Читать книгу The Winner Stands Alone - Пауло Коэльо, Paulo Coelho - Страница 13

Javits watches the other guests arriving. The place is getting crowded, and he thinks what he always thinks:

‘What am I doing here? I don't need this. In fact, I need very little from anyone - I have all I want. I'm a big name in the movie world, I can have any woman I desire, even though I dress badly. In fact, I make a point of being badly dressed. Long gone are the days when I had only one suit, and, on the rare occasions when I received an invitation from the Superclass (after much crawling, begging and making promises), I would prepare myself for a lunch like this as if it were the most important occasion of my life. Now I know that the only thing that changes are the cities these lunches are held in; otherwise, it's all utterly boring and predictable.

‘People will come up to me and tell me they adore my work. Others will call me a hero and thank me for giving movie mavericks a chance. Pretty, intelligent women, who are not taken in by appearances, will notice the people gathering round my table and ask the waiter who I am and immediately find some way of approaching me, certain that the only thing I'm interested in is sex. Every single one of them has some favour to ask of me. That's why they praise and flatter me and offer me what they think I need. But all I want is to be left alone.

‘I've been to thousands of parties like this, and I'm not here in this marquee for any particular reason, except that I can't sleep, even though I flew to France in my private jet, a technological marvel capable of flying at an altitude of over 36,000 feet from California all the way to Cannes without having to make a refuelling stop. I changed the original configuration of the cabin. It can comfortably carry eighteen passengers, but I reduced the number of seats to six and kept the cabin separate for the four crew members. Someone's always sure to ask: “May I come with you?” And now I have the perfect excuse: “Sorry, there's no room.”’

Javits had equipped his new toy, which cost around $40 million, with two beds, a conference table, a shower, a Miranda sound system (Bang & Olufsen had an excellent design and a good PR campaign, but they were now a thing of the past), two coffee machines, a microwave oven for the crew and an electric oven for him (because he hates re-heated food). Javits only drinks champagne, and whoever wishes to is more than welcome to share a bottle of Moet & Chandon 1961 with him. However, the ‘cellar’ on the plane had every drink any guest might conceivably want. And then there were the two 21-inch LCD screens ready to show the most recent films, even those that hadn't yet made it into the cinemas.

The jet was one of the most advanced in the world (although the French insisted that the Dassault Falcon was even better), but regardless of how much money he had, he couldn't change the clocks in Europe. It was now 3.43 a.m. in Los Angeles, and he was just beginning to feel really tired. He had been awake all night, going from one party to the next, answering the same two idiotic questions that began every conversation:

‘How was your flight?’

To which Javits always responded with a question:

‘Why?’

People didn't know quite what to say and so they smiled awkwardly and moved on to the next question on the list:

‘Are you staying here long?’

And Javits would again ask: ‘Why?’ Then he would pretend he had to answer his mobile phone, make his excuses and move on with his two inseparable besuited friends in tow.

He met no one interesting. But then who would a man who has almost everything money can buy find interesting? He had tried to change his friends and meet people who had nothing to do with the world of cinema: philosophers, writers, jugglers, executives of food-manufacturing companies. At first, it all went swimmingly, until the inevitable question: ‘Would you like to read a script I've written?’ Or the second most inevitable question: ‘I have a friend who has always wanted to be an actor/actress. Would you mind meeting him/her?’

Yes, he would. He had other things to do in life apart from work. He used to fly once a month to Alaska, go into the first bar, get drunk, eat pizza, wander about in the wild and talk to the people who lived in the small towns up there. He worked out for two hours a day at his private gym, but the doctors had warned him he could still end up with heart problems. He didn't care that much about being physically fit; what he really wanted was to off-load a little of the constant tension that seemed to weigh on him every second of the day, to do some meditation and heal the wounds to his soul. When he was in the country, he always asked the people he chanced to meet what ‘normal life’ was like, because he had forgotten. The answers varied, and he gradually came to realise that, even when he was surrounded by other people, he was absolutely alone in the world.

