Javits glances around. There’s a man in dark glasses drinking a fruit juice. He
seems oblivious to his surroundings and is staring out to sea as if he were
somewhere far from there. He’s smartly dressed and good-looking, with greying
hair. He was one of the first to arrive and must know who Javits is, and yet
he’s made no effort to come and introduce himself. It was brave of him to sit
there alone like that. Being alone in Cannes is anathema; it means that no one
is interested in you, that you’re unimportant or don’t know anyone.

He envies that man, who probably doesn’t fit the list of `normal’ behaviour he
always keeps in his pocket. He seems so independent and free; if Javits weren’t
feeling so tired, he would really like to talk to him.

He turns to one of his `friends’.

`What does being normal mean?’

`Is your conscience troubling you? Have you done something you shouldn’t have?’

Javits has clearly asked the wrong question of the wrong man. His companion will
perhaps assume that he’s regretting what he’s made of his life and that he wants
to start anew, but that isn’t it at all. And if he does have regrets, it’s too
late to begin again; he knows the rules of the game.

`I asked you what being normal means?’

One of the `friends’ looks bewildered. The other keeps surveying the tent,
watching people come and go.

`Living like someone who lacks all ambition,’ the first `friend’ says at last.

The `friend’ laughs.

`You should make a film on the subject,’ he says.

`Not again,’ Javits thinks. `They have no idea. They’re with me all the time,
but they still don’t understand what I do. I don’t make films.’

All films start out in the mind of a so-called producer. He’s read a book, say,
or had a brilliant idea while driving along the freeways of Los Angeles (which
is really a large suburb in search of a city). Unfortunately, he’s alone, both
in the car and in his desire to transform that brilliant idea into something
that can be seen on the screen.

He finds out if the film rights to the book are still available. If the response
is negative, he goes in search of another product — after all, more than 60,000
books are published each year in the United States alone. If the response is
positive, he phones the author and makes the lowest possible offer, which is
usually accepted because it’s not only actors and actresses who like to be
associated with the dream machine. Every author feels more important when his or
her words are transformed into images.

They arrange to have lunch. The producer says that the book is `a work of art
and highly cinematographic’ and that the writer is `a genius deserving of
recognition’. The writer explains that he spent five years working on the book
and asks to be allowed to help in the writing of the script. `No, really, you
shouldn’t do that, it’s an entirely different medium,’ comes the reply, `but I
know you’ll love the result.’ Then he adds: `The film will be totally true to
the book,’ which, as both of them know, is a complete and utter lie.

The writer decides that he should agree to the conditions, promising himself
that next time will be different. He accepts. The producer now says that they
have to interest one of the big studios because they need financial backing for
the project. He names a few stars he claims to have lined up for the lead roles
— which is another complete and utter lie, but one that is always wheeled out
and always works as a seduction technique. He buys what is known as an `option’,
that is, he pays around $10,000 dollars to retain the rights for three years.
And then what happens? `Then we’ll pay ten times that amount and you’ll have a
right to 2% of the net profits.’ That’s the financial part of the conversation
over with, because the writer is convinced he’ll earn a fortune from his slice
of the profits.

If he were to ask around, he’d soon find out that the Hollywood accountants
somehow manage it so that no film ever makes a profit.

Lunch ends with the producer handing the writer a huge contract and asking if he
could possibly sign it now, so that the studio will know that the product is
definitely theirs. With his eyes fixed on that (non-existent) percentage and on
the possibility of seeing his name in lights (which won’t happen either, at most
there’ll be a line in the credits, saying: `based on the book by…’), the writer
signs the contract without giving the matter much thought.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as
Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.

The producer starts knocking on the doors of various studios. He’s known in the
industry already, and so some of those doors open, but his proposal is not
always accepted. In that case, he doesn’t even bother to ring up the author and
invite him to lunch again, he just writes him a letter saying that, despite his
enthusiasm for the project, the movie industry isn’t yet ready for that kind of
story and he’s returning the contract (which he, of course, did not sign).

If the proposal is accepted, the producer then goes to the lowest and least
well-paid person in the hierarchy: the screen writer, the person who will spend
days, weeks and months writing and re-writing the original idea or the screen
adaptation. The scripts are sent to the producer (but never to the author), who,
out of habit, automatically rejects the first draft, knowing that the screen
writer can always do better. More weeks and months of coffee and insomnia for
the bright young talent (or old hack — there are no halfway houses) who rewrites
each scene, which are then rejected or reshaped by the producer (and the screen
writer thinks: `If he can write so damn well, why doesn’t he write the whole
thing?’ Then he remembers his salary and goes quietly back to his computer.)

