1:45 AM

People are never satisfied. If they have a little, they want more. If they have a lot, they want still more. Once they have more, they wish they could be happy with little, but are incapable of making the slightest effort in that direction.

Is it just that they dont understand how simple happiness is? What can she want, that girl in the jeans and white T-shirt who just came running past? What could be so urgent that it stopped her taking time to contemplate the lovely sunny day, the blue sea, the babies in their strollers, the palms fringing the beach?

Dont run, child! Youll never escape the two most important pres- ences in the life of any human being: God and death. God accompanies your every step and will be annoyed because he can see that youre not paying attention to the miracle of life. Or indeed death. You just ran past a corpse and didnt even notice.

Igor has walked past the scene of the crime several times now. At one point, he realized that his comings and goings might arouse sus- picion and so decided to remain a prudent two hundred yards from the scene, leaning on the balustrade that looked out over the beach. Hes wearing dark glasses, but theres nothing suspicious about that, not only because its a sunny day, but because in a celebrity town like Cannes, dark glasses are synonymous with status.

Hes surprised to see that its almost midday, and yet no one has realized that theres a person lying dead on the main street of a city which, at this time of year, is the focus of the worlds attention.

A couple are approaching the bench now, visibly irritated. They start shouting at the sleeping beauty; theyre the girls parents, angry because she isnt working. The man shakes her almost violently. Then the woman bends over, obscuring Igors field of vision.

Igor knows what will happen next.

The mother screams. The father takes his mobile phone from his pocket and moves away, clearly agitated. The mother is shaking her daughters unresponsive body. Passersby stop, and now he can remove his dark glasses and join them as one more curious onlooker.

The mother is crying, clinging to her daughter. A young man gently pushes her away and attempts mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but soon gives up; Olivias face already has a slight purple tinge to it.

Someone call an ambulance!

Several people dial the same number, all of them feeling useful, important, caring. He can already hear the sound of the siren in the distance. The mothers screams are growing louder. A young woman tries to put a comforting arm around her, but the mother pushes her away. Someone attempts to sit the body up, and someone else tells them to lay her down again because its too late to do anything.

Its probably a drug overdose, the person next to him says. Young people today are a lost cause.

Those who hear the comment nod sagely. Igor remains impassive while he watches the paramedics unload their equipment from the am- bulance, apply electric shocks to Olivias heart, while a more experi- enced doctor stands by, not saying a word, because although he knows theres nothing to be done, he doesnt want his colleagues to be accused of negligence. They place Olivias body on the stretcher and put it in the ambulance, the mother still clinging to her daughter. After a brief discussion, they allow the mother to get in too, and the ambulance speeds away.

No more than five minutes have passed between the couple discov- ering the body and the ambulance leaving. The father is still standing there, stunned, not knowing where to go or what to do. Forgetting whom hes speaking to, the same person who made the comment about a drug overdose goes over to the father and gives him his version of the facts:

Dont worry, sir. This kind of thing happens every day around here.

The father does not respond. Hes stilling holding his mobile phone and staring into space. He either doesnt understand the remark or has no idea what it is that happens every day, or else hes in a state of shock that has sent him immediately into some unknown dimension where pain does not exist.

The crowd disperses as quickly as it appeared. Only two people remain: the father still clutching his phone and the man who has now taken off his dark glasses and is holding them in his hand.

Did you know the girl? Igor asks. There is no reply. Its best to do as everyone else has done, keep walking along the Boulevard de la Croisette and see what else is happening on this sunny morning in Cannes. Like the girls father, he doesnt know quite what he is feeling: he has destroyed a world he will never be able to rebuild, even if he had all the power in the world. Did Ewa deserve that? From the womb of that young woman, Oliviathe fact that he knows her name troubles him greatly because that means shes no longer just a face in the crowdmight have sprung a genius who would have gone on to discover a cure for cancer or drafted an agreement that would ensure that the world could finally live in peace. He has destroyed not just one person, but all the future generations that might have sprung from her. What has he done? Was love, however great and however intense, sufficient justification for that?

He had chosen the wrong person as his first victim. Her death will never make the news and Ewa wont understand the message.

Dont think about it, its done now. You have prepared yourself to go much further than this, so carry on. The girl will understand that her death was not in vain, but was a sacrifice in the name of a greater love. Look around you, see whats happening in the city, behave like a normal citizen. Youve already had your fair share of suffering in this life; now you deserve a little peace and comfort.

Enjoy the Festival. This is what you have been preparing yourself for.

Even if hed had his swimmingthingswithhim,hewouldhave found it difficult to get anywhere near the seashore. The big hotels had, it seems, acquired the rights to great swaths of beach which they had filled with their chairs, logos, waiters, and bodyguards, who, at every entry point, demanded the guests room key or some other form of identification. Other areas were occupied by huge white tents, where some production company, brewery, or cosmetics firm was launch- ing its latest product at a so-called lunch. People here were dressed normally, if by normal you mean a baseball cap, bright shirt, and light-colored trousers for men, and jewelry, loose top, Bermudas, and low-heeled shoes for women.

Dark glasses were de rigueur for both sexes, and there was little bare flesh on show because members of the Superclass were too old for that now, and any such display would be considered ridiculous or, rather, pathetic.

Igor noticed one other thing: the mobile phone. The most impor- tant item of clothing.

