The Winner Stands Alone (19 page)

Maureen looks around the terrace to see if she can find an example of what shes
describing: people who are still famous, but who have vanished from the scene and are
desperately seeking some new oppor- tunity. They still behave like divas, they still have
the same distant air, but their hearts are full of bitterness, their skin full of Botox
and cov- ered with the invisible scars left by plastic surgery. She could see plenty of
evidence of Botox and plastic surgery, but no celebrities from the previous decade.
Perhaps they didnt even have enough money now to attend a festival like this, but were
instead appearing as a special guest at dances in provincial towns or fronting the launch
of some new brand of chocolate or beer, still behaving as if they were the person they
once were, but knowing that they werent.

You mentioned two types of people.

Yes. The second group of actresses have exactly the same prob- lem, but theres one
important difference. Again her voice grows louder because now the girls at the next table
are clearly interested to hear what someone in the know has to say. They know that beauty
is a transient thing. They dont appear in ads or on magazine covers because theyre busy
honing their art. They keep studying and making contacts that will be useful in the
future. They lend their name and ap- pearance to certain products, not as models, but as
partners. They earn less, of course, but it means a lifelong income.

And then along comes someone like me, with a good script and enough money, plus I want
them to be in my film. They accept and have enough talent to play the parts I give them
and enough intelli- gence to know that even if the film doesnt turn out to be a huge suc-

cess, at least they will still have a presence on the screen and be seen to be working as
mature actresses, and who knows, that might spark the interest of another producer.

Igor is also aware that the girls are listening to their conversation.

Perhaps we should go for a walk, he says quietly. Theres no privacy here. I know a place
where we can be alone and watch the sun go down; its beautiful.

Thats precisely what she needs at this momentan invitation to go for a walk! To see the
sunset, even though itll be quite some time before the sun goes down! Hes not one of those
vulgar types who says: Lets go up to my room for a moment, I need to change my shoes and
Nothing will happen, I promise, and who, once theyre in his room, will say as he tries to
make a grab for her: I have contacts and I know just the people you need to talk to.

To be honest, she wouldnt mind being kissed by this seemingly charming man. She knows
absolutely nothing about him, of course, but the elegance with which hes seducing her is
something she wont forget in a long time.

They get up from the table, and he asks for the drinks to be put on his tab (so, she
thinks, hes staying at the Martinez!). When they reach the Boulevard de la Croisette, he
suggests they turn to the left.

There are fewer people in that direction; besides, the view should be even better, with
the sun setting behind the hills.

Igor, who are you?

A good question, he says. Id like to know the answer to that one myself.

Another point in his favor. He doesnt immediately launch into some spiel about how rich
and intelligent and talented he is. He simply wants to watch the sunset with her, thats
all. They walk to the end of the beach in silence, passing all kinds of different
peopleolder couples who seem to inhabit another world, quite oblivious to the Fes- tival;
young people on roller skates, wearing tight clothes and listening to iPods; street
vendors with their merchandise set out on a mat, the ends of which have string looped
through them so that at the first sign of a policeman, they can transform their shop
window into a bag; theres even an area that seems to have been cordoned off by the police for some
reasonafter all, its only a bench. She notices that her com- panion keeps looking behind
him, as if he were expecting someone, but hes probably just spotted an acquaintance.

They walk along a pier where the boats partially conceal the beach from view, and they
finally find an isolated spot. They sit down on a comfortable bench with a backrest.
Theyre completely alone. Well, why would anyone else come to a place where theres nothing
to do? Shes in an excellent mood.

Its lovely here! Do you know why God decided to rest on the seventh day?

Igor doesnt understand the question, but she proceeds to explain anyway:

Because on the seventh day, before hed finished work and left the world in a perfect state
for human beings, a group of producers from Hollywood came over to him and said: Dont you
worry about the rest! Well take care of providing the Technicolor sunset, the special
storm effects, the perfect lighting, and the right sound equipment so that whenever Man
hears the waves, hell think its the real sea!

She laughs to herself. The man beside her is looking more serious now.

You asked me who I am, he says.

Ive no idea who you are, but you obviously know the city well. And I have to say, it was
real luck meeting you like that. In just one day, Ive experienced, hope, despair,
loneliness, and the pleasure of finding a new companion. Thats a lot of emotions.