Finally, the script is almost ready. At this point, the producer draws up a list
of demands: the removal of any political references that might upset a more
conservative audience; more kissing, because women like that kind of thing; a
story with a beginning, middle and an end, and a hero who moves everyone to
tears with his self-sacrifice and devotion; and one character who loses a loved
one at the start of the film and finds him or her again at the end. In fact,
most film scripts can be summed up very briefly as: Man loves woman. Man loses
woman. Man gets woman back. Ninety per cent of all films are variations on that
same theme.

Films that break this rule have to be very violent to make up for it, or have
loads of crowd-pleasing special effects. And since this tried and tested formula
is a sure-fire winner, why take any unnecessary risks?

Armed with what he considers to be a well-written story, who does the producer
seek out next? The studio who financed the project. The studio, however, has a
long line of films to place in the ever-diminishing number of cinemas around the
world. They ask him to wait a little or to find an independent distributor,
first making sure that the producer signs another gigantic contract (which even
takes into account exclusive rights `outside of Planet Earth’), taking full
responsibility for all money spent.

`And that’s where people like me come in!’ The independent distributor can walk
down the street without being recognised, although at media-fests like this
everyone knows who he is. He’s the person who didn’t come up with the idea,
didn’t work on the script and didn’t invest a cent.

Javits is the intermediary – the distributor!

He receives the producer in a tiny office (the big plane, the house with the
swimming pool, the invitations to parties all over the world are purely for his
enjoyment — the producer doesn’t even merit a mineral water). He takes the DVD
home with him. He watches the first five minutes. If he likes it, he watches to
the end, but this only happens with one out of every hundred new films he’s
given. Then he spends ten cents on a phone call and tells the producer to come
back on a certain date and at a certain time.

`We’ll sign,’ he says, as if he were doing the producer a big favour. `I’ll
distribute the film.’

The producer tries to negotiate. He wants to know how many cinemas in how many
countries and under what conditions. These, however, are pointless questions
because he knows what the distributor will say: `That depends on the reactions
we get at the pre-launch screenings.’ The product is shown to selected audiences
from all social classes, people specially chosen by market research companies.
The results are analysed by professionals. If the results are positive, another
ten cents gets spent on a phone call, and, the following day, Javits hands the
producer three copies of yet another vast contract. The producer asks to be
given time for his lawyer to read it. Javits says he has nothing against him
doing that, but he needs to finalise that season’s programme now and can’t
guarantee that by the time the producer gets back to him he won’t have selected
another film.

The producer reads only the clause that tells him how much he’s going to earn.
He’s pleased with what he sees and so he signs. He doesn’t want to miss this
opportunity.

Years have passed since he sat down with the writer to discuss making a film of
his book and he’s quite forgotten that he is now in exactly the same situation.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as
Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.

—

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—

Now you had a chance to read the first 1/11 of “The Winner stands alone” and we
stop here the publication of the first pages.
The book, already released in Brazil and Portugal, will start being published on
March 19, in UK, followed by US, France, Greece, Bulgaria, Australia, Holland.
In nearly all the other countries, it will be published from June to December
2009.

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/category/the-winner-stands-alone

He realises he should not have asked that question. Firstly, because he doesn’t need anyone’s support to justify what he’s doing; he’s convinced that since everyone will die one day, some must do so in the name of something greater. That’s how it’s been since the beginning of time, when men sacrificed themselves in order to feed their tribe, when virgins were handed over to the priests to placate the wrath of dragons and gods. The second reason is because he has now drawn attention to himself and indicated an interest in the man on the next table.

The waiter’s sure to forget, but there’s no need to take unnecessary risks. He tells himself that at a Festival such as this, it’s only normal that people should want to know about other people, and even more normal that such information should be rewarded. He himself has done the same thing hundreds of times in restaurants all over the world, and others had doubtless done the same with him. Waiters aren’t just accustomed to being given money to supply a name or a better table or to send a discreet message, they almost expect it.

No, the waiter wouldn’t remember anything. Igor knows that his next victim is there before him. If he succeeds, and if the waiter is questioned, he’ll say that the only odd thing to happen that day was a man asking him if he thought it was acceptable to destroy a universe in the name of a greater love. He might not even remember that much. The police will ask: ‘What did he look like?’ and the waiter will reply: ‘I didn’t pay much attention, to be honest, but I know he said he wasn’t gay.’ The police – accustomed to the kind of French intellectual who sits in bars and comes up with weird theories and complicated analyses of, for example, the sociology of film festivals – would quietly let the matter drop.

