The Winner Stands Alone

"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 himself 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 cliched 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.