The Winner Stands Alone

  Finally, at the apex, is the Superclass.

  This is the ideal mixture for a party. Those who have reached the top and yet carry on life as normal may well have enough money stashed away for several generations, but their influence has waned and they have realized, too late, that power is actually more important than wealth. Those who haven't yet reached the top put all their energy and enthusiasm into making the party go with a swing, thinking that they're making a really good impression, only to discover, in the weeks that follow, that no one phones them despite all the business cards they handed out. Finally, there are those who wobble about on the apex, knowing that it's very windy up there and that the slightest gust could blow them off into the abyss below.

  PEOPLE KEEP COMING OVER TO talk to him, although no one mentions the murder, either because they don't know about it, since they live in a world where such things don't happen, or out of politeness, which he very much doubts. He looks around him and sees the thing he hates most in the fashion world: middle-aged women who dress as if they were still twenty. Haven't they noticed that it's time they changed their style? He speaks to one person, smiles at another, thanks someone else for a kind remark, introduces Ewa to the few who still don't know her. He has, however, only one thought in his mind: to find Jasmine within the next five minutes and pose for the photographers.

  An industrialist and his wife are telling him in detail about the last time they met, a meeting of which Hamid has no recollection, although he nods wisely. They talk about trips they've made, people they've met, and projects they're involved in. No one touches on genuinely interesting topics like "Are you happy?" or "After all we've been through, what does victory actually feel like?" They are part of the Superclass and therefore obliged to behave as if they were contented and fulfilled, even if they're actually asking themselves: "What shall I do with my future, now that I have everything I ever dreamed of?"

  A squalid creature in tight trousers and an Indian top approaches, looking like something out of a comic strip.

  "Mr. Hussein, I'm terribly sorry..."

  "Who are you?"

  "I work for you, sir."

  How absurd.

  "Look, I'm busy right now, and I know everything I need to know about tonight's sad events, so there's no need for you to worry."

  The creature, however, stays where he is. Hamid begins to feel embarrassed by his presence, mainly because friends nearby will have heard those dreadful words: "I work for you, sir." Whatever will they think?

  "Mr. Hussein, I'm just about to bring over the actress who's going to be appearing in your film. I had to leave her for a moment because I got a phone message, but..."

  "Later. At the moment, I'm waiting to meet Jasmine Tiger."

  The strange creature leaves. The actress who's going to be appearing in his film! Poor girl: signed up and dismissed all in one day.

  Ewa is holding a champagne glass in one hand and her mobile phone and an extinguished cigarette in the other. The industrialist takes a gold lighter out of his pocket and offers to light her cigarette.

  "No, thank you, it's all right, I can do it myself," she says. "I'm deliberately keeping both hands occupied in an attempt to smoke less."

  She would like to say: "I'm holding my mobile so as to protect this idiot, who refuses to believe me and who has never shown the slightest interest in my life or what I've been through. If I get another message, I'll make a scene and he'll be forced to leave and take me with him, whether he wants to or not. Even if he tells me off afterward, at least I can console myself with the thought that I saved his life. I know who the killer is. I can feel the presence of Absolute Evil very near."

  A receptionist starts asking the guests to go into the main dining area. Hamid Hussein is prepared to accept his fate without complaint. The photo can wait until tomorrow when he goes up the steps with her. Just then, one of his assistants appears.

  "Jasmine Tiger isn't here. She must have left."

  "Never mind. Perhaps they forgot to tell her that we were supposed to meet."

  He looks very calm, like someone accustomed to dealing with such situations. Inside, though, his blood is boiling. She's left the party? Who does she think she is?

  IT'S SO EASY TO DIE. The human body may well be one of the most efficient mechanisms in creation, but all it takes is a small metal projectile to enter and cut through it at a certain speed, and that's that.

  Death, according to the dictionary, is the end of a life (although life also needs to be properly defined), the permanent paralysis of the body's vital functions, like brain activity, breathing, blood flow to and from the heart. Only two things resist this permanent paralysis--the hair and the nails, which continue to grow for a few days or weeks.

  The definition changes when it comes to religions: for some, death means moving to a higher state, while others believe that it is merely a temporary condition and that the soul inhabiting the body will return later on, either to pay for its sins or to enjoy in the next life the blessings denied it during the previous incarnation.