Something else was bothering Igor though.

The name or names.

He had killed before – with weapons and the blessing of his country. He didn’t know how many people he had killed, but he had rarely seen their faces and certainly never asked their names. Knowing someone’s name meant knowing that the other person was a human being and not ‘the enemy’. Knowing someone’s name transformed them into a unique and special individual, with a past and a future, with ancestors and possibly descendants, a person who has known triumphs and failures. People are their names; they’re proud of them; they repeat them thousands of times in their lifetime and identify with them. It’s the first word they learn after ‘Daddy’ and ‘Mummy’.

Olivia. Javits. Igor. Ewa.

Someone’s spirit, however, has no name, it is pure truth and inhabits a particular body for a certain period of time, and will, one day, leave it, and God won’t bother asking ‘What’s your name?’ when the soul arrives at the final judgement. God will ask only: ‘Did you love while you were alive?’ For that is the essence of life: the ability to love, not the name we carry around on our passport, business card and identity card. The great mystics changed their names, and sometimes abandoned them altogether. When John the Baptist was asked who he was, he said only: ‘I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness.’ When Jesus found the man on whom he would build his church, he ignored the fact that the man in question had spent his entire life answering to the name of Simon and called him Peter. When Moses asked God his name, back came the reply: ‘I am who I am.’

Perhaps he should look for another victim, one named victim was enough: Olivia. At this precise moment, however, he feels that he cannot turn back, but he decides that he will not ask the name of the next world he destroys. He can’t turn back because he wants to do justice to the poor, vulnerable girl on the bench by the beach – such a sweet, easy victim. This new challenge — this sweaty, pseudo-athletic, henna-haired man with the bored expression and who is clearly someone very powerful — is much more difficult. The two men in suits are not just assistants; he notices that every now and then, they look around the tent, watching everything that’s going on nearby. If he is to be worthy of Ewa and fair to Olivia, he must be brave.

He leaves the straw in the pineapple juice. People are beginning to arrive. He has to wait for the place to fill up, but not too long. He hadn’t planned to destroy a world in broad daylight, in the middle of the Boulevard in Cannes, and he doesn’t know exactly how to carry out this next project. Something tells him, though, that he has chosen the perfect place.

His thoughts are no longer with the poor young woman at the beach; adrenaline is filling his blood, his heart is beating faster, he’s excited and happy.

Javits Wild wouldn’t be wasting his time here just to get a free meal at one of the thousands of parties to which he must be invited every year. He must be here for some specific reason or to meet a particular person. That reason or person would doubtless be Igor’s best alibi.

12.26 p.m.

Javits watches the other guests arriving. The place is getting crowded, and he thinks what he always thinks:

‘What am I doing here? I don’t need this. In fact, I need very little from anyone – I have all I want. I’m a big name in the movie world, I can have any woman I desire, even though I dress badly. In fact, I make a point of being badly dressed. Long gone are the days when I had only one suit, and, on the rare occasions when I received an invitation from the Superclass (after much crawling, begging and making promises), I would prepare myself for a lunch like this as if it were the most important occasion of my life. Now I know that the only thing that changes are the cities these lunches are held in; otherwise, it’s all utterly boring and predictable.

‘People will come up to me and tell me they adore my work. Others will call me a hero and thank me for giving movie mavericks a chance. Pretty, intelligent women, who are not taken in by appearances, will notice the people gathering round my table and ask the waiter who I am and immediately find some way of approaching me, certain that the only thing I’m interested in is sex. Every single one of them has some favour to ask of me. That’s why they praise and flatter me and offer me what they think I need. But all I want is to be left alone.

‘I’ve been to thousands of parties like this, and I’m not here in this marquee for any particular reason, except that I can’t sleep, even though I flew to France in my private jet, a technological marvel capable of flying at an altitude of over 36,000 feet from California all the way to Cannes without having to make a refuelling stop. I changed the original configuration of the cabin. It can comfortably carry eighteen passengers, but I reduced the number of seats to six and kept the cabin separate for the four crew members. Someone’s always sure to ask: “May I come with you?” And now I have the perfect excuse: “Sorry, there’s no room.”‘

Javits had equipped his new toy, which cost around 40 million dollars, with two beds, a conference table, a shower, a Miranda sound system (Bang & Olufsen had an excellent design and a good PR campaign, but they were now a thing of the past), two coffee machines, a microwave oven for the crew and an electric oven for him (because he’s hates re-heated food). Javits only drinks champagne, and whoever wishes to was more than welcome to share a bottle of Moët & Chandon 1961 with him. However, the ‘cellar’ on the plane had every drink any guest might conceivably want. And then there were the two 21-inch LCD screens ready to show the most recent films, even those that hadn’t yet made it into the cinemas.

