The Winner Stands Alone

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."