He takes something out of his pocket; it looks like a wooden tube less than six inches
long.

The worlds a dangerous place, he says. It doesnt matter where you are, youre always at
risk of being approached by people who have no scruples about attacking, destroying,
killing. And we never learn how to defend ourselves. Were all in the hands of those more
powerful than us.

Youre right. I suppose that wooden tube is your way of fending them off.

He twists the upper part of the tube. As delicately as a painter put- ting the final touch
to a masterpiece, he removes the lid. It isnt in fact a lid, but the head of what looks
like a long nail. The sun glitters on the metal blade.

You wouldnt get through airport security carrying that in your case, she says, and laughs.

No, I wouldnt.

Maureen feels that shes with a man who is polite, handsome, doubt- less wealthy, but who
is also capable of protecting her from all dangers. She has no idea what the crime
statistics are for Cannes, but its as well to think of everything. Thats what men are for:
to think of every- thing.

Of course, you need to know exactly how to use it. It may be made of steel, but because
its so thin its also very fragile and too small to cause any real damage. If you dont use
it with great precision, it wont work.

He places the blade level with Maureens ear. Her initial reaction is one of fear, soon
replaced by excitement.

This would be one of the ideal places, for example. Any higher, and the cranial bones
would block the blow, any lower, and the vein in the neck would be cut; the person might
die, but would also be able to fight back. If he was armed, he could shoot me, especially
at such close range.

The blade slides slowly down her body. It passes over her breast, and Maureen realizes
that hes trying both to shock and to arouse her.

I had no idea someone working in telecommunications could know so much about killing, but
from what you say, killing someone with that blade is quite a complicated business.

This is her way of saying: Im interested in what youre telling me. I find you really
fascinating. But please, just take my hand and lets go and watch the sunset together.

The blade slides over her breast, but does not stop there. Neverthe- less, its enough to
make her feel aroused. It stops just under her arm.

Here Im on a level with your heart. Its protected by a natural barrier, the rib cage. In a
fight, it would be impossible to injure some- one with this blade. It would almost certainly hit a rib, and even if it did penetrate the
body, the wound wouldnt bleed enough to weaken your enemy. He might not even feel the
blow. But right here, it would be fatal.

What is she doing in this isolated spot with a complete stranger talking about such a
macabre subject? Just then, she feels a kind of electric shock that leaves her paralyzed.
His hand has driven the blade inside her body. She feels at first as if she were
suffocating and tries to breathe, but then immediately loses consciousness.

Igor puts his arms around her, as he had with his first victim. This time, though, he
positions her body so that she remains sitting. He then puts on some gloves and makes her
head drop forward onto her chest.

If anyone ventures into that corner of the beach, all they will see is a woman sleeping,
exhausted perhaps from chasing after producers and distributors at the Festival.

The boy lurking behind the
oldwarehousewhereheoften hides so as to masturbate while he watches canoodling couplesis
now furiously phoning the police. He saw everything. At first, he thought it was some kind
of joke, but the man really did stick that blade into the woman! Hell have to wait for the
police to arrive before leaving his hiding place. That madman could return at any moment
and then he would be lost.

Igor throws the blade into
the sea and walks back to the hotel. This time, his victim had chosen death. When she
joined him, hed been sitting alone on the terrace, wondering what to do next and thinking
about the past. He never imagined she would agree to go for a walk to such an isolated
spot with a complete stranger, but she did. She could have run away when he started
showing her the different places where the blade would cause a mortal wound, but she didnt.

A police car passes, driving along the side of the road closed to the public. He decides
to watch where it goes and, to his surprise, he sees it drive onto the pier where no one seems to go during the Festival period. It had been as
empty that morning as it had this afternoon, even though it was the best place from which
to see the sunset. A few seconds later, an ambulance passes with its deafening siren
blaring and its lights flashing. It, too, heads for the pier.

He keeps walking, sure of one thing: someone must have witnessed the murder. But how would
that someone describe him? A man with grayish hair, wearing jeans, a white shirt, and a
black jacket. That pos- sible witness would help the police make an Identi-Kit picture, a
pro- cess that would not only take time, but lead them to the conclusion that there are
tens or maybe thousands of men who look just like him.

