by Paulo Coelho
There is only one situation in which all mobile phones must be turned off. Not at formal suppers, in the middle of a play, during the key moment in a film, or while an opera singer is attempting the most difficult of arias; we've all heard someone's mobile phone go off in such circumstances. No, the only time when people are genuinely concerned that their phone might prove dangerous is when they get on a plane and hear the usual lie: "All mobile phones must be switched off during the flight because they might interfere with the onboard systems." We all believe this and do as the flight attendants ask.
Igor knew when this myth had been created: for years now, airlines had been doing their best to convince passengers to use the phones attached to their seat. These cost ten dollars a minute and use the same transmission system as mobile phones. The strategy didn't work, but the myth lingered on; they had simply forgotten to remove the warning from the list of dos and don'ts that the flight attendant has to read out before takeoff. What no one knew was that on every flight, there were always at least two or three passengers who forgot to turn their phones off, and besides, laptops access the Internet using exactly the same system as mobiles. And no plane anywhere in the world has yet fallen out of the sky because of that.
Now they were trying to modify the warning without alarming the passengers too much and without dropping the price. You could use your mobile phone as long as it was one you could put into flight mode. Such phones cost four times as much. No one has ever explained what "flight mode" is, but if people choose to be taken in like this, that's their problem.
HE KEEPS WALKING. HE'S TROUBLED by the last look the girl had given him before she died, but prefers not to think about it.
MORE BODYGUARDS, MORE DARK GLASSES, more bikinis on the beach, more light-colored clothes and jewelry attending "lunches," more people hurrying along as if they had something very important to do that morning, more photographers on every corner attempting the impossible task of snapping something unusual, more magazines and free newspapers about what's happening at the Festival, more people handing out flyers to the poor mortals who haven't been invited to lunch in one of the white tents, flyers advertising restaurants on the top of the hill, far from everything, where little is heard of what goes on in Boulevard de la Croisette, up there where models rent apartments for the duration of the Festival, hoping they'll be summoned to an audition that will change their lives forever.
All so unsurprising. All so predictable. If he were to go into one of those tents now, no one would dare ask for his identification because it's still early and the promoters will be afraid that no one will come. In half an hour's time, though, depending on how things go, the security guards will be given express orders to let in only pretty, unaccompanied girls.
Why not try it out?
He follows his impulse; after all, he's on a mission. He goes down some steps, which lead not to the beach, but to a large white tent with plastic windows, air-conditioning, and white chairs and tables, largely empty. One of the security guards asks if he has an invitation, and he says that he does. He pretends to search his pockets. A receptionist dressed in red asks if she can help.
He offers her his business card, bearing the logo of his phone company and his name, Igor Malev, President. He's sure his name is on the list, he says, but he must have left his invitation at the hotel; he's been at a series of meetings and forgot to bring it with him. The receptionist welcomes him and invites him in; she has learned to judge men and women by the way they dress, and "President" means the same thing worldwide. Besides, he's the president of a Russian company! And everyone knows how rich Russians like to show off their wealth. There was no need to check the list.
Igor enters, heads straight for the bar--it's a very well-equipped tent; there's even a dance floor--and orders a pineapple juice because it suits the atmosphere and, more important, because the drink, decorated with a tiny blue Japanese umbrella, comes complete with a black straw.
He sits down at one of the many empty tables. Among the few people present is a man in his fifties, with hennaed mahogany brown hair, fake tan, and a body honed in one of those gyms that promise eternal youth. He's wearing a torn T-shirt and is sitting with two other men, who are both dressed in impeccable designer suits. The two men turn to face Igor, and he immediately turns his head slightly, but continues to study them from behind his dark glasses. The men in suits try to work out who this new arrival is, then lose interest.
Igor's interest, however, increases.
The man does not even have a mobile phone on the table, although his two assistants are constantly fielding calls.
Given that this badly dressed, arrogant fellow has been let into the tent; given that he has his mobile phone turned off; given that the waiter keeps coming up to him and asking if he wants anything; given that he doesn't even deign to respond, but merely waves him away, he is obviously someone very important.
Igor takes a fifty-euro note out of his pocket and gives it to the waiter who has just started laying the table.
"Who's the gentleman in the faded blue T-shirt?" he asks, glancing in the direction of the other table.
"Javits Wild. He's a very important man."
Excellent. After someone as insignificant as the girl at the beach, a figure like Javits Wild would be ideal--not famous, but important. One of the people who decides who should be in the spotlight and who feels no need to take much care over his own appearance because he knows exactly who he is. He's in charge of pulling the strings, and the puppets feel themselves to be the most privileged and envied people on the planet, until one day, for whatever reason, the puppeteer decides to cut the strings, and the puppets fall down, lifeless and powerless.
