"They should have put 'seven-digit salary' on the press release, don't you think?" he says. "More than six digits sounds a touch absurd, don't you think? Or even better, they could have said that it's over a million euros, instead of making us count the digits, don't you think? In fact, instead of 'six-digit salary,' they could have said 'six-figure,' don't you think?"
She doesn't think anything.
"We're still looking into it," she says again. "Now let me get a little air, will you? I'll answer what questions I can later on."
This, of course, is a complete lie. Later on, she'll get a taxi straight back to the hotel.
Someone asks her why she isn't wearing a Hamid Hussein dress.
"I've always worked for..." and again she gives the designer's name. Some of the reporters there note it down, while others simply ignore it. What they want is a piece of publishable news, not the truth behind the facts.
She's saved by the pace at which things happen at parties like this. In the corridor, the photographers are already shouting out someone else's name. In an orchestrated movement, as if under the baton of an invisible conductor, the journalists surrounding her all turn and see that a bigger, more important celebrity has just arrived. Jasmine takes advantage of this hiatus and heads for the lovely walled garden that has been transformed into a salon where people are drinking, smoking, and walking up and down.
Soon she, too, will be able to drink, smoke, look up at the sky, thump the parapet, turn round, and leave.
However, a young woman and a very strange-looking creature--like an android out of a science-fiction movie--are staring at her, blocking her path. They clearly don't know what they're doing there either, so she might as well strike up conversation with them. She introduces herself. The strange creature takes his mobile phone out of his pocket, grimaces, and says he'll be back shortly.
The young woman is still staring at her with a look on her face that says, "You ruined my evening."
Jasmine is sorry she ever accepted tonight's invitation. It was delivered by two men, just as she and her partner were getting ready to go to a small reception put on by the BCA (the Belgian Clothing Association, the body that promotes and regulates fashion in her country). But it's not all bad news. If the photos are published, her dress will be seen, and someone might feel interested enough to find out the designer's name.
The men who delivered the invitation seemed very polite. They said that a limousine was waiting outside and that they were sure a model of her experience would need only fifteen minutes to get ready.
One of them opened a briefcase, took out a laptop and a portable printer, and announced that they were there to close the contract. It was simply a matter of fine-tuning the details. They would fill in the conditions, and her agent--they knew that the woman with her was also her agent--would sign.
They promised her partner every help with her next collection. And yes, of course she could keep her name on the label and even use their PR service. More than that, HH would like to buy the brand and thus inject the necessary money into it to ensure that she got good coverage in the Italian, French, and British press.
There were two conditions. First, the matter had to be decided right there and then, so that they could send a note to the press before the newspapers were put to bed for the night.
Second, she would have to transfer her contract with Jasmine Tiger to Hamid Hussein, for whom Jasmine would then work exclusively. There was, after all, no shortage of models, and the Belgian designer would soon find someone to replace her. Besides, as Jasmine's agent, she would earn a lot of money.
"I agree to the transfer of contract," her partner said, "but we'll have to talk about the rest."
How could she agree so quickly, the woman who was responsible for everything that had happened in her life, and who now seemed perfectly happy to lose her? She was being stabbed in the back by the person she loved most in the world.
One of the men took out his BlackBerry.
"We'll send a press release now, in fact, we've written it already: 'I'm thrilled to have this opportunity...'"
"Just a minute. I'm not thrilled at all. I don't even know what you're talking about."
Her partner, however, started editing the text, changing "thrilled" to "happy" and "opportunity" to "invitation." She studied each word and phrase. She demanded that they mention some absurdly high salary. The men disagreed, saying that this might inflate the market. No deal then, came the reply. The two men left the room to make a phone call and returned almost at once. They would put something vague about a six-digit salary, without mentioning an exact sum. They all shook hands; the two men complimented both the collection and the model, put laptop and printer back in the bag, and asked the designer to record a formal agreement on one of their mobile phones as proof that their negotiations regarding Jasmine had been successful. They left as quickly as they came, both talking on their mobile phones and, at the same time, urging Jasmine to take no longer than fifteen minutes to get ready; her presence at tonight's party was part of the contract.
"You'd better get ready, then," said her companion.
"You don't have the power to decide what I do with my life. You know I don't agree, but I wasn't even asked my opinion. I'm not interested in working for anyone else."
The woman went over to the dresses scattered round the room and chose the most beautiful one--a white dress embroidered with butterflies. She spent a moment considering which shoes and handbag Jasmine should wear; there was no time to lose.
"They didn't say anything about you wearing a dress by HH tonight, which means we have a chance to show off something from my collection."
Jasmine couldn't believe what she was hearing.
"Is that why you did it?"
"Yes, it is."
They were standing facing each and neither of them looked away.
"You're lying."
"Yes, I'm lying."
And they fell into each other's arms.
