They were perhaps referring to the same person. If so and if this was a trap, it was too late to run away. He's obviously being watched, and as soon as he stands up, he'll be arrested. He feels his stomach contract, but why should he be afraid? Only a short time ago, he'd tried, without success, to hand himself over to the police. He'd chosen martyrdom, offered up his freedom as a sacrifice, but that gift had been rejected by God. Now, however, the heavens had obviously reconsidered their decision.
He must think how best to deal with what will ensue: the suspect is identified, a woman pretending to be drunk is sent on ahead to confirm the facts. Then, very discreetly, a man will walk over and ask him to come with him for a little chat. That man will be a policeman. Igor has what looks like a pen in his jacket pocket, but that will arouse no suspicions; the Beretta though will give him away. He sees his whole life flash before him.
Could he use the gun to defend himself? The policeman who is sure to appear as soon as he has been identified will have colleagues watching the scene, and Igor will be dead before he can make so much as a move. On the other hand, he didn't come here to kill innocent people in a barbarous, indiscriminate way; he has a mission, and his victims--or martyrs for love as he prefers to call them--are serving a greater purpose.
"No, I'm not a distributor," he says. "I have absolutely nothing to do with the world of cinema, fashion, or glamour. I work in telecommunications."
"Good," says the woman. "So you must have money. You must have had dreams in your life, so you know what I'm talking about."
He's beginning to lose the thread of the conversation. He signals to another waiter. This time the waiter comes over and Igor orders two cups of tea.
"Can't you see I'm drinking whisky?"
"Yes, but as I said, I think I can help you. To do that, however, you need to be sober and aware of what you're doing."
Maureen feels a change come over her. Ever since this stranger proved himself able to read her thoughts, she feels as if she were being restored to reality. Perhaps he really can help her. It's been years since anyone tried to seduce her with that most cliched of chat-up lines in the film business: "I have some very influential friends." There's nothing more guaranteed to change a woman's state of mind than knowing that someone of the opposite sex desires her. She feels tempted to get up and go to the restroom and check her makeup in the mirror. That can wait. First, she needs to send out some clear signals that she's interested.
Yes, she needs company, she's open to whatever surprises fate may hold in store; when God closes a door, he opens a window. Why, of all the tables on that terrace, was this the only table occupied by just one person? There was a meaning in this, a hidden sign: the two of them were meant to meet.
She laughs at herself. In her current despairing state anything is a sign, a way out, a piece of good news.
"Firstly, tell me what you need," says the man.
"I need help. I have a movie with a top-line cast ready and waiting; it was going to be distributed by one of the few people in the industry who still has faith in the talent of people outside the studio system. I was going to meet him tomorrow. I was even at the same lunch as him today, when suddenly I noticed he was feeling unwell."
Igor starts to relax. Perhaps it's true, reality really is stranger than fiction.
"I left the lunch, found out which hospital he'd been taken to, and went there. On the way, I imagined what I was going to say, about how I was his friend and we were going to be working together. I've never even spoken to him, but I think anyone in a situation like that feels more comfortable knowing that someone, anyone, is near."
"In other words, turning someone else's tragedy to your own advantage," thinks Igor.
People are all the same.
"And what exactly is a top-line cast?" he asks.
"Will you excuse me? I need to go to the bathroom."
Igor politely stands up, puts on his dark glasses, and, as she walks away, tries to look as calm as possible. He drinks his tea, all the while scanning the terrace. At first sight, there appears to be no immediate threat, but it would still be wise to leave that terrace as soon as the woman comes back.
Maureen is impressed by her new friend's gentlemanly behavior. It's been years since she's seen anyone behave according to the rules of etiquette taught them by their mothers and fathers. As she leaves the terrace, she notices that some pretty young women at the next table, who have doubtless heard part of their conversation, are looking at him and smiling. She notices, too, that he's put on his dark glasses, possibly to be able to observe the young women without them knowing. Perhaps, by the time she gets back, they'll all be drinking tea together.
But then life is like that: don't complain and don't expect too much either.
She looks at her face in the mirror. Why would a man be interested in her? She really does need to get to grips with reality again, as he suggested. Her eyes look empty and tired; she's exhausted like everyone else taking part in the Festival, but she knows that she has to carry on fighting. Cannes isn't over yet, Javits might recover, or someone representing his company might turn up. She has tickets to see other people's films, an invitation to a party held by Gala--one of the most prestigious magazines in France--and she can use the time available to see how independent European producers and directors go about distributing their films. She needs to bounce back quickly.
As for the handsome stranger, she mustn't have any illusions in that regard. She returns to the table convinced that she'll find two of the young women sitting there, but he's still alone. Again he rises politely to his feet and draws back her chair so that she can sit down.
"Sorry, I haven't introduced myself. My name's Maureen."
"I'm Igor. Pleased to meet you. You were saying that you had the ideal cast."
She decides to get a dig in at the girls at the next table. She speaks slightly more loudly than usual.
"Here in Cannes, or indeed at any other festival, new actresses are discovered every year, and every year really great actresses lose out on getting a great role because the industry thinks they're too old, even if, in fact, they're still young and full of enthusiasm. Among the new discoveries" (and, she thinks: "I just hope the girls next to us are listening"), "some choose the path of pure glamour. They don't earn much on the movies they make--all directors know this and take full advantage--and so they invest in the one thing they shouldn't invest in."
"Namely..."