It was essential to be receiving a constant stream of messages or calls, to be prepared to interrupt any conversation in order to answer a call that was not in the least urgent, to stand keying in endless texts via an SMS. They had all forgotten that these initials mean Short Mes- sage Service and instead used the keypad as if it were a typewriter. It was slow, awkward, and could cause serious damage to the thumb, but what did it matter? At that very moment, not only in Cannes, but in the whole world, the ether was being filled with messages like Good morning, my love, I woke up thinking about you and Im so glad to have you in my life, Ill be home in ten minutes, please have my lunch ready and check that my clothes were sent to the laundry, or The party here is a real drag, but I havent got anywhere else to go, where are you? Things that take five minutes to be written down and only ten seconds to be spoken, but thats the way the world is. Igor knows all about this because he has earned hundreds of millions of dollars thanks to the fact that the phone is no longer simply a method of communicat- ing with others, but a thread of hope, a way of believing that youre not alone, a way of showing others how important you are.

And it was leading the world into a state of utter madness. For a mere five euros a month, via an ingenious system created in London, a call center would send you a standard message every three minutes. When you know youre going to be talking to someone you want to im- press, you just have to dial a particular number to activate the system. The phone rings, you pick it up, open the message, read it quickly, and say Oh, that can wait (of course it can: it was written to order). This way, the person youre talking to feels important, and things move along more quickly because he realizes hes in the presence of a very busy person. Three minutes later, the conversation is interrupted by another message, the pressure mounts, and the user of the service can decide whether its worth turning off his phone for a quarter of an hour or lying and saying that he really must take this call, and so rid himself of a disagreeable companion.

There is only one situation in which all mobile phones must be turned off. Not at formal suppers, in the middle of a play, during the key moment in a film, or while an opera singer is attempting the most difficult of arias; weve all heard someones mobile phone go off in such circumstances. No, the only time when people are genuinely concerned that their phone might prove dangerous is when they get on a plane and hear the usual lie: All mobile phones must be switched off during the flight because they might interfere with the onboard systems. We all believe this and do as the flight attendants ask.

Igor knew when this myth had been created: for years now, airlines had been doing their best to convince passengers to use the phones at- tached to their seat. These cost ten dollars a minute and use the same transmission system as mobile phones. The strategy didnt work, but the myth lingered on; they had simply forgotten to remove the warn-

ing from the list of dos and donts that the flight attendant has to read out before takeoff. What no one knew was that on every flight, there were always at least two or three passengers who forgot to turn their phones off, and besides, laptops access the Internet using exactly the same system as mobiles. And no plane anywhere in the world has yet fallen out of the sky because of that.

Now they were trying to modify the warning without alarming the passengers too much and without dropping the price. You could use your mobile phone as long as it was one you could put into flight mode. Such phones cost four times as much. No one has ever explained what flight mode is, but if people choose to be taken in like this, thats their problem.

He keeps walking. Hes troubled by the last look the girl had given him before she died, but prefers not to think about it.

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 whats happening at the Festival, more people handing out flyers to the poor mortals who havent 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 theyll be summoned to an au- dition 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 its still early and the promoters will be afraid that no one will come. In half an hours 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, hes 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 com- pany and his name, Igor Malev, President. Hes sure his name is on the list, he says, but he must have left his invitation at the hotel; hes been at a series of meetings and forgot to bring it with him. The reception- ist 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, hes the president of a Russian company! And ev- eryone knows how rich Russians like to show off their wealth. There was no need to check the list.

Igor enters, heads straight for the barits a very well-equipped tent; theres even a dance floorand orders a pineapple juice because it suits the atmosphere and, more important, because the drink, deco- rated 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. Hes 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 con- tinues to study them from behind his dark glasses. The men in suits try to work out who this new arrival is, then lose interest.

Igors 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 doesnt 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.

Whos the gentleman in the faded blue T-shirt? he asks, glancing in the direction of the other table.

Javits Wild. Hes a very important man.

Excellent. After someone as insignificant as the girl at the beach, a figure like Javits Wild would be idealnot 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. Hes 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.

Hes 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 doesnt need anyones support to justify what hes doing; hes con- vinced that since everyone will die one day, some must do so in the name of something greater. Thats how its 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 waiters sure to forget, but theres no need to take unnecessary risks. He tells himself that at a Festival such as this, its 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 arent just ac- customed 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 wouldnt remember anything. Igor knows that his next victim is there before him. If he succeeds, and if the waiter is ques- tioned, hell 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 didnt pay much attention, to be honest, but I know he said he wasnt gay. The policeaccustomed 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 festivalswould quietly let the matter drop.

Something else was bothering Igor though. The name or names. He had killed beforewith weapons and the blessing of his coun-

try. He didnt know how many people he had killed, but he had rarely seen their faces and certainly never asked their names. Knowing some- ones name meant knowing that the other person was a human being and not the enemy. Knowing someones 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 fail- ures. People are their names; theyre proud of them; they repeat them thousands of times in their lifetime and identify with them. Its the first word they learn after Daddy and Mummy.

Olivia. Javits. Igor. Ewa.

Someones 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 wont bother asking, Whats 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 aban- doned 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 cant turn back because he wants to do justice to the poor, vulnerable girl on the bench by the beachsuch a sweet, easy victim. This new challengethis sweaty, pseudo-ath- letic, henna-haired man with the bored expression and who is clearly someone very powerfulis 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 thats 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 hadnt planned to destroy a world in broad daylight, in the middle of the Boulevard in Cannes, and he doesnt know exactly how to carry out this next project. Something tells him, though, that he has chosen the perfect place.

His thoughts are no longer with the poor young woman at the beach; adrenaline is filling his blood, his heart is beating faster, hes excited and happy.

Javits Wild wouldnt be wasting his time here just to get a free meal at one of the thousands of parties to which he must be invited every year. He must be here for some specific reason or to meet a particular person. That reason or person would doubtless be Igors best alibi.