The jet was one of the most advanced in the world (although the French insisted that the Dassault Falcon was even better), but regardless of how much money he had, he couldn’t change the clocks in Europe. It was now 3:43 a.m. in Los Angeles, and he was just beginning to feel really tired. He had been awake all night, going from one party to the next, answering the same two idiotic questions that began every conversation:

‘How was your flight?’

To which Javits always responded with a question:

‘Why?’

People didn’t know quite what to say and so they smiled awkwardly and moved on to the next question on the list:

‘Are you staying here long?’

And Javits would again ask: ‘Why?’ Then he would pretend he had to answer his mobile phone, make his excuses and move on with his two inseparable besuited friends in tow.

He met no one interesting. But then who would a man who has almost everything money can buy find interesting? He had tried to change his friends and meet people who had nothing to do with the world of cinema: philosophers, writers, jugglers, executives of food-manufacturing companies. At first, it all went swimmingly, until the inevitable question: ‘Would you like to read a script I’ve written?’ Or the second most inevitable question: ‘I have a friend who has always wanted to be an actor/actress. Would you mind meeting him/her?’

Yes, he would. He had other things to do in life apart from work. He used to fly once a month to Alaska, go into the first bar, get drunk, eat pizza, wander about in the wild, and talk to the people who lived in the small towns up there. He worked out for two hours a day at his private gym, but the doctors had warned him he could still end up with heart problems. He didn’t care that much about being physically fit, what he really wanted was to off-load a little of the constant tension that seemed to weigh on him every second of the day, to do some meditation and heal the wounds to his soul. When he was in the country, he always asked the people he chanced to meet what ‘normal life’ was like, because he had forgotten. The answers varied, and he gradually came to realise that, even when he was surrounded by other people, he was absolutely alone in the world.

The 12th Chapter will be posted on Friday 6th of March

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Even if he’d had his swimming things with him, he would have found it difficult to get anywhere near the sea shore. The big hotels had, it seems, acquired the rights to great swathes of beach which they had filled with their chairs, logos, waiters and bodyguards, who, at every entry point, demanded the guest’s room key or some other form of identification. Other areas were occupied by huge white marquees, where some production company, brewery or cosmetics firm was launching its latest product at a so-called ‘lunch’. People here were dressed normally, if by ‘normal’ you mean a baseball cap, bright shirt and light-coloured trousers for men, and jewellery, loose top, bermudas and low-heeled shoes for women.

Dark glasses were de rigueur for both sexes, and there was little bare flesh on show because members of the Superclass were too old for that now, and any such display would be considered ridiculous or, rather, pathetic.

Igor noticed one other thing: the mobile phone. The most important item of clothing.

It was essential to be receiving a constant stream of messages or calls, to be prepared to interrupt any conversation in order to answer a call that was not in the least urgent, to stand keying in endless texts via an SMS. They had all forgotten that these initials mean Short Message Service and instead used the key pad as if it were a typewriter. It was slow, awkward and could cause serious damage to the thumb, but what did it matter? At that very moment, not only in Cannes, but in the whole world, the ether was being filled with messages like ‘Good morning, my love, I woke up thinking about you and I’m so glad to have you in my life’, ‘I’ll be home in ten minutes, please have my lunch ready and check that my clothes were sent to the laundry’, or ‘The party here is a real drag, but I haven’t got anywhere else to go, where are you?’ Things that take five minutes to be written down and only ten seconds to be spoken, but that’s the way the world is. Igor knows all about this because he has earned hundreds of millions of dollars thanks to the fact that the phone is no longer simply a method of communicating with others, but a thread of hope, a way of believing that you’re not alone, a way of showing others how important you are.

And it was leading the world into a state of utter madness. For a mere 5 euros a month, via an ingenious system created in London, a call centre would send you a standard message every three minutes. When you know you’re going to be talking to someone you want to impress, you just have to dial a particular number to activate the system. The phone rings, you pick it up, open the message, read it quickly and say ‘Oh, that can wait’ (of course it can: it was written to order). This way, the person you’re talking to feels important, and things move along more quickly because he realises he’s in the presence of a very busy person. Three minutes later, the conversation is interrupted by another message, the pressure mounts, and the user of the service can decide whether it’s worth turning off his phone for a quarter of an hour or lying and saying that he really must take this call, and so rid himself of a disagreeable companion.

