"Yes," says the expert from Scotland Yard, the man who had become a legend by solving five cases that everyone else had given up on.
"Why do you think we're dealing with a serial killer?" Savoy asks.
Morris sees what looks like an e-mail flash up on his computer and he smiles. The inspector has finally started to show a little respect for what he has to say.
"Because of the complete absence of motive. Most of these criminals have what we call a 'signature': they choose one type of victim, homosexuals, say, or prostitutes, beggars, courting couples. Others are known as 'asymmetrical killers': they kill because they can't control their impulse to kill. When they reach a point where that impulse is satisfied, they stop killing until the urge to kill again becomes unbearable. I think that is the kind of killer we have here.
"There are several points to consider in this case. The criminal is highly sophisticated. He has chosen a different weapon each time--his bare hands, poison, and a stiletto knife. He's not motivated by the usual things: sex, alcohol, or some evident mental disorder. He knows the human anatomy, and that, so far, has been his only 'signature.' He must have planned the crimes in advance because the poison he used isn't easy to obtain, and so we could classify him as a killer with a mission, but one who still doesn't quite know what that mission is. From what I know of the young girl's murder, and this is the only clue we have so far, he used a type of Russian martial art called Sambo.
"I could go further and say that it's part of his signature to get close to his chosen victim and befriend him or her for a while, but that theory doesn't fit with the murder committed in the middle of a lunch party on a beach in Cannes. The victim apparently had two bodyguards with him and they would have been sure to react if the killer had gone anywhere near their boss, plus the victim was under surveillance by Europol."
Russian. Savoy considers using his phone to ask for an urgent search of all the hotels in Cannes. A man, about forty, well-dressed, slightly graying hair--and Russian.
"The fact that he used a Russian martial art technique doesn't mean he himself is Russian," says Morris, reading Savoy's mind like the good ex-policeman he is. "Just as we cannot assume he's a South American Indian because he used curare."
"So what do we do?"
"We just have to wait for him to commit his next murder."
6:50 P.M.
Cinderella!
If people believed more in fairy tales instead of just listening to their husbands and parents--who think everything is impossible--they would be experiencing what she's experiencing now, being driven along in one of the innumerable limousines that are slowly but surely heading for the steps and the red carpet--the biggest catwalk in the world.
The Star is by her side, smiling and wearing the obligatory beautifully cut suit. He asks if she's nervous. Of course not: tension, nerves, anxiety, and fear don't exist in dreams. Everything is perfect; it's just like in a movie--the heroine suffers, struggles, and finally achieves everything she has always wanted.
"If Hamid Hussein decides to go ahead with the project and the film is the success he hopes it will be, then prepare yourself for more such moments."
If Hamid Hussein decides to go ahead with the project? Isn't it all signed and sealed?
"But I signed a contract when I went to collect my outfit in the Gift Room."
"Look, forget what I said. I don't want to spoil your special moment."
"No, please, go on."
The Star was expecting the silly girl to say exactly that, and he takes enormous pleasure in doing as she asks.
"I've been involved in loads of projects that begin and never come to anything. It's all part of the game, but, like I say, don't worry about that now."
"But the contract..."
"Contracts are there for lawyers to argue over while they earn their money. Please, forget what I said. Enjoy the moment."
The "moment" is approaching. Because of the slow traffic, people can see who is inside the cars, despite the smoked-glass windows separating mere mortals from the chosen. The Star waves; hands bang on the window asking him to open it just for a moment, to give them an autograph, to have a photo taken.
The Star keeps waving, as if he didn't understand what they wanted and a smile from him was enough to flood the world with light.
There's a real air of hysteria out there. Women with their little portable stools on which they must have been sitting and knitting since the morning; men with beer bellies, bored to death, but obliged to accompany their middle-aged spouses, who are dressed to the nines as if they were the ones about to go up the steps and onto the red carpet; children who have no idea what's going on, but can sense that it's something important. Crammed behind the steel barriers that separate them from the line of limousines, stand people of all ages and colors, every one of them wanting to believe that they're only two yards away from the great legends, when, in fact, they're separated by thousands of miles; for it isn't just the steel barrier and the car window keeping them apart, it's chance, opportunity, and talent.
Talent? Yes, she wants to believe that talent counts too, but knows that really it's all the result of a game of dice played by the gods, who choose certain people and place others on the far side of an impassable abyss from where they can only applaud, worship, and, when the tide turns against their gods, condemn.
The Star pretends to be talking to her, but he's not actually saying anything, just looking at her and moving his lips, like the great actor he is. He doesn't do this out of desire or pleasure. Gabriela realizes that he simply doesn't want to appear unfriendly to his fans outside, but, at the same time, can't be bothered now to wave and smile and blow kisses.
"You must think me an arrogant, cynical person with a heart of stone," he says at last. "If you ever get where you want to get, then you'll understand what I'm feeling: that there's no way out. Success is both an addiction and an enslavement, and at the end of the day, when you're lying in bed with some new man or woman, you'll ask yourself: was it really worth it? Why did I ever want this?"
He pauses.
