The Winner Stands Alone

"His name is Igor," announces the woman. "He owns one of the biggest mobile phone companies in Russia. That's far more important than selling heavy machinery."

If this is true, why did he lie? She decides to say nothing.

"I was hoping to meet you here, Igor," the woman says, addressing Gunther now.

"I came looking for you, but I've changed my mind now," comes the blunt reply.

Gabriela suddenly gives

her paper-stuffed handbag a squeeze and adopts a surprised expression.

"Oh, my phone's ringing. I think my friend must have arrived, so I'd better go and find him. I'm so sorry, but he's come a long way just to be with me, and since he doesn't know anyone else here, I feel kind of responsible for him."

She gets up. Etiquette dictates that one shouldn't shake hands with someone when he or she is eating, although the others haven't even touched the food. The wineglasses, however, are already empty. And the man who, up until two minutes ago, was called Gunther has just ordered a whole bottle.

"I HOPE YOU GOT MY messages," says Igor.

"I received three. Perhaps the telephone network here is worse than the one you developed."

"I'm not talking about telephones."

"Then I don't know what you are talking about," she says, but what she wants to say is: "I know you're not."

Just as Igor must know that, during the first year she was with Hamid, she waited for a phone call or a message, for some mutual friend to tell her how much Igor was missing her. She didn't want him near her, but she knew that hurting him would be the worst thing she could do; she needed to placate her own personal Fury and pretend that one day, they would be good friends. One afternoon, when she'd had a bit to drink and finally summoned up the nerve to call him, she found that he'd changed his mobile number. When she phoned him at the office, she was told he was in a meeting. When she rang on subsequent occasions--always with the help of a little Dutch courage--she was told that Igor was traveling or would phone her back at once, which, of course, he never did.

And she began to see ghosts everywhere, to feel that she was being watched, that soon she would suffer the same fate as the beggar and the others whose "promotions to a better life" Igor had hinted at. Meanwhile, Hamid never asked her about her past, alleging that everyone has a right to keep his or her life locked up and private in the subterranean tunnels of memory. He did all he could to make her happy and to help her feel safe and protected; he even told her that his life had only begun to make any sense since meeting her.

Then one day, Absolute Evil rang the doorbell of their apartment building in London. Hamid was at home and sent him away. Nothing else happened in the months that followed.

Gradually, she succeeded in deceiving herself. Yes, she had made the right choice; the moment we choose a path, all other paths disappear. It was childish of her to think that she could be married to one man and friends with her ex-husband, that was only possible between well-balanced people, and Igor was not well-balanced. It was best to believe that an invisible hand had saved her from Absolute Evil. She was enough of a woman to make the new man at her side feel dependent on her and to help him as much as she could, as lover, advisor, wife, and sister, and she channeled all her energy into doing just that.

During this period, she had only one real friend, who disappeared as suddenly as she had appeared. She was Russian too, but unlike her, had been abandoned by her husband and didn't really know what she was doing in England. They spoke almost every day.

"I left it all behind," Ewa told her once. "And I don't regret it one bit. I would have done the same even if Hamid--against my wishes--hadn't bought a 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, because I need to live without fear. And 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."

It was all lies. She wasn't trying to convince her only confidante, but herself. It was all a front. Inside the strong woman sitting at that table with two powerful and important men was a little girl afraid of being left alone and poor, never having experienced what it was to be a mother. Had she simply got used to all the luxury and the glamour? No. She was always preparing herself to lose everything from one day to the next, when her present companion finally found out that she wasn't what he thought and was incapable of meeting others' expectations.

Did she know how to manipulate men? Yes. They all thought she was strong and confident, mistress of her own destiny, that she was capable of leaving any man, however important or eligible. And the worst thing was that men believed it. Men like Igor and like Hamid. Because she knew how to pretend, because she never said exactly what she was thinking, because she was the best actress in the world and knew better than anyone how to hide her vulnerable side.

"What do you want?" he asks in Russian.

"More wine."

He sounded as if he didn't much care what answer she gave; he had already said what he wanted.

"Before you left, I said something to you, but I think you must have forgotten."

He had said so many things: "I promise that I'll change and start working less," "You're the only woman I love," "If you leave, it will destroy me," words familiar to everyone and which are utterly devoid of meaning.

"I said: If you leave me, I'll destroy a world."

She couldn't remember him saying this, but it was perfectly possible. Igor had always been a very bad loser.

"But what does that mean?" she asks in Russian.

"At least be polite enough to speak in English," says Hamid.

Igor turns to face him.