There is only one situation in which all mobile phones must be turned off. Not at formal suppers, in the middle of a play, during the key moment in a film or while an opera singer is attempting the most difficult of arias; we’ve all heard someone’s mobile phone go off in such circumstances. No, the only time when people are genuinely concerned that their phone might prove dangerous is when they get on a plane and hear the usual lie: ‘All mobile phones must be switched off during the flight because they might interfere with the on-board systems.’ We all believe this and do as the flight attendants ask.

Igor knew when this myth had been created: for years now, airlines had been doing their best to convince passengers to use the phones attached to their seat. These cost ten dollars a minute and use the same transmission system as mobile phones. The strategy didn’t work, but the myth lingered on; they had simply forgotten to remove the warning from the list of dos and don’ts that the flight attendant has to read out before take-off. What no one knew was that on every flight, there were always at least two or three passengers who forgot to turn their phones off, and besides, laptops access the Internet using exactly the same system as mobiles. And no plane anywhere in the world has yet fallen out of the sky because of that.

Now they were trying to modify the warning without alarming the passengers too much and without dropping the price. You could use your mobile phone as long as it was one you could put into flight mode. Such phones cost four times as much. No one has ever explained what ‘flight mode’ is, but if people choose to be taken in like this, that’s their problem.

He keeps walking. He’s troubled by the last look the girl had given him before she died, but prefers not to think about it.

More bodyguards, more dark glasses, more bikinis on the beach, more light-coloured clothes and jewellery attending ‘lunches’, more people hurrying along as if they had something very important to do that morning, more photographers on every corner attempting the impossible task of snapping something unusual, more magazines and free newspapers about what’s happening at the Festival, more people handing out flyers to the poor mortals who haven’t been invited to lunch in one of the white marquees, flyers advertising restaurants on the top of the hill, far from everything, where little is heard of what goes on in Boulevard de la Croisette, up there where models rent apartments for the duration of the Festival, hoping they’ll be summoned to an audition that will change their lives for ever.

All so unsurprising. All so predictable. If he were to go into one of those marquees now, no one would dare ask for his identification because it’s still early and the promoters will be afraid that no one will come. In half an hour’s time, though, depending on how things go, the security guards will be given express orders to let in only pretty, unaccompanied girls.

Why not try it out?

He follows his impulse; after all, he’s on a mission. He goes down some steps, which lead not to the beach, but to a large white marquee with plastic windows, air-conditioning and white chairs and tables, largely empty. One of the security guards asks if he has an invitation, and he says that he does. He pretends to search his pockets. A receptionist dressed in red asks if she can help.

He offers her his business card, bearing the logo of his phone company and his name, Igor Vassilovich, President. He’s sure his name is on the list, he says, but he must have left his invitation at the hotel; he’s been at a series of meetings and forgot to bring it with him. The receptionist welcomes him and invites him in; she has learned to judge men and women by the way they dress, and ‘President’ means the same thing worldwide. Besides, he’s the President of a Russian company! And everyone knows how rich Russians like to show off their wealth. There was no need to check the list.

Igor enters, heads straight for the bar – it’s a very well equipped marquee; there’s even a dance floor — and orders a pineapple juice because it suits the atmosphere and, more importantly, because the drink, decorated with a tiny, blue Japanese umbrella, comes complete with a black straw.

He sits down at one of the many empty tables. Among the few people present is a man in his fifties, with hennaed mahogany brown hair, fake tan and a body honed in one of those gyms that promise eternal youth. He’s wearing a torn T-shirt and is sitting with two other men, who are both dressed in impeccable designer suits. The two men turn to face Igor, and he immediately turns his head slightly, but continues to study them from behind his dark glasses. The men in suits try to work out who this new arrival is, then lose interest.

Igor’s interest, however, increases.

The man does not even have a mobile phone on the table, although his two assistants are constantly fielding calls.

Given that this badly dressed, arrogant fellow has been let into the marquee; given that he has his mobile phone turned off; given that the waiter keeps coming up to him and asking if he wants anything; given that he doesn’t even deign to respond, but merely waves him away, he is obviously someone very important.

Igor takes a fifty-euro note out of his pocket and gives it to the waiter who has just started laying the table.

‘Who’s the gentleman in the faded blue T-shirt?’ he asks, glancing in the direction of the other table.

‘Javits Wild. He’s a very important man.’