Ever since he tried to give himself up to that policeman and was sent back to his hotel,
he has felt sure that no one would be able to in- terrupt his mission. The doubts he feels
now are of a different nature: is Ewa worth the sacrifices hes offering up to the
universe? When he arrived in Cannes, he had felt sure she was; now, though, something else
is filling his soul: the spirit of the little street vendor with her dark eyebrows and
innocent smile.

We are all part of the divine spark, she seems to be saying. We all have a purpose in
creation and that purpose is called Love. That love, however, shouldnt be concentrated in
just one person, it should be scattered throughout the world, waiting to be discovered.
Wake up to that love. What is gone cannot return. What is about to arrive needs to be
recognized.

He struggles against the idea that perhaps we only discover that a plan is wrong when we
take it to its ultimate consequences, or when all-merciful God leads us in another
direction.

He looks at his watch: he still has another twelve hours in Cannes, time enough before he
gets on the plane with the woman he loves and goesbackto...

. . . goes back to what? To his work in Moscow after everything he has experienced,
suffered, thought, planned? Or to find rebirth through his victims and choose absolute
freedom and discover the person he didnt know he was, and from then on do all the things
he had dreamed of doing when he was still with Ewa?

Jasmine is sitting staring out at the sea while she smokes a cigarette and thinks of
nothing. At such moments, she feels a deep connection with the infinite, as if it were not
she who was there, but something more powerful, something capable of extraordinary things.

She remembers an old story
she once read. Nasrudin appeared at court wearing a magnificent turban and asking for money for charity. You come here asking for money and yet youre wearing an extremely expensive turban on your head. How much did that extraordinary thing cost? asked the
sultan.

It was a gift from someone very rich. And its worth, I believe, five hundred gold coins,
replied the wise Sufi.

The sultans minister muttered: Thats impossible. No turban could possibly be worth that
much.

Nasrudin insisted:

I didnt come here only to beg, I also came to do business. I know that only a true
sovereign would be capable of buying this turban for six hundred gold coins so that I
could give the surplus to the poor.

The sultan was flattered and paid what Nasrudin asked. On the way out, Nasrudin said to
the minister:

You may know the value of a turban, but I know how far a mans vanity will take him.

And thats what the world around her is like. She has nothing against her profession, she
doesnt judge people by their desires, but she knows whats really important in life and
wants to keep her feet on the ground, even though there are temptations at every turn.

Someone opens the door and says theres just half an hour before the show begins. The worst
part of the day, the long period of tedium that precedes any fashion show, is coming to an
end. The other girls put down their iPods and their phones; the makeup artists do any nec-
essary retouching; the hairdressers comb back into place any stray locks.

Jasmine sits in front of the dressing room mirror and lets them get on with their work.

Dont be nervous just because its Cannes, says the makeup artist.

Im not nervous.

Why should she be? On the contrary, whenever she steps onto a catwalk, she feels a kind of
ecstasy, a surge of adrenaline. The makeup artist seems in a mood to talk, and tells her
about the many celebrity wrinkles she has smoothed, suggests a new face cream, says shes
tired of her job, asks if Jasmine has a spare ticket to a party that night. Jasmine
listens to all this with infinite patience. In her mind shes back in the streets of
Antwerp on the day she decided to get in touch with the two photographers who had
approached her earlier. She had met with a slight initial difficulty, but it had all
worked out in the end.

As it would today and as it had then, whenalong with her mother, who, eager for her
daughter to recover from her depression as quickly as possible, had agreed to go with
hershe rang the bell of the first photographer, the one who had stopped her in the street.
The door opened to reveal a small room with a transparent table covered in photographic
negatives, another table, on which sat a computer, and a kind of drawing board piled with
papers. With the photographer was a woman of about forty, who looked at her long and hard,
before smil- ing and introducing herself as the events coordinator. Then the four of them sat down.

Im sure your daughter has a great future as a model, said the woman.

Oh, Im just here to keep her company, said Jasmines mother. If you have anything to say,
speak directly to her.

The woman, slightly taken aback, paused for a few seconds, then picked up a card and
started noting down details and measurements, saying:

Of course, Cristina isnt a good name for a model. Its too ordi- nary. The first thing we
need to do is to change that.

