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
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
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