"Oh, do you smoke cigars?"
That's a relief, she thinks the object in his inside jacket pocket is a cigar.
"Yes, but only after supper."
"If you like, I could invite you both to a party on a yacht tonight. But first I need to find my assistant."
The other girl suggests that maybe she's being a little precipitate. She has only been signed up for one film and has a long way to go before she can surround herself with friends (or with an "entourage," that word universally used to describe the parasites who hover around celebrities). She should respect the rules and go to the party alone.
The actress thanks her for this advice. Then a waiter passes, and she again places her half-full glass of champagne on the tray and takes another one.
"I think you should stop drinking so much so quickly," says Igor/Gunther, delicately taking the glass from her and pouring the contents over the balustrade. She makes a despairing gesture, then accepts that he's right, realizing that he has her best interests at heart.
"I'm just so excited," she says. "I need to calm down a little. Do you think I could smoke one of your cigars?"
"I'm afraid I only have one. Besides, it's been scientifically proven that nicotine is a stimulant, not a tranquilizer."
A cigar. Well, they are similar in shape, but that's all the two objects have in common. In his inside jacket pocket he has a suppressor, or as it's more commonly known, a silencer. It's about four inches long and, once attached to the barrel of the Beretta he has in his trouser pocket, it can work miracles, by changing BANG! into puf.
This is because when a gun is fired a few simple laws of physics come into effect. The spe
ed of the bullet is slightly diminished as it's forced past a series of rubber baffles; meanwhile, the gases produced by the firing of the gun fill the hollow chamber around the cylinder, cool rapidly, and suppress the noise of the gunpowder exploding. A silencer is useless for long-range shooting because it affects the trajectory of the bullet, but it's ideal for firing at point-blank range.
IGOR IS BEGINNING TO GROW impatient. Could Ewa and her husband have canceled their invitation? Or could it be--and for a fraction of a second his head swims--that he had slipped the envelope under the door to the suite in which they were staying?
No, that's not possible; that would be such a stroke of bad luck. He thinks of the families of those who have died. If his sole objective was still to win back the woman who left him for a man who did not deserve her, all his work would have been in vain.
His composure begins to crack. Could that be why Ewa hasn't attempted to contact him, despite all the messages he's sent her? He has twice rung their mutual friend, only to be told there was no news.
His doubt is beginning to become a certainty. Yes, the couple were both dead. That would explain the sudden departure of the actress's "assistant" and why no one was bothering with the nineteen-year-old model who was supposed to appear at the great couturier's side.
Was God punishing him for having loved a woman he did not deserve and had loved too much? His ex-wife had used his hands to strangle a young woman who had her whole life ahead of her, who might have gone on to discover a cure for cancer or a way of making humanity realize that it was destroying the planet. Ewa may have known nothing about the murder, but she it was who had made him use those poisons. He had been sure that he would only have to destroy one world and that the message would reach its intended recipient. He had taken that whole small arsenal with him knowing it was all just a game, certain that on the first night, she would go to the bar for a glass of champagne before joining the party, sense his presence there, and realize that she had been forgiven for all the evil and destruction she had unleashed around her. He knows that, according to scientific research, people who have spent a lot of time together can sense their partner's presence in a place, even if they don't know exactly where they are.
That didn't happen. Ewa's indifference last night--or perhaps her guilt at what she had done to him--had prevented her from noticing the man trying to hide behind a pillar, but who had left on the table various Russian economics journals, which should have been a large enough clue for anyone who was constantly looking for what she had lost. When you're in love you imagine that you'll see the love of your life everywhere--in the street, at a party, or in the theater--but Ewa had perhaps exchanged love for a life of glamour.
He's beginning to feel calmer now. Ewa was the most powerful poison on earth, and if she had been killed by hydrogen cyanide, that was nothing. She deserved far worse.
The two young women continue talking; Igor moves away from them; he cannot allow himself to be overwhelmed by the fear that he might have destroyed his own work. He needs solitude, calm, the ability to react swiftly to this sudden change in direction.
He goes over to another group of people, who are animatedly discussing various methods of giving up smoking. This was one of the favorite topics in that particular world: showing your friends that you had the necessary willpower to defeat the foe. To take his mind off other things, he lights a cigarette, knowing full well that this is a provocative act.
"It's very bad for your health, you know," says a skeletally thin woman dripping with diamonds and holding an orange juice in one hand.
"Just being alive is bad for the health," he replies. "It always ends in death sooner or later."
The men laugh. The women eye this newcomer with interest. However, just at that moment, in the corridor--about twenty yards away from where he's standing--the photographers start shouting:
"Hamid! Hamid!"
Even from a distance, and with his view blocked by the people strolling about in the garden, he can see the couturier and his companion, the same woman who, in other parts of the world, had walked into rooms with him, the same woman who used to hold his arm in that same affectionate, delicate, elegant way.
Even before he has time to utter a sigh of relief, something else attracts his attention and makes him look away: a man has just entered from the other side of the garden without being stopped by any of the security guards. The man glances this way and that, as if searching for someone, but that someone is clearly not a friend lost in the throng.
Without saying goodbye to the group he's with, Igor goes back to the two young women, who are still standing by the balustrade, talking. He takes the actress's hand in his and makes a silent prayer to the girl with the dark eyebrows. He asks forgiveness for having doubted, but we human beings are still so impure, incapable of understanding the blessings so generously bestowed on us.
"You're moving a bit fast, aren't you?" says the actress, making no attempt to move away.
"Yes, I am, but given what you've been telling me, everything in your life is moving fast today."