He decided to draw up a list of what constituted normal attitudes and behaviour, based on what people did rather than on what they said.

Javits glances around. There's a man in dark glasses drinking a fruit juice. He seems oblivious to his surroundings and is staring out to sea as if he were somewhere far from there. He's smartly dressed and good-looking, with greying hair. He was one of the first to arrive and must know who Javits is, and yet he's made no effort to come and introduce himself. It was brave of him to sit there alone like that. Being alone in Cannes is anathema; it means that no one is interested in you, that you're unimportant or don't know anyone.

He envies that man, who probably doesn't fit the list of ‘normal’ behaviour he always keeps in his pocket. He seems so independent and free; if Javits weren't feeling so tired, he would really like to talk to him.

He turns to one of his ‘friends’.

‘What does being normal mean?’

‘Is your conscience troubling you? Have you done something you shouldn't have?’

Javits has clearly asked the wrong question of the wrong man. His companion will perhaps assume that he's regretting what he's made of his life and that he wants to start anew, but that isn't it at all. And if he does have regrets, it's too late to begin again; he knows the rules of the game.

‘I asked you what being normal means?’

One of the ‘friends’ looks bewildered. The other keeps surveying the tent, watching people come and go.

‘Living like someone who lacks all ambition,’ the first ‘friend’ says at last.

Javits takes his list out of his pocket and puts it on the table.

‘I always have this with me and I add to it all the time.’

The ‘friend’ says that he can't look at it now because he has to keep alert to what's going on around them. The other man, though, more relaxed and confident, reads the list out loud:

1. Normal is anything that makes us forget who we are and what we want; that way we can work in order to produce, reproduce and earn money.

2. Setting out rules for waging war (the Geneva Convention).

3. Spending years studying at university only to find at the end of it all that you're unemployable.

4. Working from nine till five every day at something that gives you no pleasure at all just so that, after thirty years, you can retire.

5. Retiring and discovering that you no longer have enough energy to enjoy life and dying a few years later of sheer boredom.

6. Using botox.

7. Believing that power is much more important than money and that money is much more important than happiness.

8. Making fun of anyone who seeks happiness rather than money and accusing them of ‘lacking ambition’.

9. Comparing objects like cars, houses, clothes, and defining life according to those comparisons, instead of trying to discover the real reason for being alive.

10. Never talking to strangers. Saying nasty things about the neighbours.

11. Believing that your parents are always right.

12. Getting married, having children and staying together long after all love has died, saying that it's for the good of the children (who are, apparently, deaf to the constant rows).

12a. Criticising anyone who tries to be different.

14. Waking up each morning to an hysterical alarm clock on the bedside table.

14. Believing absolutely everything that appears in print.

16. Wearing a scrap of coloured cloth around your neck, even though it serves no useful purpose, but which answers to the name of ‘tie’.

17. Never asking a direct question, even though the other person can guess what it is you want to know.

18. Keeping a smile on your lips even when you're on the verge of tears. Feeling sorry for those who show their feelings.

19. Believing that art is either worth a fortune or worth nothing at all.

20. Despising anything that was easy to achieve because if no sacrifice was involved, it obviously isn't worth having.

21. Following fashion trends, however ridiculous or uncomfortable.

22. Believing that all famous people have tons of money saved up.

23. Investing a lot of time and money in external beauty and caring little about inner beauty.

24. Using every means possible to show that, although you're just an ordinary human being, you're far above other mortals.

25. Never looking anyone in the eye when you're travelling on public transport, in case it's interpreted as a sign you're trying to get off with them.

26. Standing facing the door in a lift and pretending you're the only person there, regardless of how crowded it is.

27. Never laughing too loudly in a restaurant however good the joke.

28. In the northern hemisphere, always dressing according to the season: bare arms in Spring (however cold it is) and woollen jacket in Autumn (however hot it is).

29. In the southern hemisphere, covering the Christmas tree with fake snow even though winter has nothing to do with the birth of Christ.