Excellent. After someone as insignificant as the girl at the beach, a figure like Javits Wild would be ideal – not famous, but important. One of the people who decides who should be in the spotlight and who feels no need to take much care over his own appearance because he knows exactly who he is. He’s in charge of pulling the strings, and the puppets feel themselves to be the most privileged and envied people on the planet, until one day, for whatever reason, the puppeteer decides to cut the strings, and the puppets fall down, lifeless and powerless.

He’s clearly a member of the Superclass, which means that he has false friends and many enemies.

‘One other question. Would it be acceptable to destroy a universe in the name of a greater love?’

The waiter laughs.

‘Are you God or just gay?’

‘Neither, but thank you for your answer.’

The 11th Chapter will be posted on Tuesday 3rd of March

Welcome to Share with Friends – Free Texts for a Free Internet

Release dates: March 19: UK
April: France, Greece, Holland, Russia, USA
May: Australia, Iran, South Africa

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/the-winner-stands-alone

Her mobile phone rang.

…none at all.

It continued to ring.

She was still travelling back in time as she gazed out at the tobacconist’s and at the little girl eating chocolate, then she finally emerged from her reverie, realised what was happening and answered the phone.

A voice at the other end was saying that she had an audition in two hours’ time.

She had an audition!

In Cannes!

So it had been worth crossing the ocean, arriving in a city where all the hotels were full, meeting up at the airport with other young women in exactly the same position as her (a Pole, two Russians and a Brazilian), and going round knocking on doors until they found that shared, exorbitantly priced apartment. After all those years of trying her luck in Chicago and travelling now and then to Los Angeles in search of more agents, more adverts, more rejections, it turned out that her future lies in Europe!

In two hours’ time?

She couldn’t catch a bus because she didn’t know the routes. She was staying high up on a steep hill and had only been down it twice so far — to distribute copies of her book and to go to that stupid party last night. On both occasions, when she reached the bottom of hill, she had hitched a lift from complete strangers, usually single men in magnificent convertibles. Everyone knew Cannes to be a safe place, and all women know that good looks help when trying to get a ride, but she couldn’t leave anything to chance this time, she would have to resolve the problem herself. Auditions follow a rigorous timetable, that was one of the first things you learn at any acting agency. She had noticed on her first day in Cannes that the traffic was almost permanently gridlocked, and so all she could do was get dressed and leave at once. She would be there in an hour and a half; she remembered the hotel where the producer was staying because it was on the ‘pilgrimage route’ she had followed yesterday, in search of some opportunity, some opening.

Now the problem was what to wear.

She fell upon the suitcase she had brought with her, chose some Armani jeans made in China and bought on the black market in Chicago for a fifth of the real price. No one could say they were fake because they weren’t: everyone knew that the Chinese manufacturers sent 80 per cent of what they produced to the original stores, with the remaining 20 per cent being sold off by employees on the side. It was, shall we say, excess stock, surplus to requirements.

She was wearing a white DKNY T-shirt, which had cost more than the jeans. Faithful to her principles, she knew that the more discreet the clothes, the better. No short skirts, no plunging necklines, because if other women had been invited to the audition, that is what they would be wearing.

She wasn’t sure about her make-up. In the end, she opted for a very light foundation and an even lighter application of lip liner. She had already lost a precious fifteen minutes.
11.45 a.m.

People are never satisfied. If they have a little, they want more. If they have a lot, they want still more. Once they have more, they wish they could be happy with little, but are incapable of making the slightest effort in that direction.

Is it just that they don’t understand how simple happiness is? What can she want, that girl in the jeans and white T-shirt who just came running past? What could be so urgent that it stopped her taking time to contemplate the lovely sunny day, the blue sea, the babies in their prams, the palms fringing the beach?

‘Don’t run, child! You’ll never escape the two most important presences in the life of any human being: God and death. God accompanies your every step and will be annoyed because he can see that you’re not paying attention to the miracle of life. Or indeed death. You just ran past a corpse and didn’t even notice.’

Igor has walked past the scene of the crime several times now. At one point, he realised that his comings and goings might arouse suspicion and so decided to remain a prudent two hundred yards from the scene, leaning on the balustrade that looked out over the beach. He’s wearing dark glasses, but there’s nothing suspicious about that, not only because it’s a sunny day, but because in a celebrity town like Cannes, dark glasses are synonymous with status.

He’s surprised to see that it’s almost midday, and yet no one has realised that there’s a person lying dead on the main street of a city which, at this time of year, is the focus of the world’s attention.

A couple are approaching the bench now, visibly irritated. They start shouting at the Sleeping Beauty; they’re the girl’s parents, angry because she isn’t working. The man shakes her almost violently. Then the woman bends over, obscuring Igor’s field of vision.

