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Igor placed the needle inside the straw, and pretended to put it back in his drink.
A group of pretty girls standing near Javits's table appeared to be listening, entranced, to the extraordinary tales told by a Jamaican man. In fact, each girl was plotting how to get rid of her rivals and carry the man off to bed because Jamaicans have such a reputation as studs.
Igor moved closer to Javits, took the straw from the glass, and blew through it, projecting the needle inside in the direction of his victim. He stayed only long enough to see Javits put his hand to his back. Then he left and went straight back to the hotel to try and get some sleep.
CURARE, ORIGINALLY USED BY SOUTH American Indians for hunting with darts, can also be found in European hospitals because, under controlled conditions, it can be used to paralyze certain muscles, thus facilitating the surgeon's work. A fatal dose--like that on the point of the needle he had shot into Javits's back--coul
d kill a bird in just two minutes. Boar, on the other hand, take fifteen minutes to die, and large mammals--a man, for example--twenty.
As soon as it gets into the bloodstream, the nervous fibers of the body relax, then stop functioning altogether, causing gradual asphyxia. The strangest thing--or the worst, some might say--is that the victim remains conscious throughout, but cannot move in order to ask for help nor stop the slow process of paralysis overtaking his body.
If someone cuts his finger on a poisoned dart or arrow during a hunting expedition in the jungle, the Indians know exactly what to do. They use mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and an herbal antidote that they always carry with them because such accidents are commonplace. In cities, the paramedics can do nothing because they think they're dealing with a heart attack.
Igor did not look back as he walked to the hotel. He knew that just then one of the two "friends" would be frantically searching out the perpetrator, while the other would be ringing for an ambulance, which would arrive quickly enough, but the crew would have little idea what was going on. They would be wearing colorful uniforms and high-visibility jackets, and carrying a defibrillator--to apply a series of shocks to the heart--and a portable electrocardiogram. In the case of curare, the heart seems to be the last muscle affected and continues beating even after brain death has occurred.
The paramedics would notice nothing strange about his heartbeat, and so would put him on a drip, assuming he was suffering from some form of heat stroke or food poisoning, although they would still take all the usual measures, even applying an oxygen mask. By then, the twenty minutes would be up, and although the body might still be alive, it would now be in a vegetative state.
YES, HE HAD PLANNED EVERYTHING. He had used his private plane so that he could enter France with an unregistered gun and with the various poisons he had obtained via his connections with the Chechen mafia working in Moscow. Each step, each move had been carefully studied and rehearsed, as if he were planning a business meeting. He had made a list of victims in his head. Apart from the one he had met and talked to, the others were all to be of different classes, ages, and nationalities. He had spent months analyzing the lives of serial killers, using a computer program that was very popular with terrorists and which left no record of any searches you made. He had taken all the necessary steps to escape unnoticed once he had carried out his mission.
He is sweating. No, it's not remorse--perhaps Ewa really does deserve such a sacrifice--but the thought of the possible futility of the project. He needed the woman he most loved to know he was capable of doing anything for her, including destroying universes, but was it really worth it? Or is it sometimes necessary to accept fate and allow things to develop in their own way and simply wait for people to come to their senses in their own time?
He's tired. He can't think straight anymore and, who knows, perhaps martyrdom was better than murder, surrendering himself and thus making a greater sacrifice, offering up his own life for love. Jesus was the best example of that. When his enemies saw Jesus defeated and hung upon a cross, they thought it was all over. They felt proud of what they, the victors, had done, convinced that they had put paid to the problem once and for all.
Igor is confused. His intention was to destroy universes, not relinquish his freedom out of love. In his dream, the girl with the dark eyebrows had resembled Notre Dame de Pietat; the mother with her son in her arms, at once proud and long-suffering.
He goes into the bathroom, puts his head under the shower, and turns on the cold water. Perhaps it's lack of sleep, being in a strange place, in a different time zone, or the fact that he was actually doing the thing he had planned to do, but never thought he would. He remembers the promise he made before the relics of St. Mary Magdalene in Moscow. But is what he's doing right? He needs a sign.
Sacrifice. Yes, he should have thought of that, but perhaps he needed the experience of destroying those two worlds this morning to be able to see more clearly what is going on. The redemption of love through total surrender. His body will be handed over to the executioners who judge only one's gestures and who forget about the intentions and reasons that lie behind any act that society considers "insane." Jesus (who understands that love merits any amount of sacrifice) will receive his spirit, and Ewa will have his soul. She will know what he was capable of: surrender, self-immolation, and all for the sake of one person. He won't be condemned to death because the guillotine was abolished in France decades ago, but he might spend many years in prison. Ewa will repent of her sins. She'll come to see him, bring him food, they'll have time to talk, reflect, love, and even though their bodies do not touch, their souls will be closer than ever. Even if they have to wait years before they can live in the house he intends to build on the shores of Lake Baikal, that period of waiting will purify and bless them.
Yes, sacrifice. He turns off the shower, looks at his face in the mirror for a moment, and sees not himself, but the Lamb prepared to be slaughtered once again. He puts on the same clothes he was wearing this morning, goes out into the street, heads for the place where the little street vendor used to sit, and goes up to the first policeman he meets.
"I killed the girl who used to work here."
The policeman looks at him and sees a well-dressed man with disheveled hair and dark circles under his eyes.
"The one who used to sell craftwork?"
Igor nods.
The policeman doesn't take much notice of him. He greets a couple who are walking by, laden with shopping.
"You should get a maid!"
"If you'll pay her wages," retorts the woman, smiling. "You just can't get the staff these days!"
"Oh, come on, money can't be the reason. You have a different diamond on your finger every week."
Igor cannot understand what's going on. He has just confessed to a murder.
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Look, it's very hot. Go and lie down for a bit. Cannes has a lot to offer its visitors."
"But what about the girl?"
"Did you know her?"
"I'd never seen her before in my life. She was here this morning. I..."