30. Assuming, as you grow older, that you're the guardian of the world's wisdom, even if you haven't necessarily lived enough to know what's right and wrong.

31. Going to a charity tea party and thinking that you've done your bit towards putting an end to social inequality in the world.

32. Eating three times a day even if you're not hungry.

33. Believing that other people are always better than you -better looking, more capable, richer, more intelligent - and that it's very dangerous to step outside your own limits, so it's best to do nothing.

34. Using your car as a weapon and as impenetrable armour.

35. Swearing when in heavy traffic.

36. Believing that everything your child does wrong is entirely down to the company he or she keeps.

37. Marrying the first person who offers you a decent position in society. Love can wait.

38. Always saying ‘I tried’ when you didn't really try at all.

39. Postponing doing the really interesting things in life for later, when you won't have the energy.

40. Avoiding depression with large daily doses of television.

41. Believing that you can be sure of everything you've achieved.

42. Assuming that women don't like football and that men aren't interested in home decoration and cooking.

43. Blaming the government for all the bad things that happen.

44. Thinking that being a good, decent, respectable person will mean that others will see you as weak, vulnerable and easy to manipulate.

45. Being equally convinced that aggression and rudeness are synonymous with having a ‘powerful personality’.

46. Being afraid of having an endoscopy (if you're a man) and giving birth (if you're a woman).

The ‘friend’ laughs.

‘You should make a film on the subject,’ he says.

‘Not again,’ Javits thinks. ‘They have no idea. They're with me all the time, but they still don't understand what I do. I don't make films.’

All films start out in the mind of a so-called producer. He's read a book, say, or had a brilliant idea while driving along the freeways of Los Angeles (which is really a large suburb in search of a city). Unfortunately, he's alone, both in the car and in his desire to transform that brilliant idea into something that can be seen on the screen.

He finds out if the film rights to the book are still available. If the response is negative, he goes in search of another product - after all, more than 60,000 books are published each year in the United States alone. If the response is positive, he phones the author and makes the lowest possible offer, which is usually accepted because it's not only actors and actresses who like to be associated with the dream machine. Every author feels more important when his or her words are transformed into images.

They arrange to have lunch. The producer says that the book is ‘a work of art and highly cinematographic’ and that the writer is ‘a genius deserving of recognition’. The writer explains that he spent five years working on the book and asks to be allowed to help in the writing of the script. ‘No, really, you shouldn't do that, it's an entirely different medium,’ comes the reply, ‘but I know you'll love the result.’ Then he adds: ‘The film will be totally true to the book’, which, as both of them know, is a complete and utter lie.

The writer decides that he should agree to the conditions, promising himself that next time will be different. He accepts. The producer now says that they have to interest one of the big studios because they need financial backing for the project. He names a few stars he claims to have lined up for the lead roles - which is another complete and utter lie, but one that is always wheeled out and always works as a seduction technique. He buys what is known as an ‘option’, that is, he pays around $10,000 to retain the rights for three years. And then what happens? ‘Then we'll pay ten times that amount and you'll have a right to 2 percent of the net profits.’ That's the financial part of the conversation over with, because the writer is convinced he'll earn a fortune from his slice of the profits.

If he were to ask around, he'd soon find out that the Hollywood accountants somehow manage it so that no film ever makes a profit.

Lunch ends with the producer handing the writer a huge contract and asking if he could possibly sign it now, so that the studio will know that the product is definitely theirs. With his eyes fixed on that (non-existent) percentage and on the possibility of seeing his name in lights (which won't happen either -at most there'll be a line in the credits, saying: ‘based on the book by …’), the writer signs the contract without giving the matter much thought.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.

The producer starts knocking on the doors of various studios. He's known in the industry already, and so some of those doors open, but his proposal is not always accepted. In that case, he doesn't even bother to ring up the author and invite him to lunch again, he just writes him a letter saying that, despite his enthusiasm for the project, the movie industry isn't yet ready for that kind of story and he's returning the contract (which he, of course, did not sign).