Theres another reason why Cristina isnt a good name, Jasmine was thinking. Because it
belonged to a girl who had ceased to exist when she witnessed a murder and denied what her
eyes now refused to forget. When she decided to change everything, she began with the name
shed been called ever since she was a child. She needed to change everything, absolutely
everything. She had her answer ready.

My professional name is Jasmine Tigera combination of sweet- ness and danger.

The woman seemed to like the name.

A career in modeling isnt an easy one, and youre lucky to have been picked out to take the
first step. Obviously, there are a lot of things to sort out, but were here to help you
get to where you want to be. We take photos of you and send them to the appropriate
agencies. Youll also need a composite.

She waited for Cristina to ask: Whats a composite? But no ques- tion came. Again the woman
was temporarily thrown.

A composite, as Im sure you know, is a sheet of paper with, on the one side, your best
photo and your measurements, and, on the other, more photos in different poses, for
example, in a bikini, dressed as a student, perhaps one of just your face, another that
shows you wearing more makeup, so that they wont necessarily exclude you if they want
someone older. Your bust . . .

Another pause.

. . . your bust is perhaps a little large for a model. She turned to the photographer. We
need to disguise that. Make a note. The photographer duly made a note. Cristinawho was
rapidly becoming Jasmine Tigerwas thinking: But when they meet me, theyll see Ive got a bigger
bust than they were expecting!

The woman picked up a handsome leather briefcase and took out a list.

Well need to call a makeup artist and a hairdresser. You havent any experience on a
catwalk, have you?

None.

Well, you dont stride down a catwalk as if you were walking down the street. If you did,
youd stumble because youd be moving too fast or else trip over your high heels. You have
to place one foot in front of the other, like a cat. You mustnt smile too much either.
Even more important is posture.

She ticked off three things on the list. And youll have to hire some clothes. Another
tick. And I think thats all for now.

She again put her hand inside the elegant briefcase and took out a calculator. She went
down the list, tapped in a few numbers, then added them up. No one else in the room dared
utter a word.

That will be around two thousand euros, I think. We wont in- clude the photos because
Yassershe turned to the photographer is very expensive, but hes prepared to do the work
for free, as long as you give him permission to use the material. We can have the makeup
artist and the hairdresser here tomorrow morning and Ill get in touch with the people who
run the course to see if theres a vacancy. Im sure there will be, just as Im sure that by
investing in yourself, youre creat- ing new possibilities for your future and will soon
recover any initial expenses.

Are you saying I have to pay? Again the events coordinator seemed taken aback. Usually, the girls who came to see her were so mad keen to realize the dream of a whole generationbeing
considered one of the sexiest women in the worldthat they never asked indelicate questions
like that.

Listen, Cristina . . .

Jasmine. The moment I walked through that door, I became Jas- mine.

The photographers mobile phone rang. He took it out of his pocket and moved away to the
far end of the room, which had, until then, been in darkness. When he drew one of the
curtains, Jasmine saw a wall draped with a black cloth, tripods mounted with flashes,
boxes with blinking lights, and several spotlights suspended from the ceiling.

Listen, Jasmine, there are thousands and millions of people who would like to be in your
position. You were chosen by one of Antwerps finest photographers, youll have the help of
the best professionals, and I will personally manage your career. On the other hand, as
with ev- erything else in life, you have to believe that youre going to succeed and, for
that to happen, you need to invest money. I know youre beau- tiful enough to enjoy great
success as a model, but that isnt enough in this highly competitive world. You have to be
the best, and that costs money, at least to begin with.

But if you think I have all those qualities, why dont you invest your money in me?

I will later on. At the moment, we need to know just how com- mitted you are. I want to be
sure that you really do want to be a pro- fessional model or if youre just another young
woman excited by the possibility of traveling, seeing the world, and finding a rich
husband.

The womans tone of voice had grown severe. The photographer returned from the studio end
of the room.

Its the makeup artist. She wants to know what time she should arrive tomorrow.

If the moneys essential, I can probably . . . Jasmines mother began to say, but Jasmine
had got up and was walking over to the door, without shaking hands with either the woman
or the photographer.

Thank you very much, but I dont have that kind of money, and even if I did, I would spend
it on something else.