Igor knows what will happen next.

The mother screams. The father takes his mobile phone from his pocket and moves away, clearly agitated. The mother is shaking her daughter’s unresponsive body. Passers-by stop, and now he can remove his dark glasses and join them as one more curious on-looker.

The mother is crying, clinging to her daughter. A young man gently pushes her away and attempts mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but soon gives up; Olivia’s face already has a slight purple tinge to it.

‘Someone call an ambulance!’

Several people dial the same number, all of them feeling useful, important, caring. He can already hear the sound of the siren in the distance. The mother’s screams are growing louder. A young woman tries to put a comforting arm around her, but the mother pushes her away. Someone attempts to sit the body up, and someone else tells them to lay her down again because it’s too late to do anything.

‘It’s probably a drug overdose,’ the person next to him says. ‘Young people today are a lost cause.’

Those who hear the comment nod sagely. Igor remains impassive while he watches the paramedics unload their equipment from the ambulance, apply electric shocks to Olivia’s heart, while a more experienced doctor stands by, not saying a word, because although he knows there’s nothing to be done, he doesn’t want his colleagues to be accused of negligence. They place Olivia’s body on the stretcher and put it in the ambulance, the mother still clinging to her daughter. After a brief discussion, they allow the mother to get in too, and the ambulance speeds away.

No more than five minutes have passed between the couple discovering the body and the ambulance leaving. The father is still standing there, stunned, not knowing where to go or what to do. Forgetting who he’s speaking to, the same person who made the comment about a drug overdose, goes over to the father and gives him his version of the facts:

‘Don’t worry sir. This kind of thing happens every day around here.’

The father does not respond. He’s stilling holding his mobile phone and staring into space. He either doesn’t understand the remark or has no idea what it is that happens every day, or else he’s in a state of shock that has sent him immediately into some unknown dimension where pain does not exist.

The crowd disperses as quickly as it appeared. Only two people remain: the father still clutching his phone and the man who has now taken off his dark glasses and is holding them in his hand.

‘Did you know the girl?’ Igor asks.

There is no reply.

It’s best to do as everyone else has done, keep walking along the Boulevard de la Croisette and see what else is happening on this sunny morning in Cannes. Like the girl’s father, he doesn’t know quite what he is feeling: he has destroyed a world he will never be able to rebuild, even if he had all the power in the world. Did Ewa deserve that? From the womb of that young woman, Olivia – the fact that he knows her name troubles him greatly because that means she’s no longer just a face in the crowd — might have sprung a genius who would have gone on to discover a cure for cancer or drafted an agreement that would ensure that the world could finally live in peace. He has destroyed not just one person, but all the future generations that might have sprung from her. What has he done? Was love, however great and however intense, sufficient justification for that?

He had chosen the wrong person as his first victim. Her death will never make the news and Ewa won’t understand the message.

Don’t think about it, it’s done now. You have prepared yourself to go much further than this, so carry on. The girl will understand that her death was not in vain, but was a sacrifice in the name of a greater love. Look around you, see what’s happening in the city, behave like a normal citizen. You’ve already had your fair share of suffering in this life; now you deserve a little peace and comfort.

Enjoy the Festival. This is what you have been preparing yourself for.

The 10th Chapter will be posted on Friday 27th of February

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He takes a few steps and his head begins to ache terribly. This is perfectly normal: the blood is flooding the brain, an understandable reaction in someone who has just been under extreme tension.

Despite the headache, he feels happy. Yes, he has done what he set out to do.
He can do it. And he’s happier still because he has freed the soul from that fragile body, freed a spirit incapable of defending herself against a bullying coward. If her relationship with her boyfriend had continued, the girl would have ended up depressed and anxious and devoid of all self-respect, and would have been even more under her boyfriend’s thumb.

This had never been the case with Ewa. She had always been capable of making her own decisions. He had given her both moral and financial support when she decided to open her haute-couture boutique; and she had been free to travel as much as she wanted. He had been an exemplary man and husband. And yet, she had made a mistake: she had been unable to understand his love or his forgiveness. He hoped, however, that she would receive these messages; after all, he had told her on the day she left that he would destroy whole worlds to get her back.

He picks up the throwaway mobile phone he has just bought and on which he has entered the smallest possible amount of credit. He sends a text message.

11.00 a.m.

It all began, they say, with an unknown 19-year-old posing in a bikini for photographers who had nothing better to do during the 1953 Cannes Festival. She immediately shot to stardom, and her name became legendary: Brigitte Bardot. And now everyone thinks they can do the same. No one understands the importance of being an actress; beauty is the only thing that counts.