He's clearly a member of the Superclass, which means that he has false friends and many enemies.
"One other question. Would it be acceptable to destroy a universe in the name of a greater love?"
The waiter laughs.
"Are you God or just gay?"
"Neither, but thank you for your answer."
He realizes he should not have asked that question. Firstly, because he doesn't need anyone's support to justify what he's doing; he's convinced that since everyone will die one day, some must do so in the name of something greater. That's how it's been since the beginning of time, when men sacrificed themselves in order to feed their tribe, when virgins were handed over to the priests to placate the wrath of dragons and gods. The second reason is because he has now drawn attention to himself and indicated an interest in the man at the next table.
The waiter's sure to forget, but there's no need to take unnecessary risks. He tells himself that at a Festival such as this, it's only normal that people should want to know about other people, and even more normal that such information should be rewarded. He himself has done the same thing hundreds of times in restaurants all over the world, and others had doubtless done the same with him. Waiters aren't just accustomed to being given money to supply a name or a better table or to send a discreet message, they almost expect it.
No, the waiter wouldn't remember anything. Igor knows that his next victim is there before him. If he succeeds, and if the waiter is questioned, he'll say that the only odd thing to happen that day was a man asking him if he thought it was acceptable to destroy a universe in the name of a greater love. He might not even remember that much. The police will ask: "What did he look like?" and the waiter will reply: "I didn't pay much attention, to be honest, but I know he said he wasn't gay." The police--accustomed to the kind of French intellectual who sits in bars and comes up with weird theories and complicated analyses of, for example, the sociology of film festivals--would quietly let the matter drop.
Something else was bothering Igor though.
The name or names.
He had killed before--with weapons and the blessing of his country. He didn't know how many people he had killed, but he had rarely seen their faces and certainly never asked their names. Knowing someone's name meant knowing that the
other person was a human being and not "the enemy." Knowing someone's name transformed him into a unique and special individual, with a past and a future, with ancestors and possibly descendants, a person who has known triumphs and failures. People are their names; they're proud of them; they repeat them thousands of times in their lifetime and identify with them. It's the first word they learn after "Daddy" and "Mummy."
Olivia. Javits. Igor. Ewa.
Someone's spirit, however, has no name; it is pure truth and inhabits a particular body for a certain period of time, and will, one day, leave it, and God won't bother asking, "What's your name?" when the soul arrives at the final judgment. God will ask only: "Did you love while you were alive?" For that is the essence of life: the ability to love, not the name we carry around on our passport, business card, and identity card. The great mystics changed their names, and sometimes abandoned them altogether. When John the Baptist was asked who he was, he said only: "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness." When Jesus found the man on whom he would build his church, he ignored the fact that the man in question had spent his entire life answering to the name of Simon and called him Peter. When Moses asked God his name, back came the reply: "I am who I am."
Perhaps he should look for another victim, one named victim was enough: Olivia. At this precise moment, however, he feels that he cannot turn back, but he decides that he will not ask the name of the next world he destroys. He can't turn back because he wants to do justice to the poor, vulnerable girl on the bench by the beach--such a sweet, easy victim. This new challenge--this sweaty, pseudo-athletic, henna-haired man with the bored expression and who is clearly someone very powerful--is much more difficult. The two men in suits are not just assistants; he notices that every now and then, they look around the tent, watching everything that's going on nearby. If he is to be worthy of Ewa and fair to Olivia, he must be brave.
He leaves the straw in the pineapple juice. People are beginning to arrive. He has to wait for the place to fill up, but not too long. He hadn't planned to destroy a world in broad daylight, in the middle of the Boulevard in Cannes, and he doesn't know exactly how to carry out this next project. Something tells him, though, that he has chosen the perfect place.
His thoughts are no longer with the poor young woman at the beach; adrenaline is filling his blood, his heart is beating faster, he's excited and happy.
Javits Wild wouldn't be wasting his time here just to get a free meal at one of the thousands of parties to which he must be invited every year. He must be here for some specific reason or to meet a particular person. That reason or person would doubtless be Igor's best alibi.
12:26 P.M.
Javits watches the other guests arriving. The place is getting crowded, and he thinks what he always thinks:
"What am I doing here? I don't need this. In fact, I need very little from anyone--I have all I want. I'm a big name in the movie world, I can have any woman I desire, even though I dress badly. In fact, I make a point of being badly dressed. Long gone are the days when I had only one suit, and, on the rare occasions when I received an invitation from the Superclass (after much crawling, begging, and making promises), I would prepare myself for a lunch like this as if it were the most important occasion of my life. Now I know that the only thing that changes are the cities these lunches are held in; otherwise, it's all utterly boring and predictable.