But its your future! Precisely. Its my future, not yours.

Jasmine burst into tears afterward.
First,shehadgone to that expensive boutique where theyd not only been rude to her, but
implied that she was lying when she said shed met the owner. Then, just when she thought
she was about to start a new life and had discov- ered the perfect new name for herself,
she learned that it would cost her two thousand euros just to take the first step!

Mother and daughter made their way home in silence. Jasmines mobile rang several times,
but she just glanced at the number and put the phone back in her pocket.

Why dont you answer it? Weve got another appointment this af- ternoon, havent we?

Because we dont have two thousand euros.

Her mother grasped Jasmines shoulders. She knew what a fragile state her daughter was in
and had to do something.

Yes, we do. Ive worked every day since your father died, and we do have two thousand
euros. We have more than that if you need it. Cleaners earn good money here in Europe
because no one here wants to clean up other peoples messes. Besides, were talking about
your future. We cant go home now.

The phone rang again. Jasmine became Cristina again and did as her mother asked. The woman
she had the appointment with that afternoon was ringing to apologize and explain that
another commitment meant that she would be a couple of hours late for their meeting.

Thats all right, said Cristina. But before you waste any more time, Id like to know how
much its going to cost me.

How much its going to cost? Yes. Ive just had a meeting with another photographer and he and his colleague were going to charge me two thousand euros for the photos, the makeup .
. .

The woman at the other end laughed.

No, it wont cost you anything. Thats an old trick. We can talk about it when we meet.

Her studio was similar to
the one theyd visited that morn- ing, but the conversation they had was completely
different. She asked Cristina why she looked so much sadder than when theyd first met; she
clearly still remembered their initial encounter. Cristina told her what had happened with
the other photographer, and the woman explained that it was common practice and one that
the authori- ties were trying to clamp down on. At that very moment, in many places around
the world, relatively pretty girls were being invited to reveal the full potential of
their beauty and paying through the nose for the privilege. On the pretext of looking for
new talent, agen- cies would rent rooms in luxury hotels, fill them with photographic
equipment, promise the would-be models at least one fashion show a year or their money
back, charge a fortune for any photos they took, call in failed professionals to act as
makeup artists and hairdress- ers, suggest enrollment in particular modeling schools, and
then, quite often, disappear without a trace. The studio Cristina had visited was, in
fact, a genuine one, but shed been quite right to reject their offer.

Theyre appealing to peoples vanity, and theres nothing neces- sarily wrong in that, as
long as the person involved knows what theyre getting into. Its not something that only
happens in the world of fash- ion either, it goes on in other areas too: writers
publishing their own books, painters sponsoring their own exhibitions, film directors who
go into debt in order to buy their place in the sun with one of the big studios, girls
your age who leave home and go to the big city to work as waitresses, hoping to be
discovered one day by a producer wholl propel them to stardom.

No, they wouldnt take any photos now. She needed to get to know Cristina better; pressing
the camera button was the last stage in a long process that began with uncovering your
subjects soul. They arranged to meet the following day to talk more.

You need to choose a name. Its Jasmine Tiger. Yes, her love of life had returned.

The photographer invited her to
spend the weekend at her beach house near the Dutch border, and they spent eight hours a
day experimenting with the camera.

She expected Jasmine to reveal on her face a whole range of emo- tions suggested by words
such as fire, seduction, water. Jasmine had to try and show both sides of her soul, good
and bad. She had to look down, straight ahead, to the side, to stare off into space. She
had to imagine seagulls and demons. She had to imagine shed been at- tacked by a group of
older men and left in the restroom in a bar, having been raped by one or more of them; she
had to be sinner and saint, perverse and innocent.

Some photos were taken out in the open, and even though her body was freezing, she was
able to react to each stimulus, to obey each sug- gestion. They also used a small studio
set up in one of the rooms so that the photographer could play around with different types
of music and lighting. Jasmine would do her own makeup, while the photographer did her
hair.

Am I any good? Jasmine would ask. Why are you spending so much time on me?

But all the photographer would say was: Well talk about that later, and then spend the
rest of the evening looking at the work theyd done that day, thinking and making notes,
but never commenting on whether she was pleased or disappointed with the results.