If the proposal is accepted, the producer then goes to the lowest and least well-paid person in the hierarchy: the screenwriter, the person who will spend days, weeks and months writing and rewriting the original idea or the screen adaptation. The scripts are sent to the producer (but never to the author), who, out of habit, automatically rejects the first draft, knowing that the screenwriter can always do better. More weeks and months of coffee and insomnia for the bright young talent (or old hack - there are no halfway houses) who rewrites each scene, which are then rejected or reshaped by the producer (and the screenwriter thinks: ‘If he can write so damn well, why doesn't he write the whole thing?’ Then he remembers his salary and goes quietly back to his computer.)

Finally, the script is almost ready. At this point, the producer draws up a list of demands: the removal of any political references that might upset a more conservative audience; more kissing, because women like that kind of thing; a story with a beginning, middle and an end, and a hero who moves everyone to tears with his self-sacrifice and devotion; and one character who loses a loved one at the start of the film and finds him or her again at the end. In fact, most film scripts can be summed up very briefly as: Man loves woman. Man loses woman. Man gets woman back. Ninety per cent of all films are variations on that same theme.

Films that break this rule have to be very violent to make up for it, or have loads of crowd-pleasing special effects. And since this tried and tested formula is a sure-fire winner, why take any unnecessary risks?

Armed with what he considers to be a well-written story, who does the producer seek out next? The studio who financed the project. The studio, however, has a long line of films to place in the ever-diminishing number of cinemas around the world. They ask him to wait a little or to find an independent distributor, first making sure that the producer signs another gigantic contract (which even takes into account exclusive rights ‘outside of Planet Earth’), taking full responsibility for all money spent.

And that's where people like Javits come in! The independent distributor can walk down the street without being recognised, although at media-fests like this everyone knows who he is. He's the person who didn't come up with the idea, didn't work on the script and didn't invest a cent.

Javits is the intermediary - the distributor!

He receives the producer in a tiny office (the big plane, the house with the swimming pool, the invitations to parties all over the world are purely for his enjoyment - the producer doesn't even merit a mineral water). He takes the DVD home with him. He watches the first five minutes. If he likes it, he watches to the end, but this only happens with one out of every hundred new films he's given. Then he spends ten cents on a phone call and tells the producer to come back on a certain date and at a certain time.

‘We'll sign,’ he says, as if he were doing the producer a big favour. ‘I'll distribute the film.’

The producer tries to negotiate. He wants to know how many cinemas in how many countries and under what conditions. These, however, are pointless questions because he knows what the distributor will say: ‘That depends on the reactions we get at the pre-launch screenings.’ The product is shown to selected audiences from all social classes, people specially chosen by market-research companies. The results are analysed by professionals. If the results are positive, another ten cents gets spent on a phone call, and, the following day, Javits hands the producer three copies of yet another vast contract. The producer asks to be given time for his lawyer to read it. Javits says he has nothing against him doing that, but he needs to finalise that season's programme now and can't guarantee that by the time the producer gets back to him he won't have selected another film.

The producer reads only the clause that tells him how much he's going to earn. He's pleased with what he sees and so he signs. He doesn't want to miss this opportunity.

Years have passed since he sat down with the writer to discuss making a film of his book and he's quite forgotten that he is now in exactly the same situation.

Vanity of vanities, all is vanity, and there is nothing new under the sun, as Solomon said more than three thousand years ago.

Javits watches the marquee filling up with guests and again asks himself what he's doing there. He controls more than five hundred cinemas in the United States and has an exclusive contract with another five thousand around the world, where exhibitors are obliged to buy everything he offers them, even if the films don't always work out. They know that one box-office success more than makes up for the other five that fail to pull in the crowds. They rely on Javits, the independent megadistributor, the hero who managed to break the monopoly of the big studios and become a legend in the film world.

No one has ever asked how he did this, but since he continues to give them one big success for every five failures (the average in the big studios is one blockbuster for every nine flops), it really doesn't matter.