"Go on."
"I don't know why I'm telling you this."
"Because you want to protect me. Because you're a good man. Please, go on."
Gabriela may be ingenuous about many things, but she's still a woman and knows how to get almost anything she wants out of a man. In this case, the button to press is vanity.
"I don't know why I always wanted this." The Star has fallen into the trap and is now revealing his more vulnerable side, while, outside, the fans continue to wave. "Often, when I go back to the hotel after an exhausting day's work, I stand under the shower for ages, just listening to the sound of water falling on my body. Two opposing forces are battling it out inside me: one telling me I should be thanking God and the other telling me I should abandon it all while there's still time.
"At that moment, I feel like the most ungrateful person in the world. I have my fans, but I can't be bothered with them. I'm invited to parties that are the envy of the world, and all I want is to leave at once and go back to my room and sit quietly reading a good book. Well-meaning men and women give me prizes, organize events, and do everything to make me happy, and I feel nothing but exhaustion and embarrassment because I don't believe I deserve all this, I don't feel worthy of my success. Do you understand?"
For a fraction of a second, Gabriela feels sorry for the man beside her. She imagines the number of parties he must have to attend in a year, and how there must always be someone asking him for a photo or an autograph, someone telling him some tedious story to which he pretends to be listening, someone trying to sell him some new project or embarrassing him with the classic question: "Don't you remember me?," someone getting out his mobile phone and asking him to say a few words to his son, wife, or sister. And he must always be the consummate professional, happy, attentive, good-humored, and polite.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, I do, but I wouldn't mind having those
problems one day, although I know I've a long way to go before I do."
Only another four limousines and they'll be there. The chauffeur tells them to get ready. The Star folds down a small mirror from the roof of the car and adjusts his tie; Gabriela does the same and smooths her hair. She can see a bit of the red carpet now, although the steps are still out of sight. The hysteria has vanished as if by magic, and the crowd is now composed of people wearing identity tags round their necks, talking to each other and taking no notice at all of who is in the cars because they're tired of seeing the same scene repeated over and over.
Two more cars. Some steps appear to her left. Men in dinner jacket and tie are opening the doors, and the aggressive metal barriers have been replaced by velvet cords looped along bronze and wooden pillars.
"Damn!" cries the Star, making Gabriela jump.
"Damn! Look who's over there, just getting out of her car!"
Gabriela sees a female Superstar, also wearing a Hamid Hussein dress, who has just stepped onto the red carpet. The Superstar turns her back on the Palais des Congres, and when Gabriela follows her gaze, she sees the most extraordinary sight. A human wall, almost nine feet high, filled with endlessly flashing lights.
"Good!" says the Star, relieved. "She's looking in the wrong direction."
He's no longer polite and charming and has forgotten all his existential angst. "They're not the accredited photographers. They're not important."
"Why did you say 'Damn'?"
The Star cannot conceal his irritation. There is one car to go before it's their turn.
"Can't you see? What planet are you from, child? When we step onto the red carpet, all the accredited photographers, who are positioned halfway along, will have their cameras aimed at her!"
He turns to the chauffeur and says:
"Slow down!"
The chauffeur points to a man in plainclothes, also wearing an identity tag, and who is signaling to them to keep moving and not hold up the traffic.
The Star sighs deeply; this really isn't his lucky day. Why did he say all those things to this mere beginner at his side? It's true that he's tired of the life he leads, and yet he can't imagine anything else.
"Don't rush," he says. "We'll try and stay down here for as long as possible. Let's leave a good space between her and us."
"Her" was the Superstar.
The couple in the car ahead of them don't appear to attract as much attention, although they must be important because no one gets as far as those steps without having scaled many mountains in life.
Her companion appears to relax a little, and now it's Gabriela's turn to feel tense, not knowing quite how to behave. Her hands are sweating. She grabs the handbag stuffed with paper, breathes deeply, and says a prayer.
"Walk slowly," says the Star, "and don't stand too close to me."
Their limousine draws up alongside the steps. Both doors are opened from outside.
Suddenly, an immense roar seems to fill the universe, shouts coming from all sides--she hadn't realized until then that she was in a soundproof car and could hear nothing. The Star gets out, smiling, as if his tantrum of two minutes ago had never happened and as if he were still the center of the universe, despite his apparently true confessions to her in the car. He is a man in conflict with himself, his world, and his past, and who cannot now turn back.
"What am I thinking about?" Gabriela tells herself. "I should be concentrating on the moment, on going up the steps!"
They both wave to the "unimportant" photographers and spend some time there. People hold out scraps of paper to him, and he signs autographs and thanks his fans. Gabriela isn't sure whether she should remain by his side or continue up toward the red carpet and the entrance to the Palais des Congres; fortunately, she's saved by someone holding out pen and paper and asking for her autograph.
How she wishes this ceremony were being broadcast live to the whole world and that her mother could see her arriving in that dazzling dress, accompanied by a really famous actor (about whom she's beginning to have her doubts, but, no, she must drive away such negative thoughts), and see her giving the most important autograph of her twenty-five years of life! She can't understand the woman's name, so she smiles and writes something like "with love."
