His old friends had come up trumps. They had offered to let him have it for nothing, but he had preferred to pay. He had enough money and didn't like to be in anyone's debt.
He hadn't asked too many questions about how it was made; he only knew that it was a very complicated process and that the person who created the hermetically sealed envelope had to wear gloves and a gas mask. The high price he had paid for the envelope was quite justified since it had to be handled very carefully indeed, even though the product itself wasn't that hard to get hold of: it's commonly used in steel tempering and in the production of paper, clothes, and plastic. It has a rather frightening name, hydrogen cyanide, but smells of almonds and looks perfectly harmless.
He stops thinking about who sealed the envelope and begins to imagine the person who will open it--holding it quite close to the face, as is normal. On the white card inside is a printed message in French:
"Katyusha, je t'aime."
"Katyusha? Who's that?" the person will ask, noticing that the card is covered in a kind of dust. Once in contact with the air, the dust will become a gas, and a strong smell of almonds will fill the room.
The person will be surprised and think: "Whoever sent it might have chosen a nicer smell." It must be an advertisement for perfume. He or she will remove the card and turn it this way and that, and the gas given off by the dust will start to spread ever more quickly.
"It must be some kind of joke."
That will be their last conscious thought. Leaving the card on the table at the door, they'll go into the bathroom to take a shower or to finish applying makeup or to adjust their tie.
They'll notice then that their heart is racing. They won't immediately connect this with the perfume filling the room; after all, they have no enemies, only competitors and adversaries. Before they even reach the bathroom, they will notice that they can no longer stand and they'll sit down on the edge of the bed. The next symptoms will be an unbearable headache and difficulty in breathing, followed by a desire to vomit. However, there will be no time for that; they will rapidly lose consciousness, still without making any connection between their physical state and the contents of the envelope.
In a matter of minutes--he had asked for the product to be as concentrated a possible--the lungs will stop working, the body will go into convulsions, the heart will stop pumping blood, and death will follow.
Painless. Merciful. Humane.
Igor gets into the taxi and gives the address: Hotel du Cap, Eden Roc, Cap d'Antibes.
Tonight's gala supper.
7:40 P.M.
The androgyne--wearing a black shirt, white bow tie, and a kind of Indian tunic over the same tight trousers that draw attention to his scrawny legs--tells her that they could be arriving at either a very good moment or a very bad one.
"The traffic's better than I expected. We'll be one of the first to enter Eden Roc."
Gabriela, who, by now, has had her hair and makeup retouched yet again--this time by a makeup artist who seemed totally bored by her work--doesn't understand what this means.
"Given all the traffic holdups, isn't it best to be early? How could that be bad?"
The androgyne gives a deep sigh before replying, as if he were having to explain the obvious to someone who doesn't even know the most elementary rules of the world of glamour.
"It could be good because you'll be alone in the corridor..."
The androgyne looks at her, sees the blank expression on her face, utters another deep sigh, then says:
"No one walks straight into this kind of party through a door. You always have to go down a corridor first. On one side are the photographers and on the other is a wall bearing the logo of the party's sponsor. Haven't you ever seen photos in celebrity magazines? Haven't you ever noticed that the celebrities are always standing in front of a logo as they smile for the cameras?"
Celebrity. The arrogant androgyne has let slip the wrong word. He has unwittingly admitted that Gabriela is also a celebrity. Gabriela savors this victory in silence, although she's grown-up enough to know that she still has a very long way to go.
"And what's so bad about arriving on time?"
Another sigh.
"The photographers themselves might not have arrived yet, but let's hope I'm mistaken, that way I can hand out a few of these flyers."
"About me?"
"You surely don't imagine that everyone knows who you are, do you? Sorry to disappoint you, sweetheart. No, I'll have to go on ahead of you and give this wretched bit of paper to each photographer and tell them that the big star of Gibson's next film is about to arrive and that they should have their cameras ready. I'll signal to them as soon as you appear in the corridor.
"I won't be nice to them though. I mean, they're used to being treated as what they are, creatures on the lowest rung of power. I'll say I'm doing them a big favor, and they won't want to risk missing a chance and getting fired because there's no shortage of people in the world with a camera and an Internet connection, and who are mad keen to post something on the Web that everyone else has missed. I reckon that, in future, given the way circulation figures are going, newspapers will rely entirely on the services of anonymous photographers as a way of keeping down their costs."
He wants to show off his knowledge of the media, but the young woman beside him isn't interested. She picks up one of the bits of paper and starts reading.