"People will come up to me and tell me they adore my work. Others will call me a hero and thank me for giving movie mavericks a chance. Pretty, intelligent women, who are not taken in by appearances, will notice the people gathering round my table and ask the waiter who I am and immediately find some way of approaching me, certain that the only thing I'm interested in is sex. Every single one of them has some favor to ask of me. That's why they praise and flatter me and offer me what they think I need. But all I want is to be left alone.
"I've been to thousands of parties like this, and I'm not here in this tent for any particular reason, except that I can't sleep, even though I flew to France in my private jet, a technological marvel capable of flying at an altitude of over thirty-six thousand feet from California all the way to Cannes without having to make a refueling stop. I changed the original configuration of the cabin. It can comfortably carry eighteen passengers, but I reduced the number of seats to six and kept the cabin separate for the four crew members. Someone's always sure to ask: 'May I come with you?' And now I have the perfect excuse: 'Sorry, there's no room.'"
Javits had equipped his new toy, which cost around forty million dollars, with two beds, a conference table, a shower, a Miranda sound system (Bang & Olufsen had an excellent design and a good PR campaign, but they were now a thing of the past), two coffee machines, a microwave oven for the crew and an electric oven for him (because he hates reheated food). Javits only drinks champagne, and whoever wishes to is more than welcome to share a bottle of Moet & Chandon 1961 with him. However, the "cellar" on the plane had every drink any guest might conceivably want. And then there were the two twenty-one-inch LCD screens ready to show the most recent films, even those that hadn't yet made it into the cinemas.
The jet was one of the most advanced in the world (although the French insisted that the Dassault Falcon was even better), but regardless of how much money he had, he couldn't change the clocks in Europe. It was now 3:43 A.M. in Los Angeles, and he was just beginning to feel really tired. He had been awake all night, going from one party to the next, answering the same two idiotic questions that began every conversation:
"How was your flight?"
To which Javits always responded with a question:
"Why?"
People didn't know quite what to say and so they smiled awkwardly and moved on to the next question on the list:
"Are you staying here long?"
And Javits would again ask: "Why?" Then he would pretend he had to answer his mobile phone, make his excuses, and move on with his two inseparable besuited friends in tow.
He met no one interesting. But then who would a man who has almost everything money can buy find interesting? He had tried to change his friends and meet people who had nothing to do with the world of cinema: philosophers, writers, jugglers, executives of food-manufacturing companies. At first, it all went swimmingly, until the inevitable question: "Would you like to read a script I've written?" Or the second most inevitable question: "I have a friend who has always wanted to be an actor/actress. Would you mind meeting him/her?"
Yes, he would. He had other things to do in life apart from work. He used to fly once a month to Alaska, go into the first bar, get drunk, eat pizza, wander about in the wild, and talk to the people who lived in the small towns up there. He worked out for two hours a day at his private gym, but the doctors had warned him he could still end up with heart problems. He didn't care that much about being physically fit, what he really wanted was to off-load a little of the constant tension that seemed to weigh on him every second of the day, to do some meditation and heal the wounds to his soul. When he was in the country, he always asked the people he chanced to meet what "normal life" was like, because he had forgotten. The answers varied, and he gradually came to realize that, even when he was surrounded by other people, he was absolutely alone in the world.
He decided to draw up a list of what constituted normal attitudes and behavior, based on what people did rather than on what they said.
Javits glances around. There's a man in dark glasses drinking a fruit juice. He seems oblivious to his surroundings and is staring out to sea as if he were somewhere far from there. He's smartly dressed and good-looking, with graying hair. He was one of the first to arrive and must know who Javits is, and yet he's made no effort to come and introduce himself. It was brave of him to sit there alone like that. Being alone in Cannes is anathema; it means that no one is interested in you, that you're unimportant or don't know anyone.
He envies that man, who probably doesn't fit the list of "normal" behavior he always keeps in his pock
et. He seems so independent and free; if Javits weren't feeling so tired, he would really like to talk to him.
He turns to one of his "friends."
"What does being normal mean?"
"Is your conscience troubling you? Have you done something you shouldn't have?"
Javits has clearly asked the wrong question of the wrong man. His companion will perhaps assume that he's regretting what he's made of his life and that he wants to start anew, but that isn't it at all. And if he does have regrets, it's too late to begin again; he knows the rules of the game.
"I asked you what being normal means?"
One of the "friends" looks bewildered. The other keeps surveying the tent, watching people come and go.
"Living like someone who lacks all ambition," the first "friend" says at last.
Javits takes his list out of his pocket and puts it on the table.
"I always have this with me and I add to it all the time."
The "friend" says that he can't look at it now because he has to keep alert to what's going on around them. The other man, though, more relaxed and confident, reads the list out loud:
1. Normal is anything that makes us forget who we are and what we want; that way we can work in order to produce, reproduce, and earn money.
