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MORE BODYGUARDS, MORE DARK GLASSES, more bikinis on the beach, more light-colored clothes and jewelry 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 tents, 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 forever.
All so unsurprising. All so predictable. If he were to go into one of those tents 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 tent 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 Malev, 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 tent; there's even a dance floor--and orders a pineapple juice because it suits the atmosphere and, more important, 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 tent; 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."
He realizes 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 at 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 him 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 judgment. 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.