"Their own beauty. They become celebrities, start to charge for attending parties, they're asked to appear in advertisements, promoting various products. They end up meeting the most powerful men and the sexiest actors in the world. They earn a vast amount of money because they're young and pretty and their agents get them loads of contracts.
"In fact, they allow themselves to be entirely guided by their agents, who constantly feed their vanity. An actress of this type becomes the dream of housewives, of adolescent girls and would-be actresses who don't even have enough money to travel to the nearest town, but who consider her a friend, someone who's having the kind of experiences they would like to have. She continues making movies and earns a little more, although her press agent always puts it about that she's earning an enormous salary, which is a complete lie that not even the journalists believe, but which they publish anyway because they know the public prefers news to information."
"What's the difference?" asks Igor, who's feeling more relaxed now, while still keeping a close eye on what's going on around him.
"Let's say you were to buy a gold-plated computer in an auction in Dubai and decided to write a new book using that technological marvel. When a journalist finds out about the computer, he'll phone you up and ask: 'So how's your gold-plated computer?' That's news. The information--the nature of the new book you're writing--is of no importance whatsoever."
"Perhaps Ewa is receiving news rather than information," thinks Igor. The idea had never occurred to him before.
"Go on."
"Time passes, or, rather, seven or eight years pass. Suddenly, the film offers dry up. The revenue from parties and advertisements begins to dwindle. Her agent seems suddenly much busier than before and doesn't always call her back. The 'big star' rebels: how can they do this to her, the great sex symbol, the great icon of glamour? She blames her agent and decides to find another one; to her surprise, he doesn't appear to mind at all. On the contrary, he asks her to sign a statement saying how well they have always got on together; then he wishes her good luck, and that's the end of their relationship."
Maureen looks around the terrace to see if she can find an example of what she's describing: people who are still famous, but who have vanished from the scene and are desperately seeking some new opportunity. 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 covered 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 didn't 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 weren't.
"You mentioned two types of people."
"Yes. The second group of actresses have exactly the same problem, but there's 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 don't appear in ads or on magazine covers because they're busy honing their art. They keep studying and making contacts that will be useful in the future. They lend their name and appearance 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 intelligence to know that even if the film doesn't turn out to be a huge success, 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. "There's no privacy here. I know a place where we can be alone and watch the sun go down; it's beautiful."
That's precisely what she needs at this moment--an invitation to go for a walk! To see the sunset, even though it'll be quite some time before the sun goes down! He's not one of those vulgar types who says: "Let's go up to my room for a moment, I need to change my shoes" and "Nothing will happen, I promise," and who, once they're 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 wouldn't mind being kissed by this seemingly charming man. She knows absolutely nothing about him, of course, but the elegance with which he's seducing her is something she won't 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, he's 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. "I'd like to know the answer to that one myself."
Another point in his favor. He doesn't immediately launch into some spiel about how rich and intelligent and talented he is. He simply wants to watch the sunset with her, that's all. They walk to the end of the beach in silence, passing all kinds of different people--older couples who seem to inhabit another world, quite oblivious to the Festival; 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; there's even an area that seems to have been cordoned off by the police for some reason--after all, it's only a bench. She notices that her companion keeps looking behind him, as if he were expecting someone, but he's 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. They're completely alone. Well, why would anyone else come to a place where there's nothing to do? She's in an excellent mood.
"It's lovely here! Do you know why God decided to rest on the seventh day?"
Igor doesn't understand the question, but she proceeds to explain anyway:
"Because on the seventh day, before he'd 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: 'Don't you worry about the rest! We'll 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, he'll think it's the real sea!'"
She laughs to herself. The man beside her is looking more serious now.
"You asked me who I am," he says.
"I've 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, I've experienced, hope, despair, loneliness, and the pleasure of finding a new companion. That's a lot of emotions."
He takes something out of his pocket; it looks like a wooden tube less than six inches long.
"The world's a dangerous place," he says. "It doesn't matter where you are, you're always at risk of being approached by people who have no scruples about attacking, destroying, killing. And we never learn how to defend ourselves. We're all in the hands of those more powerful than us."
"You're 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 putting the final touch to a masterpiece, he removes the lid. It isn't in fact a lid, but the head of what looks like a long nail. The sun glitters on the metal blade.
"You wouldn't get through airport security carrying that in your case," she says, and laughs.
"No, I wouldn't."
Maureen feels that she's with a man who is polite, handsome, doubtless wealthy, but who is also capable of protecting her from all dangers. She has no idea what the crime statistics are for Cannes, but it's as well to think of everything. That's what men are for: to think of everything.
"Of course, you need to know exactly how to use it. It may be made of steel, but because it's so thin it's also very fragile and too small to cause any real damage. If you don't use it with great precision, it won't work."
He places the blade level with Maureen's 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 he's 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: "I'm interested in what you're telling me. I find you really fascinating. But please, just take my hand and let's go and watch the sunset together."
The blade slides over her breast, but does not stop there. Nevertheless, it's enough to make her feel aroused. It stops just under her arm.
"Here I'm on a level with your heart.
It's protected by a natural barrier, the rib cage. In a fight, it would be impossible to injure someone with this blade. It would almost certainly hit a rib, and even if it did penetrate the body, the wound wouldn't 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 old warehouse--where he often hides so as to masturbate while he watches canoodling couples--is 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! He'll 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, he'd 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 didn't.
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.