The Star comes over to her.
"Come on. The way ahead is clear now."
The woman to whom she has just addressed an affectionate message reads what she's written and says angrily:
"I don't want your autograph! I just need your name so that I can identify you in the photo."
Gabriela pretends not to hear; nothing in the world can destroy this magic moment.
They start going up the steps, with policemen forming a kind of security cordon, even though the public are a long way off now. On either side, on the building's facade, gigantic plasma screens reveal to the poor mortals outside what is going on in that open-air sanctuary. Hysterical screams and clapping can be heard in the distance. When they reach a broader step, as if they had reached the first floor, she notices another crowd of photographers, except this time, they are properly dressed and are shouting out the Star's name, asking him to turn this way, no, this way, just one more shot, please, a little closer, look up, look down! Other people pass them and continue up the steps, but the photographers aren't interested in them. The Star has lost none of his glamour; he looks as if he doesn't care and jokes around to show how relaxed and at ease he is with all this.
Gabriela notices that the photographers are interested in her too, although, of course, they don't shout out her name (they've no idea who she is), imagining that she must be his new girlfriend. They ask them to stand together so that they can get a photo of the two of them. The Star obliges for a few seconds, but keeps a prudent distance and avoids any physical contact.
Yes, they've successfully managed to avoid the Superstar, who will, by now, have reached the door of the Palais des Congres to be greeted by the president of the Film Festival and the mayor of Cannes.
The Star gestures to her to continue up the stairs, and she obeys.
She looks ahead and sees another gigantic screen strategically placed so that people can see themselves. A loudspeaker announces:
"And now we have..."
And the voice gives the name of the Star and of his most famous film. Later, someone tells her that everyone inside the room is watching the same scene being shown on the plasma screen outside.
They go up the remaining steps, reach the door, greet the president of the Festival and the mayor, and go inside. The whole thing has lasted less than three minutes.
Now the Star is surrounded by people who want to talk to him and flatter him and take photos (yes, even the chosen take photos of themselves with famous people). It's suffocatingly hot inside, and Gabriela starts to worry that her makeup will run...
Her makeup!
She had completely forgotten. She's supposed to go through a door on the left where someone will be waiting for her outside. She walks mechanically down some steps and past a couple of security guards. One of them asks if she's going outside for a smoke and intends coming back in for the film. She says no and carries on.
She crosses another series of metal barriers and no one asks her anything because she's leaving, not trying to get in. She can see the backs of the crowd who are still waving and shouting at the limousines that continue to arrive. A man comes toward her, asks her name, and tells her to follow him.
"Can you just wait a minute?"
The man seems surprised, but nods his assent. Gabriela has her eyes fixed on an old carousel, which has possibly been there since the beginning of the last century and which continues to turn, while the children riding it rise up and down.
"Can we go now?" asks the man politely.
"Just one more minute."
"We'll be late."
Gabriela can no longer hold back the tears, the tension, the fear, and the terror of the three minutes she has just lived through. She sobs convu
lsively, not caring about her makeup now, which someone will fix for her anyway. The man offers her his arm to lean on, so that she won't stumble in her high heels, and they start walking across the square toward the Boulevard de la Croisette. The noise of the crowd grows ever more distant, and her sobs grow ever louder. She's crying out all the tears of the day, the week, and the years she had spent dreaming of that moment, and which was over before she could even take in what had happened.
"I'm sorry," she says to the man accompanying her.
He strokes her hair. His smile reveals affection, understanding, and pity.
7:31 P.M.
He has finally understood that you cannot search out happiness at any price. Life has given him all it could, and he's beginning to see just how generous life has always been to him. Now and for the rest of his days, he will devote himself to disinterring the treasures hidden in his suffering and enjoying each second of happiness as if it were his last.
He has overcome Temptation. He is protected by the spirit of the girl who understands his mission perfectly, and who is now beginning to open his eyes to the real reason for his trip to Cannes.
For a few moments in that pizzeria, while he was remembering what he'd heard on those tapes, Temptation had accused him of being mentally unbalanced and of believing that anything was permitted in the name of love. His most difficult moment was, thank God, behind him now.
He is a normal person; his work requires discipline, routine, negotiating skills, and planning. Many of his friends say that he's become more of a loner; what they don't know is that he's always been a loner. Going to parties, weddings, and christenings, and pretending to enjoy playing golf on Sundays was merely part of his professional strategy. He's always loathed the social whirl, with all those people concealing behind their smiles the real sadness in their souls. It didn't take him long to see that the Superclass are as dependent on their success as an addict is on his drugs, and nowhere near as happy as those who want nothing more than a house, a garden, a child playing, a plate of food on the table, and a fire in winter. Are the latter aware of their limitations, and do they know that life is short and wonder what point there is in going on?
The Superclass tries to promote its values. Ordinary people complain of divine injustice, they envy power, and it pains them to see others having fun. They don't understand that no one is having fun, that everyone is worried and insecure, and that what the jewels, cars, and fat wallets conceal is a huge inferiority complex.