"Ever since that weekend on the beach, when we took those first photographs, I knew this day would come. It took a while, but you're nineteen now and old enough to accept a challenge. Other people have approached me before, but I've always said no, and I never knew whether it was just that I didn't want to lose you or because you weren't quite ready. Today, though, when I saw Hamid Hussein in the audience, I knew he wasn't there simply to pay tribute to Ann Salens and that he must have something else in mind, and that could only be you. Sure enough, I got a message saying he wanted to talk to us. I didn't know quite what to do, but I gave him the name of our hotel. It was no surprise when those two men arrived with the contract."
"But why did you accept?"
"If you love someone, you must be prepared to set them free. He can offer you far more than I can, and you have my blessing. I want you to have everything you deserve. We'll still be together because you have my heart, my body, and my soul. And I'll keep my independence, although I know how important sponsors can be in this world. If Hamid Hussein had come to me with a proposal to buy my label, I would have had no problem in selling it and going to work for him. However, the deal wasn't about me, it was about you. And if I accepted the part of the proposal involving me, that would mean being untrue to myself."
She kissed Jasmine.
"Well, I can't accept either," declared Jasmine. "I was just a frightened child when I met you, terrified because I'd perjured myself in court, wretched because I'd been responsible for letting criminals go free, and so depressed that I was seriously considering suicide. You're responsible for everything that's happened in my life."
Her partner asked her to sit down in front of the mirror and, before doing anything else, she tenderly stroked her hair.
"When I met you, I'd lost all my zest for life as well. My husband had left me for someone younger, better-looking, and richer, and I was forced to become a photographer to make a living, spending my weekends at home reading, surfing the Internet, or watching old films on TV. My
great dream of becoming a designer seemed to be moving ever farther off. I couldn't get the necessary financial backing, and I'd had enough of knocking on doors that never opened or talking to people who didn't listen to what I was saying.
"That's when you appeared. And that weekend, I have to confess, I was only thinking about myself. I knew I had a rare jewel in my hands, and could make a fortune if I could get you to sign an exclusive contract with me. I seem to remember that I even suggested I should become your agent. I didn't do that out of a desire to protect you from the world. My thoughts at the time were as selfish as Hamid Hussein's. I would know how to exploit my treasure. I would get rich on those photos."
She gave a few final touches to Jasmine's hair.
"And you, even though you were only sixteen then, showed me how love can change a person. It was through you that I discovered who I am. In order to show off your talent to the world, I started designing clothes for you to wear, clothes that had been in my head all the time, waiting to be transformed into fabrics, embroidery, accessories. We lived together and, even though I was more than twice your age, we learned together as well. Thanks to all these things, people started noticing what I was doing and decided to invest in it, and, for the first time, I began to realize my dreams. We traveled here to Cannes together, and no contract is going to part us."
She went to the bathroom to fetch the makeup case. Her tone grew more businesslike.
"You need to look really stunning tonight. Models rarely rise to stardom out of nowhere, so there'll be a lot of media interest. Just say you don't know the details yet; that's enough, but they'll keep asking and trying to get you to say things like: 'I've always dreamed of working with Hamid Hussein' or 'This is a very important step in my career,' etc."
She went with Jasmine down to the hotel lobby, where the waiting chauffeur opened the car door.
"Remember: you don't know the details of the contract yet; your agent is taking care of all that. Enjoy the party."
AT THE PARTY, OR RATHER, supper--although she can see neither tables nor food, only waiters walking about, proffering every possible kind of drink, including mineral water--people form into small groups, and anyone arriving alone looks somewhat lost. The event is taking place in a vast garden furnished with armchairs and sofas; there are also several pillars about three feet high on which half-clothed models with perfect bodies are dancing to the sound of music that emerges out of strategically positioned loudspeakers.
Celebrities continue to arrive. The guests seem happy; they smile and greet each other as if they'd known each other for years, although Jasmine knows this isn't so. They probably meet now and again on occasions like this and always forget each other's names, but they need to show how very influential, famous, admired, and well-connected they are.
The young woman, who initially looked so angry, reveals that she, too, is feeling completely lost. She asks for a cigarette and introduces herself. Within a matter of minutes, they know each other's life story. Jasmine leads her over to the balustrade overlooking the Mediterranean, and while the party fills up with strangers and acquaintances, they stand there gazing out to sea. They discover that they're now working for the same man, although on different projects. Neither of them has ever met him, and for both of them, everything has happened during this one day.
Men occasionally try to engage them in conversation, but Gabriela and Jasmine ignore them. Gabriela is the person Jasmine needed to meet, someone with whom to share her sense of having been abandoned, despite her partner's loving words. If she had to choose between her career and the love of her life, she would choose love over career every time, and she didn't care if such behavior seemed adolescent. Now it turns out that the love of her life wants her to put her career first and seems to have accepted HH's proposal simply so that she can feel proud of everything she's done for her, of the care with which she's guided her steps and corrected her mistakes, and the enthusiasm she's put into every word spoken and decision taken, however difficult.
