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lized that the horses would die before they got very far. This was, after all, one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. They determined that, as soon as his reign was over, they would go to the place where the horses had died of exhaustion and the riders of thirst, and they would recover all that treasure.
They stopped worrying and waited patiently.
At the end of the four years, the young man left the throne and the city. The population was in an uproar; after all, it had been a long time since they had enjoyed such a wise and just governor!
However, the Loya Jirga's decision had to be respected. The young man went to his wife and children and asked them to leave with him.
"I will," said his wife, "but at least let our children stay. They will then survive to tell your story."
"Trust me," he said.
The tribal laws were very strict, and the wife had no alternative but to obey her husband. They mounted their horses and rode to the city gate, where they said goodbye to the friends they had made while governing the city. The Loya Jirga were pleased. They might have made many allies, but fate is fate. No one else would risk accepting the post of governor, and the democratic tradition would be restored at last. As soon as they could, they would recover the treasure abandoned in the desert, less than three days from there.
The family rode into the valley of death in silence. The wife didn't dare say a word, the children didn't understand what was going on, and the young man was immersed in thought. They climbed one hill, traveled for a whole day across a vast plain, and slept on the top of the next hill.
The woman woke at dawn, wanting to make the most of the final few days of her life to look her last on the mountains she had loved so much. She went up to the very top of the hill and gazed down on what should have been an empty plain, and she was startled by what she saw.
During those four years, the caravans leaving the city each night had not been carrying off jewels or gold coins. They had been carrying bricks, seeds, wood, roof tiles, spices, animals, and traditional tools that could be used to drill into the earth and find water.
Before her lay a far more modern, far more beautiful city than the old one, and all in working order.
"This is your kingdom," said the young man, who had just woken up and joined her. "Ever since I heard the decree, I knew it would be pointless to try and change in four years everything that centuries of corruption and bad governance had destroyed. I was certain of one thing, though, that it was possible to start again."
Igor, too, is starting again as he stands in the shower with the water cascading over his face. He has finally understood why the first person he spoke to in Cannes is by his side now, sending him off along a different path, helping him make the necessary adjustments, and explaining that her sacrifice was neither a chance event nor unnecessary. On the other hand, she has also made it plain to him that Ewa has always been naturally perverse and only interested in climbing the social ladder, even if doing so meant abandoning her family.
"When you go back to Moscow, try and do plenty of sport. That will help free you from your tensions," says the girl.
He can just make out her face in the clouds of steam in the shower. He has never felt as close to anyone as he does now to Olivia, the girl with the dark eyebrows.
"Carry on, even if you're not so sure now of what you're doing. God moves in mysterious ways, and sometimes the path only reveals itself once you start walking it."
"Thank you, Olivia," he thinks. Perhaps he is here in order to show the world the aberrations of modern life, of which Cannes is the supreme manifestation.
He's not sure, but whatever the case, he's here for a reason, and the last two years of tension, planning, fear, and uncertainty are finally justified.
HE CAN IMAGINE WHAT THE next Festival will be like: people being issued with swipe cards even to get into the lunch parties on the beach, sharpshooters on every rooftop, hundreds of plainclothes policemen mingling with the crowds, metal detectors at the door of every hotel, where those children-of-the-Superclass will have to wait while the police search their bags; women will have to take off their high heels and men be called back because the coins in their pockets have set off the alarm; gray-haired gentlemen will have to hold out their arms and be frisked like common criminals; the women will be led to a kind of canvas tent at the entrance--which clashes horribly with the former elegance of the place--where they'll have to wait patiently in line to be searched, until a policewoman discovers what triggered the alarm: the underwiring in a bra.
The city will begin to show its true face. Luxury and glamour will be replaced by tension, insults, wasted time, and the cool, indifferent gaze of the police. People will feel more and more isolated, this time by the system itself, rather than by the eternal arrogance of the chosen few. Army units will be sent to that simple seaside town with the sole objective of protecting people who are trying to have fun, and the prohibitive cost of this will, of course, fall on the taxpayers' shoulders.
There will be demonstrations by honest workers protesting at what they deem to be an absurdity. The government will issue a statement saying that they're considering the possibility of shifting the cost to the organizers of the Festival. The sponsors--who could easily afford the expense--lose interest when one of their number is humiliated by some insignificant little officer, who tells him to shut up and respect the security regulations.
Cannes will begin to die. Two years on, they'll see that everything they did to maintain law and order really has paid off, with zero levels of crime during the Festival period. The terrorists have failed in their attempt to sow further panic.
They'll try to turn the clock back, but they won't be able to. Cannes will continue to die. This new Babylon will be destroyed, this modern-day Sodom will be erased from the map.
HE STEPS OUT OF THE shower having made a decision. When he goes back to Russia, he will order his employees to find out the girl's family name. He will make anonymous donations through neutral banks. He will order some gifted author to write the story of her life and pay for it to be translated into different languages.
"The story of a young woman who sold craftwork, was beaten by her boyfriend, exploited by her parents, until the day she surrendered her soul to a stranger and thus changed one small corner of the planet."
He opens the wardrobe, takes out an immaculate white shirt, his carefully pressed dinner jacket, and his handmade patent-leather shoes. He has no trouble tying his bow tie because he does this at least once a week.
He turns on the TV in time for the local news bulletin. The parade of stars along the red carpet takes up much of the program, but there is also a brief report about a woman found murdered on the beach.
The police have cordoned off the area. The boy who witnessed the murder (Igor studies his face, but feels no desire for revenge) says that he saw the couple sit down to talk, then the man got out a small stiletto knife and appeared to run it lightly over the woman's body. The woman seemed quite happy, which is why he didn't call the police earlier because he thought it was some kind of joke.
"What did the man look like?"
White, about forty, wearing such-and-such clothes, and apparently very polite.
