The Winner Stands Alone

by Paulo Coelho; Margaret Jull Costa

  The show continues. From where he is sitting, both Hamid and the TV cameras can see how elegantly the models walk, how firmly they tread. The people sitting on the side—who, like the majority of VIPs present, are not used to fashion shows—wonder why the girls “march” instead of walking normally, like the models they’re used to seeing on fashion programs. Is this the designer trying to seem original?

  No, thinks Hamid. It’s because of the high heels. Only by marching like that can they be sure they won’t stumble. What the cameras show—because they’re filming head-on—isn’t really a true representation of what’s happening.

  The collection is better than he expected, a trip back in time with a few creative, contemporary touches, nothing over-the-top, because the secret of good fashion, as with good cooking, lies in knowing how much of which ingredient to use. The flowers and beads are a reminder of those crazy years, but they’re used in such a way that they seem absolutely modern. Six models have now appeared on the catwalk, and he notices that one of them has a pinprick on her knee that makeup cannot disguise. Minutes before, she must have injected herself there with a shot of heroin to calm her nerves and suppress her appetite.

  Suddenly, Jasmine appears. She’s wearing a long-sleeved white blouse, all hand-embroidered, and a white below-the-knee skirt. She walks confidently, but, unlike the others, her seriousness isn’t put on, it’s natural, absolutely natural. Hamid glances at the others in the audience; everyone in the room is mesmerized by Jasmine, so much so that no one even glances at the model leaving or entering after she has finished her turn and is walking back to the dressing room.

  “Perfect!”

  On her next two appearances on the catwalk, he studies every detail of her body, and sees that she radiates something more than just physical beauty. How could one define that? The marriage between Heaven and Hell? Love and Loathing going hand in hand?

  As with any fashion show, the whole thing lasts no more than fifteen minutes, even though it has taken months of planning and preparation. At the end, the designer comes onto the catwalk to acknowledge the applause; the lights go up, the music stops, and only then does he realize how much he’s been enjoying the soundtrack. The nice blonde girl comes over to them and says that someone from the Belgian government would very much like to speak to him. He takes out his leather wallet and offers her his card, explaining that he’s staying at the Hotel Martinez and would be delighted to arrange to meet the following day.

  “But I would like to talk to the designer and the black model. Do you happen to know which supper they’ll be going to tonight? I’ll wait here for a reply.”

  He hopes the nice blonde girl doesn’t take too long. The journalists are gathering to ask him the usual questions, or, rather, the same question repeated by different journalists:

  “What did you think of the show?”

  “Very interesting,” he says, which is the answer he always gives.

  “And what does that mean?”

  With the delicacy of a practiced professional, Hamid moves on to the next journalist. Always be polite to the press, but never give a direct answer and say only what seems appropriate at the time.

  The nice blonde girl returns. No, they won’t be going to the gala supper that night. Despite the presence of all those ministers, Film Festival politics are dictated by a different sort of power.

  Hamid says that he’ll have the necessary invitations sent to them, and his offer is accepted at once. The designer doubtless expected this response, knowing the value of the product she has in her hands.

  Jasmine.

  Yes, she’s the one. He would only rarely use her in a show because she’s more powerful than the clothes she’s wearing, but as “the public face of Hamid Hussein” there could be no one better.

  EWA TURNS ON HER MOBILE phone as they leave. Seconds later, an envelope flies across a blue sky, lands at the bottom of the screen, and opens, and all that to say: “You have a message.”

  “What a ridiculous bit of animation,” thinks Ewa.

  Again the name of the caller has been blocked. She’s unsure whether to open the text, but her curiosity is stronger than her fear.

  “It seems some admirer has found your phone number,” jokes Hamid. “You don’t usually get that many texts.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  What she would really like to say is: “Don’t you understand? After two years together, can you not see that I’m terrified, or do you just think I’ve got PMS?”

  She pretends casually to read the message:

  “I’ve destroyed another world because of you. And I’m beginning to wonder if it’s really worth it because you don’t appear to understand my message. Your heart is dead.”

  “Who’s it from?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. It doesn’t give the number. Still, it’s always nice to have a secret admirer.”

  5:15 P.M.

  Three murders. All the statistics have been overturned in only a matter of hours and are showing an increase of fifty percent.

  He goes to his car and tunes in to a special frequency on his radio.

  “I believe there’s a serial killer at work in the town.”

  A voice murmurs something at the other end. The sound of static cuts out some of the words, but Savoy understands what is being said.

  “No, I can’t be sure, but neither do I have any doubts about it.”

  More comments, more static.

  “I’m not mad, sir, and I’m not contradicting myself. For example, I can’t be sure that my salary will be deposited in my account at the end of the month, but I don’t actually doubt that it will. Do you see what I mean?”

  More static and angry words.