  The young woman is standing very still by his side. Either the champagne has taken full effect or its effects have passed, and she now realizes that she knows no one, that this could be both her first and last invitation to such a party, and that dreams sometimes turn into nightmares. When he moved away for a moment with the other sadder girl, he noticed a few men approach the actress, but it seems she felt uncomfortable with all of them. When she saw him reappear, she asked him to stay with her for the rest of the party. She also asked if he had transport because she has no money and it doesn't look as if her companion will be coming back.

  "Yes, of course, I'll be glad to take you home."

  This wasn't in his plans, but having spotted the policeman observing the guests, he knows it's best to look as if he's with someone, that he's just another of the important, anonymous people there, proud to have a pretty, much younger woman with him, one who so perfectly fits the norm in that particular place.

  "Don't you think we should go in?"

  "Yes, but I know how these things work. It's best to wait until everyone else is seated. Several of the tables will have places reserved at them for certain people, and we don't want to find ourselves in the embarrassing position of sitting down where we shouldn't."

  He notices that, for a moment, the girl looks slightly disappointed that he doesn't have one of those reserved places.

  The waiters are collecting the empty glasses scattered around the garden. The models have stepped down from their ridiculous pedestals where their gyrations have persuaded the male guests at the party that life can still be interesting and reminded the female guests that they really must get some more liposuction, Botox, silicone, or plastic surgery.

  "Please, let's go in. I need to eat. I'll get sick if I don't."

  She takes his arm and they walk toward the room on the upper floor. It would seem that his last message to Ewa has been received and discarded, but then he knows now what to expect from a woman as corrupt as his ex-wife. The angel with the dark eyebrows continues by his side; she was the one who had made him turn round at the right moment and notice the plainclothes policeman, when, in theory, he should have been concentrating on the arrival of the famous couturier.

  "All right, we'll go in."

  They walk up the steps and into the dining room. As they do so, he asks her politely to let go of his arm, in case any friends there should misinterpret the situation.

  "Are you married, then?"

  "No, divorced."

  YES, EWA IS THINKING, SHE had been right, her intuition was correct, the problems they have encountered so far this evening are as nothing compared with what she has just seen. Since Igor can have no professional reason for being at a film festival, his presence there can have only one possible motive.

  "Igor!" Hamid says.

  The man, accompanied by a much younger woman, looks straight at him. Ewa's heart starts pounding. She says to Hamid:

&nb
sp; "What are you doing?"

  Hamid has already got up from the table. He has no idea what he's doing. He's walking toward Absolute Limitless Evil, capable of anything. Hamid assumes that Igor is just another adult and that he can confront him with either physical force or logical argument. What he doesn't know is that Absolute Evil has the heart of a child and takes no responsibility for its actions and is convinced that it's right. And when it doesn't get what it wants, it's not afraid to use all possible means to satisfy its desires. Now she understands how it was that the Angel changed so quickly into a Devil: because he has always nursed vengeance and rancor in his heart, even though he claimed to have grown up and overcome all his traumas; because he's unbeatable when it comes to succeeding in life, thus confirming his belief in his own omnipotence; because he doesn't know how to give up, having survived the worst possible torments through which he walked without so much as a backward glance, all the while repeating to himself: "One day, I'll be back, and then you'll see what I'm capable of."

  "Apparently, he's found someone more interesting to talk to than us," says a former Miss Europe, who is also sitting at the top table, along with another two celebrities and the host of the party.

  Ewa tries to conceal her unease, but she doesn't know what to do. The host seems almost amused and is waiting for some explanation.

  "I'm sorry. He's an old friend of mine."

  Hamid goes over to Igor, who looks suddenly uncertain. The girl with him says loudly:

  "Hello, Mr. Hussein. I'm your new actress!"

  People at the other tables turn round to see what's happening. The host smiles. It's always good to have something unusual happen at a party; it will give his guests plenty to talk about. Hamid is now standing in front of the man; the host realizes that all is not well and says to Ewa:

  "I think you'd better retrieve Hamid, or, if you like, we can get another chair for your friend. His companion will, I'm afraid, have to sit elsewhere."

  The guests have turned their attention back to their food and their conversations about yachts, private planes, and the stock market. Only the host keeps a watchful eye on what's going on.

  "Go and talk to them," he says.

  Ewa, however, isn't there. Her thoughts are thousands of miles away in a restaurant in Irkutsk, near Lake Baikal. The scene was different then, with Igor leading another man outside. Making an enormous effort, she gets to her feet and joins the two men.