Javits, however, knows how he became so successful, which is why he never goes anywhere without his two ‘friends’, who are, at that moment, busily answering calls, arranging meetings and accepting invitations. They both have reasonably normal physiques, not like the burly bouncers on the door, but they're worth a whole army. They trained in Israel and have served in Uganda, Argentina and Panama. One fields phone calls and the other is constantly looking around, memorising each person, each movement, each gesture. They alternate these tasks because, like simultaneous translators and air-traffic controllers, they need to rest every fifteen minutes.

What is he doing at this ‘lunch’? He could have stayed at the hotel, trying to get some sleep. He's tired of being fawned over and praised, and of having to smile every minute and tell someone that it's really not worth his while giving him his card because he'll only lose it. When they insist, he asks them gently to speak to one of his secretaries (duly housed at another luxury hotel on the Boulevard de la Croisette, where they are not allowed to sleep, but must answer the phone that rings non-stop or reply to the e-mails flooding in from cinemas all over the world, along with the promises of increased penis size or multiple orgasms that manage to elude all the spam filters). Depending on how he nods his head, one of his two assistants will either give the person the secretary's address or phone number or say that unfortunately they're fresh out of cards.

Yes, what is he doing at this ‘lunch’? He would be sleeping now in Los Angeles, however late he might have got home from a party. Javits knows the answer, but he doesn't want to accept it: he's afraid of being alone. He envies the man who arrived earlier and sat drinking his fruit juice, staring off into the distance, apparently relaxed and unconcerned about trying to look busy or important. He decides to invite him to join him in a drink, but notices he's no longer there.

Just then, he feels something prick him in the back.

‘Mosquitos! That's what I hate about beach parties.’

When he goes to scratch the bite, he finds a small needle. It must be some stupid prank. He looks behind him and, about two yards away, separated from him by various other guests, a black guy with dreadlocks is laughing loudly, while a group of women gaze at him with mingled respect and desire.

He's too tired to react to this provocation. Best let the guy play the fool if that's the only way he can impress other people.

‘Idiot.’

His two companions react to the sudden change in posture of the man they are paid to protect at the rate of $435 a day. One of them raises his hand to his right shoulder, where he keeps an automatic pistol in a holster that is entirely invisible beneath his jacket. The other man gets discreetly to his feet (they are at a party, after all) and places himself between the black man and his boss.

‘It was nothing,’ says Javits. ‘Just a prank.’

He shows them the needle.

These two idiots are prepared for attacks with firearms and knives, for acts of physical aggression or attempts on their boss's life. They're always the first to enter his hotel room, ready to shoot if necessary. They can sense when someone's carrying a weapon (a common-enough occurrence now in many cities of the world) and they don't take their eyes off that person until they're sure he's harmless. When Javits gets into a lift, he stands sandwiched between them, their two bodies forming a kind of wall. He has never seen them take out their guns because, if they did so, they would use them. They usually resolve any problem with a look or a few quiet words.

Problems? He has never had any problems since he acquired his two ‘friends’, as if their mere presence were enough to drive away evil spirits and evil intentions.

‘That man, one of the first people to arrive, who sat down alone at that table over there,’ says one of them. ‘He was armed, wasn't he?’

The other man murmurs something like ‘Possibly’, but the man had left the party some time ago. And he had been watched the whole time because they couldn't tell what exactly he was looking at from behind his dark glasses.

They relax. One of them starts answering the phone again, the other fixes his gaze on the Jamaican, who looks fearlessly back. There's something strange about that man, but one false move on his part and he'll be wearing false teeth from now on. It would all be done as discreetly as possible, on the beach, far from prying eyes, and by only one of them, while the other stood waiting, finger on the trigger. Sometimes, though, such provocative acts are a ruse to get the bodyguard away from the intended victim. They're used to such tricks.

‘Fine …’

‘No, it's not fine. Call an ambulance. I can't move my hand.’