  “No, sir, I’m not asking for an increase in salary, I’m just saying that certainties and doubts can coexist, especially in a profession like ours. Yes, all right, let’s leave that to one side and move on to what really matters. The man in hospital has just died, so it’s quite possible that on the news tonight three murders will be reported. All we know, so far, is that each of the three murders was committed using a different but very sophisticated technique, which is why no one will suspect that they’re connected, but suddenly Cannes is being seen as a dangerous town. And if this carries on, people are bound to start speculating about whether there is, in fact, only one murderer. What do you want me to do?”

  More angry comments from the commissioner.

  “Yes, they’re here. The boy who witnessed the murder is telling them everything he knows. The place is swarming with photographers and journalists at the moment. I assumed they’d all be lined up and waiting by the red carpet, but it seems I was wrong. The problem with the Festival is that there are too many reporters and nothing to report.”

  More indignant remarks. He takes a notebook from his pocket and writes down an address.

  “Fine. I’ll go straight to Monte Carlo and talk to him.”

  The static stops. The person at the other end has hung up.

  Savoy walks to the end of the pier, places the siren on the roof of his car, puts it on at maximum volume, and races off like a madman, hoping to lure the reporters away to some nonexistent crime. They, however, wise to this trick, stay where they are and continue interviewing the boy.

  Savoy is beginning to feel excited. He can finally leave all that paperwork to be completed by an underling and devote himself to what he’s always dreamed of doing: solving murders that defy all logic. He hopes he’s right and that there really is a serial killer in town terrorizing the population. Given the speed with which news spreads these days, he’ll soon be in the spotlight explaining that “nothing has yet been proved,” but in such a way that no one quite believes him, thus ensuring that the spotlight will stay on him until the criminal is found. For all its glamour, Cannes is really just a small provincial town, where everyone knows everything that’s going on, so it shouldn’t be that hard to find the murderer.

  Fame and celebrity.<
br />
  Is he just thinking about himself rather than about the well-being of Cannes’ citizens? Then again, what’s wrong with seeking a little glory, when every year for years now, he’s been forced to put up with twelve days of people trying to look far more important than they really are? It’s infectious. After all, who doesn’t want to gain public recognition for their work, whether they’re policemen or film directors?

  “Stop thinking about future glory. That will come of its own accord if you do your job well. Besides, fame is a very capricious thing. What if you’re deemed incapable of carrying out this mission? Your humiliation will be public too. Concentrate.”

  After nearly twenty years in the police force in all kinds of jobs, getting promoted on merit, reading endless reports and documents, he’s reached the conclusion that when it comes to finding criminals, intuition always plays just as important a part as logic. The danger now, as he drives to Monte Carlo, isn’t the murderer—who must be feeling utterly exhausted from the sheer amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins, not to mention apprehensive, because someone saw him in the act—no, the great danger now is the press. Journalists also mix logic with intuition. If they manage to establish a link, however tenuous, between the three murders, the police will lose control of the situation and the Festival could descend into chaos, with people afraid to walk the streets, foreign visitors leaving earlier than expected, tradesmen accusing the police of inefficiency, and headlines in newspapers around the world. After all, a real-life serial killer is always far more interesting than any screen version.

  In the years that follow, the Film Festival won’t be the same: the myth of fear will take root, and the world of luxury and glamour will choose another more appropriate place to show its wares, and gradually, after more than sixty years, the Festival will become a minor event, far from the bright lights and the magazines.

  He has a great responsibility, well, two great responsibilities: the first is to find out who is committing these murders and to stop him before another corpse turns up on his patch; the second is to keep the media under control.

  He needs to think logically. How many of those journalists, most of whom come from far-flung places, are likely to know the murder statistics for Cannes? How many of them will take the trouble to phone the National Guard and ask?

  The logical response? None of them. Their minds are focused on what has just happened. They’re excited because a major film distributor suffered a heart attack during one of the Festival lunches. They don’t yet know that he was poisoned—the pathologist’s report is on the backseat of his car. They don’t yet know—and possibly never will—that he was also involved in a huge money-laundering scam.

  The illogical response is that there’s always someone who thinks more laterally. It’s therefore now a matter of urgency to call a press conference and give a full account, but only of the film director’s murder on the beach; that way, the other incidents will be momentarily forgotten.

  An important figure in the world of filmmaking has been killed, so who’s going to be interested in the death of an insignificant young woman? They’ll all reach the same conclusion as he did at the start of the investigation—that she died of a drug overdose. Problem solved.

  To go back to the murdered film director; perhaps she isn’t as important a figure as he thinks; if she was, the police commissioner would be calling him now on his mobile phone. The facts are as follows: a smartly dressed man of about forty, with slightly graying hair, had been seen talking to her as they watched the sunset, the two of them observed by a young man hiding nearby. After sticking a blade into her with all the precision of a surgeon, he had walked slowly away, and was now mingling with hundreds and thousands of other people, many of whom quite possibly fitted his description.

  He turns off the siren for a moment and phones his deputy, who had remained at the scene of the crime and who is probably currently being interrogated by journalists rather than himself doing the interrogating. Savoy asks him to tell the journalists, whose hasty conclusions so often get them into trouble, that he is “almost certain” it was a crime of passion.

