by Paulo Coelho
Igor is a man of simple tastes; indeed, Ewa always complained about the way he dressed. But what's the point of buying a ridiculously expensive shirt when no one is going to see the label anyway? What's the point of frequenting fashionable restaurants if nothing of interest is said there? Ewa used to say that he didn't talk very much at the parties and other work-related events. He tried to change his behavior and be more sociable, but none of it really interested him. He would look at the people around him talking on and on, comparing share prices, boasting about their marvelous new yacht, launching into long disquisitions on Expressionist painting (but really just repeating what a tour guide had told them on a visit to a Paris museum), and stating boldly that one writer is infinitely better than another (basing themselves entirely on the reviews they've read because, naturally, they never have time to read fiction).
They are so very cultivated, so very rich, and so utterly charming. And at the end of each day, they all ask themselves: "Is it time I stopped?" And they all reply: "If I did, there would be no meaning to my life."
As if they actually knew what the meaning of life was.
TEMPTATION HAS LOST THE BATTLE. It wanted to make him believe that he was mad: it's one thing to plan the sacrifice of certain people, quite another to have the capacity and the courage to carry it out. Temptation said that we all dream of committing crimes, but that only the unbalanced make that macabre idea a reality.
Igor is well-balanced and successful. If he wanted, he could hire a professional killer, the best in the world, to carry out his task and send the requisite messages to Ewa. Or he could hire the best public relations agency in the world, and by the end of the year, he'd be the talk not only of economics journals, but of magazines interested only in success and glamour. At that point, his ex-wife would weigh up the consequences of her mistaken decision, and he would know just the right moment to send her flowers and ask her to come back, all was forgiven. He has contacts at all levels of society, from businessmen who've reached the top through perseverance and hard work, to criminals who've never had a chance to show their more positive side.
He isn't in Cannes because he takes a morbid pleasure in seeing the look in a person's eyes as he or she confronts the inevitable. He's decided to place himself in the line of fire, in the dangerous position in which he finds himself now, because he's sure that every step he takes during this seemingly endless day will prove vital if the new Igor who exists within him is to be born again out of the ashes of his tragedy.
He's always been able to make difficult decisions and to see things through, although no one, not even Ewa, has ever known what went on in the dark corridors of his soul. For many years he endured in silence the threats made by various individuals and groups, and he reacted discreetly when he felt strong enough to rid himself of the people threatening him. He had learned to exercise enormous self-control so as not to be left traumatized by bad experiences. He never took his fears home with him, feeling that Ewa deserved a quiet life and to be kept in ignorance of the terrors that beset any businessman. He chose to save her from that, and yet he received nothing in return, not even understanding.
The girl's spirit soothes him with that thought, then adds something that hadn't occurred to him until then: he wasn't there to win back the person who had left him, but to see, at last, that she wasn't worth all those years of pain, all those months of planning, all his enormous capacity for forgiveness, generosity, and patience.
He has sent one, two, three messages now, and there's been no reaction from Ewa. It would be easy enough for her to find out where he's staying, although, admittedly, phoning the five or six top hotels wouldn't help because when he checked in, he gave a different name and profession. Then again, she who seeks, finds.
He's read the statistics. Cannes has only seventy thousand inhabitants, and that number usually triples during the Film Festival, but festivalgoers all haunt the same places. Where would she be staying? Given that he had seen the two of them the previous night, she was probably staying in the same hotel and visiting the same bar. Even so, Ewa isn't prowling the Boulevard de la Croisette looking for him. She isn't phoning mutual friends, trying to find out where he is. At least one of those friends has all the necessary information, for Igor had assumed that the woman he thought was the love of his life would contact that friend as soon as she realized Igor was in Cannes. The friend has instructions to tell her how she can find him, but so far, there has been no news.
HE TAKES OFF HIS CLOTHES and gets into the shower. Ewa isn't worth all this fuss. He's almost certain that he'll see her tonight, but this is growing less and less important with each passing moment. Perhaps his mission is about something much more important than simply regaining the love of the woman who betrayed him and who speaks ill of him to other people. The spirit of the girl with the dark eyebrows reminds him of the story told by an old Afghan in a break during a battle.
After many centuries of turmoil and bad government, the population of a city high up on one of the desert mountains of Herat province was in despair. They could not simply abolish the monarchy, and yet neither could they stand many more generations of arrogant, egotistical kings. They summoned the Loya Jirga, as the council of wise men is known locally.
The Loya Jirga decided that they should elect a king every four years, and that this king should have absolute power. He could increase taxes, demand total obedience, choose a different woman to take to his bed each night, and eat and drink his fill. He could wear the finest clothes, ride the finest horses. In short, any order he gave, however absurd, would be obeyed, and no one would question whether it was logical or just.