That’s why women with long legs and dyed hair, the bottle blondes of this world, travel hundreds or even thousands of miles to be in Cannes, even if only to spend the whole day on the beach, hoping to be seen, photographed, discovered. They want to escape from the trap that awaits all women: becoming a housewife, who makes supper for her husband every evening, takes the children to school every day, and tries to dig up some dirt on her neighbours’ monotonous lives so as to have something to gossip about with her friends. What these women want is fame, glory and glamour, to be the envy of the other people who live in their town and of the boys and girls who always thought of them as ugly ducklings, unaware that they would one day grow up to be a swan or blossom into a flower coveted by everyone. They want a career in the world of dreams even if they have to borrow money to get silicone breast implants or to buy some newer, sexier outfits. Drama school? Forget it, good looks and the right contacts are all you need. The cinema can work miracles, always assuming, of course, you can ever break into that world. Anything to escape from the prison of the provincial city and the long, dreary, repetitive days. There are millions of people who don’t mind that kind of life, and they should be left to live their lives as they see fit. However, if you come to the Festival you must leave fear at home and be prepared for anything: making spur-of-the-moment decisions, telling lies if necessary, pretending to be younger than you are, smiling at people you loathe, feigning an interest in people who bore you, saying ‘I love you’ without a thought for the consequences, or stabbing in the back the friend who once helped you out, but who has now become an undesirable rival. Don’t let feelings of remorse or shame get in your way. The reward is worth any amount of sacrifice.

Fame. Glory. Glamour.

Gabriela finds these thoughts irritating. It’s definitely not the best way to start a new day. Worse, she has a hangover.

At least there’s one consolation. She hasn’t woken up in a five-star hotel next to a man telling her to put her clothes on and leave because he has important business to deal with, like buying or selling films.

She gets up and looks around to see if any of her friends are still in the apartment. Needless to say they’re not. They’ve long since left for the Boulevard de la Croisette, for the swimming pools, hotel bars, yachts, possible lunch dates and chance meetings on the beach. There are five fold-out mattresses on the floor of the small shared apartment, hired for the duration at an exorbitant rent. The mattresses are surrounded by a tangle of clothes, discarded shoes, and hangers that no one has taken the trouble to put back in the wardrobe.

‘The clothes take up more room here than the people,’ she thinks.

Not that any of them could even dream of wearing clothes designed by Elie Saab, Karl Lagerfeld, Versace or Galliano, but what they have nevertheless takes up most of apartment: bikins, miniskirts, T-shirts, platform shoes, and a vast amount of make-up.

‘One day I’ll wear what I like, but right now, I just need to be given a chance,’ she thinks.

And why does she want that chance?

Quite simple. Because she knows she’s the best, despite her experience at school – when she so disappointed her parents – and despite the challenges she’s faced since in order to prove to herself that she can overcome difficulties, frustrations and defeats. She was born to win and to shine, of that she has no doubt.

‘And when I get what I always wanted, I know I’ll have to ask myself: Do they love and admire me because I’m me or because I’m famous.’

She knows people who have achieved stardom on the stage and, contrary to her expectations, they’re not at peace with themselves; they’re insecure, full of doubts, unhappy as soon as they come off stage. They want to be actors so as not to have to be themselves, and they live in fear of making the one false step that could end their career.

‘I’m different, though. I’ve always been me.’

Is that true? Or does everyone in her position think the same?

She gets up and makes herself some coffee. The kitchen is a mess, and none of her friends has bothered to wash the dishes. She doesn’t know why she’s woken up in such a bad mood and with so many doubts. She knows her job, she’s devoted herself to it heart and soul, and yet it’s as if people refuse to recognise her talent. She knows what human beings are like too, especially men — future allies in a battle she needs to win soon, because she’s 25 already and nearly too old for the dream factory. She knows three things:

(a) that men are less treacherous than women;

(b) that they never notice what a woman is wearing because they’re always mentally undressing her;

(c) that as long as you’ve got breasts, thighs, buttocks and belly in good trim, you can conquer the world.

Because of those three things, and because she knows that all the other women she’s competing with try to emphasise their attributes, she pays attention only to item (c) on her list. She exercises and tries to keep fit, avoids diets and, illogical though it may seem, dresses very discreetly. This has worked well so far, and she can usually pass for younger than her age. She’s hoping that it’ll do the trick in Cannes too.

Breasts, buttocks, thighs. They can focus on those things now if they want to, but the day will come when they’ll see what she can really do.

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