  “Don’t say we’re certain, just say that the circumstances may indicate this, given that they were sitting close to each other like a courting couple. It clearly wasn’t a robbery or a revenge killing, but possibly a dramatic settling of personal scores.

  “Be careful not to lie; your words are being recorded and may be used in evidence against you.”

  “But why do I need to say that?”

  “Because that is what the circumstances indicate. And the sooner we give them something to chew on, the better.”

  “They’re asking about the weapon used.”

  “Tell them that everything indicates it was a knife, as the witness said.”

  “But he’s not sure.”

  “If even the witness doesn’t know what he saw, what else can you say apart from ‘everything indicates that, etc. etc.’? Frighten the lad; tell him his words are being recorded by the journalists and could be used against him later on.”

  He hangs up before his subordinate starts asking awkward questions.

  “Everything indicates” that it was a crime of passion, even though the victim had only just arrived in Cannes from the United States, even though she was staying at a hotel alone, even though, from what they have been able to glean, she had only attended one rather trivial meeting in the morning, at the Marché du Film next to the Palais des Congrès. The journalists, however, would not have access to that information.

  And there is something even more important that no one else on his team knows, indeed, that no one else in the world knows but him.

  The victim had been at the hospital. He and she had talked a little and then he’d sent her away—to her death.

  He turns on the siren again, so that the deafening noise can drive away any feeling of guilt. After all, he wasn’t the one who stuck the knife in her.

  He could, of course, think: “She was obviously there in the waiting room because she had some connection with the drug mafia and was just checking that the murder had been a success.” That was “logical,” and if he told his superior about that chance encounter, an investigation along those lines would immediately be launched. It might even be true; she had been killed using a very sophisticated method, as had the Hollywood film distributor. They were both Americans. They had both been killed with sharp implements. It all seemed to indicate that the same group was behind the killings, and that there really was a connection between them.

  Perhaps he’s wrong, and there is no serial killer on the loose. The young woman found dead on the bench, apparently asphyxiated by an experienced killer, might have met up the previous night with someone from the group who had come to see the film distributor. Perhaps she was also peddling drugs along with the craftwork she used to sell.

  Imagine the scene: a group of foreigners arrive to settle accounts. In one of Cannes’ many bars, the local dealer introduces one of them to the pretty girl with the dark eyebrows, who, he says, works with them. They end up going to bed together, but the foreigner, feeling strangely relaxed on European soil, drinks more than he should; the drink loosens his tongue and he says more than he should too. The next morning, he realizes his mistake and asks the professional hit man—every gang has one—to sort things out.

  It all fits so perfectly that it must be true.

  It all fits so perfectly that it makes no sense at all. It just wasn’t credible that a cocaine cartel would have decided to hold such a meeting in a town which, during the Film Festival, is heaving with extra police brought in from all over the country, with private bodyguards, with security guards hired for the various parties, and with detectives charged with keeping a round-the-clock watch on the priceless jewels being worn in the streets and elsewhere.

  Although if that were true, it would be equally good for his career. A settling of accounts between mafia men would attract as much publicity as a serial kille
r.

  HE CAN RELAX; WHATEVER THE truth of the matter, he will finally acquire the reputation he has always felt he deserved.

  He turns off the siren. It has taken him half an hour to drive along the motorway and across an invisible barrier into another country, and he’s only minutes from his destination. His mind, however, is mulling over what are, in theory, forbidden thoughts.

  Three murders in one day. His prayers are with the families of the victims, as the politicians always say. And he knows that the state pays him to maintain order and not to jump up and down with glee when it’s disrupted in such a violent manner. Right now, the commissioner will be pacing his office, conscious that he now has two problems to solve: finding the killer (or killers, because he may not be convinced by Savoy’s theory) and keeping the press at bay. Everyone is very worried; other police stations in the region have been alerted and an Identi-Kit picture of the murderer sent via the Internet to police cars in the area. A politician may even have had his well-deserved rest interrupted because the chief of police believed the matter to be so very delicate that he felt it necessary to pass responsibility on to someone higher up the chain of command.

  The politician is unlikely to take the bait, telling the chief of police to ensure that the town returns to normal as soon as possible because “millions or hundreds of millions of euros depend on it.” He doesn’t want to get involved; he has more important issues to resolve, like which wine to serve that night to a visiting foreign delegation.

  “Am I on the right path?” Savoy asks himself.

  The forbidden thoughts return. He feels happy. This is the high point of a career spent filling in forms and dealing with trivia. It had never occurred to him that such a situation would produce in him this state of euphoria—he can, at last, be a real detective, the man with a theory that goes against all logic, and who will end up being given a medal because he was the first to see what no one else could. He won’t confess this to anyone, not even to his wife, who would be horrified and assume that he must have temporarily lost his reason under the strain of working on such a dangerous case.