However, at the end of that period of four years, he would be obliged to give up the throne and leave the city, taking with him only his family and the clothes on his back. Everyone knew that this would mean certain death within three or four days because there was nothing to eat or drink in that vast desert, which was freezing in winter and like a furnace in summer.
The wise men of the Loya Jirga assumed that no one would risk standing for the position of king, and that they would then be able to return to the old system of democratic elections. Their decision was made public, and the post of king fell vacant. Initially, several people applied. An old man with cancer took up the challenge and died during the period of his rule with a smile on his face. A madman succeeded him, but left four months later (he had misunderstood the terms) and vanished into the desert. Then rumors started going around that the throne had a curse on it, and no one dared apply for the position. The city was left without a governor, confusion reigned, and the inhabitants realized that they must forget the monarchist tradition altogether and prepare to change their ways. The Loya Jirga felt pleased that its members had taken such a wise decision. They hadn't forced the people to make a choice, they had simply got rid of those who wanted power at any price. Then a young man, married and with three children, came forward.
"I accept the post," he said.
The wise men tried to explain the risks. They reminded him that he had a family and explained that their decision had merely been a way of discouraging adventurers and despots. However, the young man stood firm, and since it was impossible to go back on their decision, the Loya Jirga had no option but to wait another four years before they could put in place the planned return to elections.
The young man and his family proved to be excellent governors. They ruled fairly, redistributed wealth, lowered the price of food, organized popular festivals to celebrate the change of season, and encouraged craftwork and music. Every night, though, a great caravan of horses would leave the city, drawing heavy carts covered with jute cloth so that no one could see what was inside them. These carts never came back.
At first, the wise men of the Loya Jirga thought that the king must be removing treasure from the city, but consoled themselves with the fact that the young man rarely ventured beyond the city walls; if he had and had tried to climb the nearest mountain, he would have rea
lized that the horses would die before they got very far. This was, after all, one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. They determined that, as soon as his reign was over, they would go to the place where the horses had died of exhaustion and the riders of thirst, and they would recover all that treasure.
They stopped worrying and waited patiently.
At the end of the four years, the young man left the throne and the city. The population was in an uproar; after all, it had been a long time since they had enjoyed such a wise and just governor!
However, the Loya Jirga's decision had to be respected. The young man went to his wife and children and asked them to leave with him.
"I will," said his wife, "but at least let our children stay. They will then survive to tell your story."
"Trust me," he said.
The tribal laws were very strict, and the wife had no alternative but to obey her husband. They mounted their horses and rode to the city gate, where they said goodbye to the friends they had made while governing the city. The Loya Jirga were pleased. They might have made many allies, but fate is fate. No one else would risk accepting the post of governor, and the democratic tradition would be restored at last. As soon as they could, they would recover the treasure abandoned in the desert, less than three days from there.
The family rode into the valley of death in silence. The wife didn't dare say a word, the children didn't understand what was going on, and the young man was immersed in thought. They climbed one hill, traveled for a whole day across a vast plain, and slept on the top of the next hill.
The woman woke at dawn, wanting to make the most of the final few days of her life to look her last on the mountains she had loved so much. She went up to the very top of the hill and gazed down on what should have been an empty plain, and she was startled by what she saw.
During those four years, the caravans leaving the city each night had not been carrying off jewels or gold coins. They had been carrying bricks, seeds, wood, roof tiles, spices, animals, and traditional tools that could be used to drill into the earth and find water.
Before her lay a far more modern, far more beautiful city than the old one, and all in working order.
"This is your kingdom," said the young man, who had just woken up and joined her. "Ever since I heard the decree, I knew it would be pointless to try and change in four years everything that centuries of corruption and bad governance had destroyed. I was certain of one thing, though, that it was possible to start again."
Igor, too, is starting again as he stands in the shower with the water cascading over his face. He has finally understood why the first person he spoke to in Cannes is by his side now, sending him off along a different path, helping him make the necessary adjustments, and explaining that her sacrifice was neither a chance event nor unnecessary. On the other hand, she has also made it plain to him that Ewa has always been naturally perverse and only interested in climbing the social ladder, even if doing so meant abandoning her family.
"When you go back to Moscow, try and do plenty of sport. That will help free you from your tensions," says the girl.
He can just make out her face in the clouds of steam in the shower. He has never felt as close to anyone as he does now to Olivia, the girl with the dark eyebrows.
"Carry on, even if you're not so sure now of what you're doing. God moves in mysterious ways, and sometimes the path only reveals itself once you start walking it."
"Thank you, Olivia," he thinks. Perhaps he is here in order to show the world the aberrations of modern life, of which Cannes is the supreme manifestation.
He's not sure, but whatever the case, he's here for a reason, and the last two years of tension, planning, fear, and uncertainty are finally justified.