Gabriela had needed to meet Jasmine too, to ask her advice, to feel less alone, and to see that good things happen to other people too. She confesses that she's worried that her companion has just left her there, when he's supposed to be introducing her to various people she needs to meet.
"He thinks he can hide his feelings, but I know something's wrong."
Jasmine tells her not to worry, to relax, drink some champagne and enjoy the music and the view. Unforeseen things are always happening, and there's a whole army of people ready to deal with them, so that no one ever finds out what really goes on behind the scenes of all that wealth and glamour. The Star is sure to be here soon.
"But, please, don't leave me on my own, will you? I'm not staying long."
Gabriela promises that she won't leave her alone. She's her only friend in this new world.
Yes, her only friend, but Jasmine's so young that Gabriela suddenly feels too old to be starting out on a new track. The Star had shown himself to be utterly superficial during the limousine drive to the red carpet; all his charm had vanished. And however much she likes the young girl by her side, she needs to find some new male companion for the night. She notices that the man who came into the bar earlier on is standing, like them, by the balustrade, looking out to sea, his back to the party, oblivious to everything else going on at this gala supper. He's charismatic, handsome, elegant, mysterious. When the opportunity arises, she'll suggest to her new friend that they go over to him and start a conversation, it really doesn't matter what about.
After all--and despite all--this has been her lucky day, and it might include finding a new love.
8:21 P.M.
The pathologist, the commissioner, Savoy, and a fourth person--who has not been introduced, but who arrived with the commissioner--are sitting round a table.
Their task is not to discuss the latest murder, but to draw up a joint statement to be presented to the journalists gathering outside. This time a really big Star has died, a well-known director is in intensive care, and the news agencies from around the world have obviously sent a stark message to their journalists: either come up with something we can print or you're fired.
"Legal medicine is one of the most ancient of the sciences, involved as it is with identifying poisons and producing antidotes. Nevertheless, in the past, royalty and the nobility always preferred to employ 'an official taster,' just to avoid any nasty surprises the doctors failed to foresee."
Savoy had met this "sage" earlier today. This time, he allows the commissioner to step in and put a stop to the pathologist's erudite lecture.
"That's enough showing off, Doctor. There's a criminal on the loose in Cannes."
The pathologist remains impassive.
"As a pathologist, I don't have the authority to determine the circumstances of a murder. I can't give opinions on the matter; I can only describe the cause of death, the weapon used, the identity of the victim, and the approximate time when the crime was committed."
"Do you see any link between the two deaths? Is there something that connects the murder of the film distributor and the actor?"
"Of course. They both worked in the movies."
He chuckles, but no one else moves a muscle. They clearly have no sense of humor.
"The only connection is that, in both cases, toxic substances were used, both of which affect the organism with extraordinary speed. What is really intriguing about the second murder, though, is the way in which the hydrogen cyanide was wrapped. The envelope had inside it a fine plastic membrane vacuum-sealed, but easily torn when the envelope was opened."
"Could it have been made here?" asks the fourth man, who has a strong foreign accent.
"Possibly, but I doubt it, because its actual manufacture is very complex, and the person who made it knew that it would be used to murder someone."
"So the murderer didn't make it?"
"I doubt it. A specialist group would almost certainly have been commissioned to produce it.
In the case of the curare, the criminal himself could have dipped the needle in the poison, but hydrogen cyanide requires special techniques."
Savoy's thoughts immediately go to Marseilles, Corsica, Sicily, certain Eastern European countries, and terrorist groups in the Middle East. He leaves the room for a moment and phones Europol. He explains the gravity of the situation and asks them for a complete rundown on laboratories equipped to produce chemical weapons of that type.
He's put through to someone who tells him that they've just had a call from an American intelligence agency asking exactly the same thing. What's going on?
"Nothing. But please get back to me as soon as you have any information--in the next ten minutes at the latest."
"That's impossible," says the voice on the other end. "We'll give you the answer as soon as we have it, not before or afterward. We'll have to put in a request..."
Savoy hangs up and rejoins the group.
More paper.
This appears to be an obsession common to everyone working in the field of public security. No one wants to risk taking a step without first having a guarantee that their superiors approve of what they're doing. Men who once had a brilliant career ahead of them and began working with creativity and enthusiasm now cower fearfully in a corner, knowing the enormous problems they face: they need to act swiftly, but, at the same time, the hierarchy of command must be respected; the media are always quick to accuse the police of brutality, while the taxpayers complain that crimes are never solved. For all these reasons, it's always best to pass responsibility on to someone higher up.
His telephone call was really just a bit of play-acting. He knows who the killer is, and he alone will catch him; he doesn't want anyone else snatching from him the glory of having solved the biggest murder case in the history of Cannes. He must keep calm, but he's nevertheless impatient for this meeting to end.
When he goes back into the room, the commissioner informs him that Stanley Morris, formerly of Scotland Yard, has just phoned from Monte Carlo, telling them not to worry because he very much doubts that the criminal will use the same weapon again.