the opposite sex desires her. She feels tempted to get up and go to the restroom and check her makeup in the mirror. That can wait. First, she needs to send out some clear signals that she’s interested.
Yes, she needs company, she’s open to whatever surprises fate may hold in store; when God closes a door, he opens a window. Why, of all the tables on that terrace, was this the only table occupied by just one person? There was a meaning in this, a hidden sign: the two of them were meant to meet.
She laughs at herself. In her current despairing state anything is a sign, a way out, a piece of good news.
“Firstly, tell me what you need,” says the man.
“I need help. I have a movie with a top-line cast ready and waiting; it was going to be distributed by one of the few people in the industry who still has faith in the talent of people outside the studio system. I was going to meet him tomorrow. I was even at the same lunch as him today, when suddenly I noticed he was feeling unwell.”
Igor starts to relax. Perhaps it’s true, reality really is stranger than fiction.
“I left the lunch, found out which hospital he’d been taken to, and went there. On the way, I imagined what I was going to say, about how I was his friend and we were going to be working together. I’ve never even spoken to him, but I think anyone in a situation like that feels more comfortable knowing that someone, anyone, is near.”
“In other words, turning someone else’s tragedy to your own advantage,” thinks Igor.
People are all the same.
“And what exactly is a top-line cast?” he asks.
“Will you excuse me? I need to go to the bathroom.”
Igor politely stands up, puts on his dark glasses, and, as she walks away, tries to look as calm as possible. He drinks his tea, all the while scanning the terrace. At first sight, there appears to be no immediate threat, but it would still be wise to leave that terrace as soon as the woman comes back.
Maureen is impressed by her new friend’s gentlemanly behavior. It’s been years since she’s seen anyone behave according to the rules of etiquette taught them by their mothers and fathers. As she leaves the terrace, she notices that some pretty young women at the next table, who have doubtless heard part of their conversation, are looking at him and smiling. She notices, too, that he’s put on his dark glasses, possibly to be able to observe the young women without them knowing. Perhaps, by the time she gets back, they’ll all be drinking tea together.
But then life is like that: don’t complain and don’t expect too much either.
She looks at her face in the mirror. Why would a man be interested in her? She really does need to get to grips with reality again, as he suggested. Her eyes look empty and tired; she’s exhausted like everyone else taking part in the Festival, but she knows that she has to carry on fighting. Cannes isn’t over yet, Javits might recover, or someone representing his company might turn up. She has tickets to see other people’s films, an invitation to a party held by Gala—one of the most prestigious magazines in France—and she can use the time available to see how independent European producers and directors go about distributing their films. She needs to bounce back quickly.
As for the handsome stranger, she mustn’t have any illusions in that regard. She returns to the table convinced that she’ll find two of the young women sitting there, but he’s still alone. Again he rises politely to his feet and draws back her chair so that she can sit down.
“Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. My name’s Maureen.”
“I’m Igor. Pleased to meet you. You were saying that you had the ideal cast.”
She decides to get a dig in at the girls at the next table. She speaks slightly more loudly than usual.
“Here in Cannes, or indeed at any other festival, new actresses are discovered every year, and every year really great actresses lose out on getting a great role because the industry thinks they’re too old, even if, in fact, they’re still young and full of enthusiasm. Among the new discoveries” (and, she thinks: “I just hope the girls next to us are listening”), “some choose the path of pure glamour. They don’t earn much on the movies they make—all directors know this and take full advantage—and so they invest in the one thing they shouldn’t invest in.”
“Namely…”
“Their own beauty. They become celebrities, start to charge for attending parties, they’re asked to appear in advertisements, promoting various products. They end up meeting the most powerful men and the sexiest actors in the world. They earn a vast amount of money because they’re young and pretty and their agents get them loads of contracts.
“In fact, they allow themselves to be entirely guided by their agents, who constantly feed their vanity. An actress of this type becomes the dream of housewives, of adolescent girls and would-be actresses who don’t even have enough money to travel to the nearest town, but who consider her a friend, someone who’s having the kind of experiences they would like to have. She continues making movies and earns a little more, although her press agent always puts it about that she’s earning an enormous salary, which is a complete lie that not even the journalists believe, but which they publish anyway because they know the public prefers news to information.”
“What’s the difference?” asks Igor, who’s feeling more relaxed now, while still keeping a close eye on what’s going on around him.
“Let’s say you were to buy a gold-plated computer in an auction in Dubai and decided to write a new book using that technological marvel. When a journalist finds out about the computer, he’ll phone you up and ask: ‘So how’s your gold-plated computer?’ That’s news. The information—the nature of the new book you’re writing—is of no importance whatsoever.”
“Perhaps Ewa is receiving news rather than information,” thinks Igor. The idea had never occurred to him before.
“Go on.”
“Time passes, or, rather, seven or eight years pass. Suddenly, the film offers dry up. The revenue from
parties and advertisements begins to dwindle. Her agent seems suddenly much busier than before and doesn’t always call her back. The ‘big star’ rebels: how can they do this to her, the great sex symbol, the great icon of glamour? She blames her agent and decides to find another one; to her surprise, he doesn’t appear to mind at all. On the contrary, he asks her to sign a statement saying how well they have always got on together; then he wishes her good luck, and that’s the end of their relationship.”
Maureen looks around the terrace to see if she can find an example of what she’s describing: people who are still famous, but who have vanished from the scene and are desperately seeking some new opportunity. They still behave like divas, they still have the same distant air, but their hearts are full of bitterness, their skin full of Botox and covered with the invisible scars left by plastic surgery. She could see plenty of evidence of Botox and plastic surgery, but no celebrities from the previous decade. Perhaps they didn’t even have enough money now to attend a festival like this, but were instead appearing as a special guest at dances in provincial towns or fronting the launch of some new brand of chocolate or beer, still behaving as if they were the person they once were, but knowing that they weren’t.
“You mentioned two types of people.”
“Yes. The second group of actresses have exactly the same problem, but there’s one important difference.” Again her voice grows louder because now the girls at the next table are clearly interested to hear what someone in the know has to say. “They know that beauty is a transient thing. They don’t appear in ads or on magazine covers because they’re busy honing their art. They keep studying and making contacts that will be useful in the future. They lend their name and appearance to certain products, not as models, but as partners. They earn less, of course, but it means a lifelong income.
The Winner Stands Alone Page 18