HE CAN IMAGINE WHAT THE next Festival will be like: people being issued with swipe cards even to get into the lunch parties on the beach, sharpshooters on every rooftop, hundreds of plainclothes policemen mingling with the crowds, metal detectors at the door of every hotel, where those children-of-the-Superclass will have to wait while the police search their bags; women will have to take off their high heels and men be called back because the coins in their pockets have set off the alarm; gray-haired gentlemen will have to hold out their arms and be frisked like common criminals; the women will be led to a kind of canvas tent at the entrance--which clashes horribly with the former elegance of the place--where they'll have to wait patiently in line to be searched, until a policewoman discovers what triggered the alarm: the underwiring in a bra.
The city will begin to show its true face. Luxury and glamour will be replaced by tension, insults, wasted time, and the cool, indifferent gaze of the police. People will feel more and more isolated, this time by the system itself, rather than by the eternal arrogance of the chosen few. Army units will be sent to that simple seaside town with the sole objective of protecting people who are trying to have fun, and the prohibitive cost of this will, of course, fall on the taxpayers' shoulders.
There will be demonstrations by honest workers protesting at what they deem to be an absurdity. The government will issue a statement saying that they're considering the possibility of shifting the cost to the organizers of the Festival. The sponsors--who could easily afford the expense--lose interest when one of their number is humiliated by some insignificant little officer, who tells him to shut up and respect the security regulations.
Cannes will begin to die. Two years on, they'll see that everything they did to maintain law and order really has paid off, with zero levels of crime during the Festival period. The terrorists have failed in their attempt to sow further panic.
They'll try to turn the clock back, but they won't be able to. Cannes will continue to die. This new Babylon will be destroyed, this modern-day Sodom will be erased from the map.
HE STEPS OUT OF THE shower having made a decision. When he goes back to Russia, he will order his employees to find out the girl's family name. He will make anonymous donations through neutral banks. He will order some gifted author to write the story of her life and pay for it to be translated into different languages.
"The story of a young woman who sold craftwork, was beaten by her boyfriend, exploited by her parents, until the day she surrendered her soul to a stranger and thus changed one small corner of the planet."
He opens the wardrobe, takes out an immaculate white shirt, his carefully pressed dinner jacket, and his handmade patent-leather shoes. He has no trouble tying his bow tie because he does this at least once a week.
He turns on the TV in time for the local news bulletin. The parade of stars along the red carpet takes up much of the program, but there is also a brief report about a woman found murdered on the beach.
The police have cordoned off the area. The boy who witnessed the murder (Igor studies his face, but feels no desire for revenge) says that he saw the couple sit down to talk, then the man got out a small stiletto knife and appeared to run it lightly over the woman's body. The woman seemed quite happy, which is why he didn't call the police earlier because he thought it was some kind of joke.
"What did the man look like?"
White, about forty, wearing such-and-such clothes, and apparently very polite.
There's no need to worry. Igor opens his leather briefcase and takes out two envelopes. One contains an invitation to the party that is due to start in an hour (although everyone knows that the start will be delayed by ninety minutes), where he knows he will meet Ewa. If she won't come to him, too bad; he will go to her. It has taken less than twenty-four hours for him to see the kind of woman he married and that the sufferings of the last two years have been in vain.
The other envelope is silver and hermetically sealed. On it are the two words "For you" written in an exquisite hand that could be either male or female.
There are CCTV cameras in the corridors, as there are in most hotels nowadays. In some part of the basement is a dark room lined with TV screens before which a group of people sit, watching. They are
on the lookout for anything unusual, like the man who kept going up and down stairs and who explained to the officer sent to investigate that he was simply enjoying a little free exercise. Since the man was a guest at the hotel, the officer apologized and left.
They take no interest in guests who go into another guest's room and don't leave until the next day, usually after breakfast has been served. That's normal and none of their business.
The screens are connected to special digital recording systems, and the resulting disks are stored for six months in a safe to which only the manager has the key. No hotel in the world wants to lose a customer because some rich, jealous husband manages to bribe one of the people watching one particular part of the corridor and then gives (or sells) the material to a tabloid newspaper, having first presented proof of adultery to the courts and thus ensured that his wife will get none of his fortune.
That would be a tragic blow to the prestige of a hotel that prides itself on discretion and confidentiality. The occupation rate would immediately plummet; after all, people choose a five-star hotel because they know that the people who work there are trained to see only what they're supposed to see. For example, if someone asks for room service, when the waiter arrives, he keeps his eyes fixed on the trolley, holds out the bill to be signed by the person who opens the door, but never--ever--looks over at the bed.
Prostitutes--male and female--dress discreetly, although the men in the screen-lined room know exactly who they are, thanks to a data system provided by the police. This is none of their business either, but in these cases, they always keep one eye on the door of the room they went into until they come out again. In some hotels, the switchboard operator is told to make a fake phone call just to check that the guest is all right. The guest picks up the phone, a female voice asks for some nonexistent person, hears an angry "You've got the wrong room" and the sound of the phone being slammed down. Mission accomplished; there's no need to worry.
