The Winner Stands Alone

"I left it all behind," Ewa said on one of the tapes. "And I don't regret it one bit. I would have done the same even if Hamid--against my wishes--hadn't bought that beautiful estate in Spain and put it in my name. I would have made the same decision if Igor, my ex-husband, had offered me half his fortune. I would have taken the same decision because I know that I need to live without fear. If one of the most desirable men in the world wants to be by my side, then I'm obviously a better person than I thought."

On another tape, she commented that her husband clearly had severe psychological problems.

"My husband has lost his reason. Whether it stems from his war experiences or stress from overwork, I've no idea, but he thinks he knows what God intends. Before I left, I sought advice from a psychiatrist in order to try and understand him better, to see if it was possible to save our relationship. I didn't go into details so as not to compromise him and I won't do so with you now, but I think he would be capable of doing terrible things if he believed he was doing good.

"The psychiatrist explained to me that many generous, compassionate people can, from one moment to the next, change completely. Studies have been done of this phenomenon and they call that sudden change 'the Lucifer effect' after Lucifer, God's best-loved angel, who ended up trying to rival God himself."

"But why does that happen?" asked another female voice.

At that point, however, the tape ran out.

HE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE heard her answer because he knows he doesn't consider himself on a par with God and because he's sure that his beloved is making the whole thing up, afraid that if she did come back, she would be rejected. Yes, he had killed out of necessity, but what did that have to do with their marriage? He had killed when he was a soldier, with official permission. He had killed a couple of other people too, but only in their best interests because they had no means of living a decent life. In Cannes, he was merely carrying out a mission.

And he would only kill someone he loved if he saw that she was mad, had completely lost her way and begun to destroy her own life. He would never allow the decay of a mind to ruin a brilliant, generous past. He would only kill someone he loved in order to save her from a long, painful process of self-destruction.

IGOR LOOKS AT THE MASERATI that has just drawn up opposite him in a no-parking zone. It's an absurd, uncomfortable car which, despite its powerful engine--too low-powered for B roads and too high-powered for motorways--has to dawdle along at the same speed as other cars.

A man of about fifty--but trying to look thirty--opens the door and struggles out because the door is too low to the ground. He goes into the pizzeria and orders a quattro formaggi to go.

Maserati and pizza are something of a mismatch, but these things happen.

Temptation returns. It's not talking to him now about forgiveness and generosity, about forgetting the past and moving on, it's trying a different tack and placing real doubts in his mind. What if Ewa were deeply unhappy? What if, despite her love for him, she was too deep in the bottomless pit of a bad decision, as Adam was the moment he accepted the apple and condemned the whole human race?

He had planned everything, he tells himself for the hundredth time. He wanted them to get back together again and not to allow a little word like "goodbye" to erase their whole past life. He knows that all marriages have their crises, especially after eighteen years. However, he also knows that a good strategist has to be flexible. He sends another text message, just to make sure she gets it. He stands up and says a prayer, asking to have the cup of renunciation removed from him.

The soul of the little seller of craftwork is beside him. He knows now that he committed an injustice; it wouldn't have hurt him to wait until he had found a more equal opponent, like the pseudo-athlete with the hennaed hair, or until he could save someone from further suffering, as was the case with the woman on the beach.

The girl with the dark eyebrows seems to hover over him like a saint, telling him to have no regrets. He acted correctly, saving her from a future of suffering and pain. Her pure soul is gradually driving away Temptation, helping Igor to understand that the reason he's in Cannes isn't to revive a lost love; that's impossible. He's here to save Ewa from bitterness and decay. She may have treated him unfairly, but the many things she did to help him deserve a reward.

"I am a good man."

He goes over to the cashier, pays his bill, and asks for a small bottle of mineral water. When he leaves, he empties the contents of the bottle over his head.

He needs to be able to think clearly. He has dreamed of this day for so long and now he is confused.

5:06 P.M.

Fashion may renew itself every six months, but one thing remains the same: bouncers always wear black.

Hamid had considered alternatives for his shows--dressing security guards in colorful uniforms, for example, or having them all dressed in white--but he knew that if he did anything like that, the critics would write more about "these pointless innovations" than about what really mattered: the new collection. Besides, black is the perfect color: conservative, mysterious, and engraved on the collective unconscious, thanks to all those old cowboy films. The goodies always wear white and the baddies wear black.

"Imagine if the White House was called the Black House. Everyone would think it was inhabited by the spirit of darkness."

Every color has a purpose, although people may think they're chosen at random. White signifies purity and integrity. Black intimidates. Red shocks and paralyzes. Yellow attracts attention. Green calms everything down and gives things the go-ahead. Blue soothes. Orange confuses.

Bouncers should wear black--so it was in the beginning and would be forever after.

AS USUAL, THERE ARE THREE different entrances. The first is for the press in general--a few journalists and a lot of photographers laden down with cameras. They seem perfectly polite, but have no qualms about elbowing a colleague out of the way to capture the best angle, an unusual shot, the perfect moment, or some glaring mistake. The second entrance is for the general public, and in that respect, the Fashion Week in Paris was no different from that show in a seaside resort in the South of France; the people who come in through the second entrance are always badly dressed and would almost certainly not be able to afford anything being shown that afternoon. However, there they are in their ripped jeans, bad-taste T-shirts, and, of course, their designer sneakers, convinced that they're looking really relaxed and at ease, which, of course, they aren't. Some do have what might well be expensive handbags and belts, but this seems somehow even more pathetic, like putting a painting by Velazquez in a plastic frame.

Finally, there is the VIP entrance. The security guards never have any idea who anyone is. They simply stand there, arms crossed, looking threatening, as if they were the real owners. A polite young woman, trained to remember famous faces, comes over to them with a list in her hand.

"Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Hussein. Thank you so much for being here."

They go straight to the front. Everyone walks down the same corridor, but a barrier of metal pillars linked by a red velvet band marks out who are the most important people there. This is the Moment of Minor Glory, being singled out as special people, and even though this show isn't part of the official calendar--we mustn't forget that Cannes is, after all, a film festival--protocol must be rigorously observed. Because of that Moment of Minor Glory which occurs at all such similar events (suppers, lunches, cocktail parties), men and women spend hours in front of the mirror, convinced that artificial light is less harmful to the skin than the sun, against which they apply large amounts of sun factor. They are only two steps from the beach, but they prefer to use the sophisticated tanning machines in the beauty salons that are never more than a block away from the place where they're staying. They could enjoy a lovely view if they were to go for a stroll along the Boulevard de la Croisette, but would they lose many calories? No. They are far better off using the treadmills in the hotel's mini-gym.

That way, they will be in good shape to attend the free lunches--for which they dress with studied casualness--where they feel important simply because they've been invited, or the gala suppers for which they have to pay a lot of money unless they have influential contacts, or the post-supper parties that go on into the small hours, or the last cup of coffee or glass of whisky in the hotel bar, all of which involve repeated visits to the toilets to retouch makeup, straighten ties, brush off any dandruff from jacket shoulders, and make sure one's lipstick is still perfect.

Finally, back in their luxurious hotel rooms, where they will find the bed made, the breakfast menu waiting, the weather forecast for the next day, a chocolate (which is immediately discarded as containing far too many calories), an envelope with their names exquisitely written (the envelope is never opened because all it contains is the standardized welcome letter from the hotel manager) beside a basket of fruit (devoured avidly because fruit is a rich source of fiber which is, in turn, good for the body and an excellent way of avoiding wind). They look in the mirror as they take off tie, makeup, dress, or dinner jacket, and say to themselves: "Nothing of much importance happened today. Perhaps tomorrow will be better."