Paulo Coelho - The Winner Stands Alone: A Novel (P.S.)

The Winnder Stands Alone

The Beretta Px4 compact pistol is slightly larger than a mobile phone, weighs around seven hundred grams, and can fire ten shots. It is small, light, invisible when carried in a pocket, and its small caliber has one enormous advantage: instead of passing through the victims body, the bullet hits bones and smashes everything in its path.

Obviously, the chances of surviving a shot of that caliber are fairly high; there are thousands of cases in which no vital artery was severed and the victim had time to react and disarm his attacker. However, if the person firing the pistol is experienced enough, he can opt either for a quick deathby aiming at the point between the eyes or at the heartor for a slower oneby placing the barrel at a certain angle close to the ribs and squeezing the trigger. The person shot takes a while to realize that he has been mortally wounded and tries to fight back, run away, or call for help. The great advantage of this is that the victim has time to see his killers face, while his strength ebbs slowly away and he falls to the ground, with little external loss of blood, still not fully understanding why this is happening to him.

It is far from being the ideal weapon for experts. Nice and lightin a ladys handbag. No stopping power though, someone in the British Secret Service tells James Bond in the first film in the series, meanwhile confiscating Bonds old pistol and handing him a new model. However, that advice applied only to professionals, and for what he now had in mind it was perfect.

He had bought the Beretta on the black market so that it would be impossible to trace. There are five bullets in the magazine, although he intends to use only one, the tip of which he has marked with an X, using a nail file. That way, when its fired and hits something solid, it will break into four pieces.

He will only use the Beretta as a last resort. There are other ways of extinguishing a world, of destroying a universe, and she will probably understand the message as soon as the first victim is found. She will know that he did it in the name of love, and that he feels no resentment, but will take her back and ask no questions about her life during these past two years.

He hopes that six months of careful planning will produce results, but he will only know for sure tomorrow morning. His plan is to allow the Furies, those ancient figures from Greek mythology, to descend on their black wings to that blue-and-white landscape full of diamonds, Botox, and high-speed cars of no use to anyone because they carry only two passengers. With the little artifacts he has brought with him, all those dreams of power, success, fame, and money could be punc- tured in an instant.

He could have gone up to his room because the scene he had been waiting to witness occurred at 11:11 p.m. , although he would have been prepared to wait for even longer. The man and his beautiful companion arrivedboth of them in full evening dressfor yet another of those gala events that take place each night after every important supper, and which attracted more people than any film premiere at the Festival.

Igor ignored the woman. He shielded his face behind a French news- paper (a Russian newspaper would have aroused suspicions) so that she wouldnt see him. An unnecessary precaution: like all women who feel themselves to be queen of the world, she never looked at anyone else. Such women are there in order to shine and always avoid looking at what other people are wearing because, even if their own clothes and accessories have cost them a fortune, the number of diamonds or a par

ticularly exclusive outfit worn by someone else might make them feel depressed or bad-tempered or inferior.

Her elegant, silver-haired companion went over to the bar and or- dered champagne, a necessary aperitif for a night that promised new contacts, good music, and a fine view of the beach and the yachts moored in the harbor.

He noticed how extremely polite the man was, thanking the wait- ress when she brought their drinks and giving her a large tip.

The three of them knew each other. Igor felt a great wave of happi- ness as the adrenaline began to mingle with his blood. The following day he would make her fully aware of his presence there and, at some point, they would meet.

God alone knew what would come of that meeting. Igor, an orthodox Catholic, had made a promise and sworn an oath in a church in Moscow before the relics of St. Mary Magdalene (which were in the Russian capi- tal for a week, so that the faithful could worship them). He had queued for nearly five hours and, when he finally saw them, had felt sure that the whole thing was something dreamed up by the priests. He did not, however, want to run the risk of breaking his word, and so he had asked for her protection and help in achieving his goal without too much sacri- fice. And he had promised, too, that when it was all over and he could at last return to his native land, he would commission a golden icon from a well-known artist who lived in a monastery in Novosibirsk.

At three in the morning, thebaroftheHotelMartinezsmells of cigarettes and sweat. By then, Jimmy (who always wears different colored shoes) has stopped playing the piano, and the waitress is ex- hausted, but the people who are still there refuse to leave. They want to stay in that lobby for at least another hour or even all night until something happens!

Theyre already four days into the Cannes Film Festival and still nothing has happened. Every guest at every table is interested in but one thing: meeting the people with Power. Pretty women are waiting for a producer to fall in love with them and give them a major role in their next movie. A few actors are talking among themselves, laughing and pretending that the whole business is a matter of complete indiffer- ence to thembut they always keep one eye on the door.

Someone is about to arrive. Someone must arrive. Young directors, full of ideas and with CVs listing the videos they made at university, and who have read everything ever written about photography and scriptwriting, are hoping for a stroke of luck; perhaps meeting some- one just back from a party who is looking for an empty table where hell order a coffee and light a cigarette, someone whos tired of going to the same old places all the time and feels ready for a new adventure.

How naive!

If that did happen, the last thing such a person would want to hear about is some really fresh angle on a hackneyed subject; but despair can deceive the desperate. The people with power who do occasion- ally enter merely glance around, then go up to their rooms. Theyre not worried. They have nothing to fear. The Superclass does not for- give betrayals and they know their limitationswhatever the legend may say, they didnt get where they are by trampling on others. On the other hand, if there is some important new discovery to be madebe it in the world of cinema, music, or fashionit will emerge only after much research and not in some hotel bar.

The Superclass are now making love to the girl who managed to gatecrash the party and who is game for anything. Theyre taking off their makeup, studying the lines on their faces, and thinking that its time for more plastic surgery. Theyre looking at the online news to see if the announcement they made earlier that day has been picked up by the media. Theyre taking the inevitable sleeping pill and drinking the tea that promises easy weight loss. Theyre ticking the boxes on the menu for their room service breakfast and hanging it on the door handle along with the sign saying Do not disturb. The Superclass are closing their eyes and thinking: I hope I get to sleep quickly. Ive got a meeting tomorrow at ten.

However, everyone knows that the bar in the Hotel Martinez is where the powerful people hang out, which means theres always a chance of meeting them.