  "Go back to the table," says Hamid quietly. "We're going outside to talk."

  That is the most stupid thing he could possibly do. She grabs his arm and, smiling, pretends to be happy to be meeting someone she hasn't seen in a long time. With great aplomb, she says:

  "But supper's only just beginning!"

  She doesn't add "my love"; she doesn't want to open the doors of hell.

  "She's right. We'd be better off talking here."

  Did Igor say that? Perhaps she's been imagining things and it isn't at all as she thought? Has the child finally grown into a responsible adult? Has the Devil been forgiven for his arrogance and returned to the Kingdom of Heaven?

  She so wants to be wrong, but the two men are still staring at each other. Hamid can see something deeply perverse behind those blue eyes and, for a moment, a shudder runs through him. The young woman is holding out her hand.

  "Pleased to meet you. My name's Gabriela..."

  He doesn't return her greeting. The other man's eyes are shining.

  "There's a table over in the corner. Why don't we all go and sit down there," says Ewa.

  A table in the corner? Is his wife going to leave her place of honor at the top table and sit at a table in a corner? Ewa has already linked arms with both men and is leading them toward the only free table, near the door through which the waiters come and go. The "actress" follows behind. Hamid detaches himself for a moment and goes back to his host to apologize.

  "I've just met a childhood friend. He has to leave tomorrow, and I wouldn't want to miss this chance to talk a little. Please, don't wait for us, I can't say how long we'll be."

  "No one will steal your places," says the host, smiling, knowing full well that the two chairs will remain empty.

  "I thought he was your wife's childhood friend," says the former Miss Europe waspishly.

  Hamid, however, is already walking back to the worst table in the room, reserved for the celebrities' assistants, who, despite all precautions, often manage to slip in where they're not supposed to be.

  "Hamid's a good man," thinks the host, as he watches the couturier walk away, head held high. "But the night hasn't got off to a very happy start for him."

  THEY ALL SIT DOWN AT the corner table. Gabriela understands that this is her one chance, yet another of those many "one chances" that have happened today. She says how pleased she was to receive the invitation and that she'll do all she can not to disappoint.

  "I trust you," she says. "I even signed the contract without reading it."

  The other three people don't say a word; they just look at each other. Is something wrong? Can it be the effect of the champagne? Best to keep talking.

  "I'm particularly happy because, contrary to what people usually say, the selection process was very fair. There were no special requests, no favors. I did the test this morning, and they didn't even let me finish reading the text they gave me. They just asked me to go to a yacht to talk to the director. That sets an excellent example, Mr. Hussein, I mean, treating people with dignity and honesty when it comes to choosing who you're going to be working with. People think that in the world of cinema the only thing that really counts is..."

  She was about to say "sleeping with the producer," but the producer is sitting next to his wife.

  "...is what a person looks like."

  The waiter brings the entrees and launches into his usual monologue:

  "Tonight's entrees are artichoke hearts in a Dijon mustard sauce, drizzled with a little olive oil, flavored with fines herbes and served with slivers of Pyrenean goat's cheese..."

  Only the young woman smiles and listens to what he's saying. He realizes that he isn't welcome and leaves.

  "It looks delicious!" she says. Then she glances round at the others, none of whom has made a move to pick up knife or fork. Something is very wrong here.

  "Look, you obviously need to talk. Perhaps I should sit somewhere else."

  "Yes," says Hamid.

  "No, stay here," says the woman.

  What should she do now?

  "Do you like your companion?" the woman asks.

  "I've only just met Gunther."

  Gunther. Hamid and Ewa look at the impassive Igor sitting beside her.

  "And what does Gunther do?"

  "Aren't you friends of his?"

  "Yes, and we know what he does. But we don't know how much you know about his life."

  Gabriela turns to Igor. Why doesn't he help her?

  A waiter arrives to ask what wine they would like to drink.

  "White or red?"

  Saved by a stranger!

  "Red for everyone," says Hamid.

  "You still haven't told us what Gunther does?"

  She hasn't been saved.

  "He works with heavy machinery, I think. We hardly know each other really. The only thing we have in common is that we were both waiting for friends who never turned up."

  A good answer, thinks Gabriela. Perhaps that woman is having a secret affair with her new "partner" or else an affair that her husband has just found out about--that would explain the tension in the air.

  "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.