The Winner Stands Alone

Another glass of wine. Another item sold. For an equally absurd price.

She drank so much that night that she had to be carried back to the hotel. Before he put her into bed and before she fell asleep, she finally got up the courage to ask:

"And what if I were to leave you?"

"Drink less next time."

"Answer me."

"That could never happen. Our marriage is perfect."

Common sense returned, but she knew she had an excuse now and so pretended to be drunker than she was.

"Yes, but what if I did?"

"I'd make you come back, and I'm good at getting what I want, even if that means destroying whole worlds."

"And what if I met another man?"

He looked at her without rancor, almost benevolently.

"Even if you slept with every man on Earth, my love would still survive."

AND SINCE THEN, WHAT HAD seemed a blessing began to turn into a nightmare. She was married to a monster, an assassin. What was that story about financing an army of mercenaries to intervene in a tribal war? How many other men had he killed to keep them from troubling their marital peace? She could blame the war, the traumas he had suffered, the hard times he had been through, but many other men had endured the same experiences, without emerging from them convinced that they were the instrument of Divine Justice, carrying out some Grand Plan.

"I'm not jealous," Igor used to say whenever he or she set off on a business trip, "because you know how much I love you, and I know how much you love me. Nothing will ever happen to destabilize our marriage."

She was more convinced than ever that this was not love. It was something sick and morbid, which she would either have to accept and live the rest of her life a prisoner to fear, or else free herself as soon as possible, at the first opportunity.

Several opportunities arose, but the most insistent, the most persistent was the very last man with whom she would have imagined building a real relationship: the couturier who was dazzling the fashion world, growing ever more famous, and receiving a vast amount of money from his own country so that the world would understand that the nomadic tribes had solid moral values that were completely at odds with the reign of terror imposed by a religious minority. He was a man who, increasingly, had the world at his feet.

Whenever they met at fashion shows, he would drop whatever other commitments he had, cancel lunches and suppers, just so that they could spend some time together in peace, locked in a hotel room, often without even making love. They would watch television, eat, drink (although he never touched a drop of alcohol), go for walks in parks, visit bookshops, talk to strangers, speak very little of the past, never of the future, and a great deal about the present.

She resisted for as long as she could, and, although she was never in love with him, when he proposed that she leave everything and move to London, she accepted at once. It was the only possible way out of her private hell.

ANOTHER MESSAGE APPEARS ON HER phone. It can't be; they haven't been in touch for two years.

"I've just destroyed another world because of you, Katyusha."

"Who's it from?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. It doesn't show a number."

What she meant to say was that she was terrified.

"We're nearly there. Remember, we haven't got much time."

The limousine has to maneuver its way toward the entrance of the Hotel Martinez. On both sides, behind the metal barriers erected by the police, people of all ages spend the whole day hoping to get a close-up look at some celebrity. They take photos with their digital cameras, tell their friends whom they've seen, and send messages over the Internet to the virtual communities they belong to. They would feel the long wait was justified for that one moment of glory: catching a glimpse of an actress, an actor, or even a TV presenter!

Although it's only thanks to them that the celebrity industry keeps going, they are kept at a safe distance; strategically positioned bodyguards ask anyone going into the hotel for proof that they are staying there or meeting someone. Then you either have to get out the magnetic card that serves as your room key or else be turned away in full view of the public. If you're having a business meeting or have been invited for a drink at the bar, they give your name to the security people and, with everyone watching, wait to see if what you say is true or false. The bodyguard uses his radio to call reception, and you wait there for what seems like an eternity, and then, finally, after that very public humiliation, you're allowed in. Those who arrive in limousines, of course, are treated quite differently.

The two doors of the Maybach are opened, one by the chauffeur and the other by the hotel porter. The cameras turn on Ewa and start to shoot; even though no one knows who she is, if she's staying at the Martinez and has arrived in a fancy car, she must be important. Perhaps she's the mistress of the man she's with, and if she is and he's having an extramarital affair, there's always a chance they can send the photos to some scandal rag. Or perhaps the beautiful blonde is a famous foreign celebrity as yet unknown in France. Later, they'll find her name in the so-called people magazines and be glad that they were once only four or five yards from her.

Hamid looks at the small crowd pressed up against the metal barriers. He has never understood this phenomenon, having been brought up in a place where such things simply don't happen. Once he asked a friend why there was so much interest in celebrities.

"Don't assume they're all fans," said his friend. "Since time immemorial, men have believed that being close to something unattainable and mysterious can bring blessings. That's why people make pilgrimages to visit gurus and sacred places."

"But Cannes?!"