The Man Who Risked It All (11 page)

“Can you translate that into French?” said Mickaël, bursting into laughter.

“It’s very simple!” said Larcher, immediately taking over. “It’s the ones who spend the most time on their recruitment interviews who get the fewest recruitment contracts from businesses. It’s quite logical, if you think about it. You can’t be in two places at once. If you spend too much time interviewing candidates, you have less time to canvass companies and sell our services, and so your results won’t be as good. Irrefutable.”

The team remained silent as the information sank in.

“For example,” Larcher went on, “Thomas, the best of you, spends on average one hour and twelve minutes on an interview, while you, Alan, at the bottom of the group—sorry, Alan—spend on average one hour and fifty-seven minutes. That’s almost twice as much!”

I sunk into my chair, while continuing to look at the table in front of me with what I hoped was a relaxed air. But there was nothing on the table but my
Closer
. I felt the weight of their eyes.

“No doubt we can reduce the length of our interviews,” said Alice, a young consultant. “But we’re going to bring down the success rate for our recruits. I always think of the guarantee we give businesses. If the recruit isn’t suitable or resigns within six months of being taken on, we must provide a replacement candidate. Excuse me, Thomas,” she said, turning toward her colleague, “but I recall that it’s
your
clients who have made the greatest call on that guarantee. For me, it happens very rarely.”

“I don’t want to leap to Thomas’s defense; he has no need of it,” said Larcher. “But the cost of renewing his defective candidates is tiny compared to the gain in turnover he contributes.”

“But that’s not in our clients’ interests!” said Alice angrily. “And therefore, in the long term, it’s not in ours either. It damages our image.”

“Clients don’t hold it against us, I can assure you,” Larcher countered. “They know we can’t control human nature. Ours is an inexact science. Nobody can be sure of choosing the right candidate all the time.”

We were careful not to reply, as Larcher’s smiling face swept the room.

After a moment, David, the longest-serving member of the team, dared to remark, “What’s not so obvious is that our interview process is long, and we can’t help it if our candidates don’t always get to the point in the shortest possible time. We can scarcely cut them off, can we?”

“That’s where I’ve got good news for you,” said Larcher, triumphantly. “Luc, tell us your second conclusion.”

Luc Fausteri spoke without looking at us, his eyes fixed on his papers. “I’ve said that the average length of Thomas’s interviews is noticeably less than that of the less commercially successful consultants. Analyzed more precisely, the figures reveal something else: The duration of the face-to-face interview is especially short for the candidates who don’t go through to the final phase.”

“In other words,” Larcher interrupted, “if you spend less time with the dead losses, you’ll have more time to spend canvassing. Shorten the interviews as soon as you realize that the person doesn’t fit the vacancy. There’s no point in going on.”

An embarrassed silence around the table.

“In any case, you won’t be giving them the job, so there’s no need to have scruples,” Larcher said.

Embarrassment gave way to general unease.

“I don’t quite agree.”

All eyes turned toward me. I didn’t often speak in meetings, and never to express my disapproval. I decided on a soft approach. “I think what you suggest is not in the interest of our firm. A candidate who doesn’t suit a post that’s to be filled today will perhaps fit one we have tomorrow. We have everything to gain, in the long run, from developing a pool of candidates who value our interviews and have confidence in us.”

Larcher moved to regain the upper hand. “As far as that’s concerned, no need to worry, my friends. I can reassure you that in this climate—and it’s not about to change—there are far more candidates than vacancies to be filled, and we don’t need to run after them. Rattle a dustbin and ten fall out. You only have to bend down and pick them up.”

A wave of sniggering went around the room.

Summoning all my courage, I said, “As far as I’m concerned, I’m attached to certain ethics. We’re not a company that recruits for its own benefit. Our job is to fill others’ needs. Therefore, our mission goes beyond the simple selection of a candidate, and I think it’s our role to advise those who don’t fit the profile of the moment. It’s our social responsibility, you might say. In any event, it’s what makes my job one I like.”

Larcher listened, still smiling, but as happened every time his interests were threatened, his expression changed imperceptibly; his smile became a little carnivorous.

“I think, my friends, that Alan has forgotten he works for Dunker Consulting and not for Mother Teresa.”

He started to laugh, quickly joined by Thomas, then Mickaël. “If you’re in any doubt,” he went on, “look at the little box at the bottom of your pay slip, and you’ll realize that a charity wouldn’t pay you like that.”

A few people chuckled.

Larcher’s eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on me. “Now, Alan, you’re going to have to keep your nose to the grindstone to earn that salary. And it’s not by playing at being a social worker that you’re going to do it.”

“I earn the firm money,” I countered. “My salary is highly cost-effective, and therefore it’s deserved.”

Deathly silence in the room. All my colleagues were looking at their feet. The atmosphere was oppressive. Larcher was obviously very surprised by my reaction; that’s probably what disconcerted him the most.

“It’s not for you to judge,” he said finally, in an aggressive tone, no doubt convinced that it was vital to maintain his authority by having the last word. “It’s for us to fix your targets, not you. And so far, you haven’t met them.”

The meeting finished quickly. It was clear that Larcher was very annoyed by the direction it had taken, which had lessened the impact of his message. The one time I’d had the courage to disagree, I might have been better advised to keep quiet. And yet, I was happy to have expressed my convictions and not let my values be trampled on.

I left the meeting room and went back to my office, preferring not to see Larcher. I didn’t want to see anyone, in fact. I waited for everyone to go to lunch before leaving myself. I opened my door a crack. Silence. I walked down the corridor. Just as I passed Thomas’s office, his phone rang. The switchboard was closed. Someone must be calling his direct line.

I don’t know what came over me. It was neither my habit nor office procedure to answer someone else’s phone, but the ringing was so insistent that I decided to go ahead. I opened the door to his office. Everything was tidy. His files were in a neat pile, and his Mont Blanc pen was placed just so. A very slight perfume floated in the air. Perhaps his aftershave … I picked up the phone, a much more elegant model than we had in the rest of the department.

“Al …” I was going to say my name to let the caller know I was not Thomas, but he didn’t give me time, cutting me off and talking at top speed with a voice full of hatred. “What you’ve done is shitty. I clearly told you I hadn’t resigned yet and was counting on your total discretion. I know you called my boss to tell him his head of administration was going to resign and that you were offering to find his replacement.”

“Please, I’m not …”

“Shut up! I know it’s you because I haven’t sent my resumé anywhere else. You hear? Nowhere! It can only be you. It’s disgusting.”

10

I
WAS COMING
out of the building when Alice suddenly appeared. She had obviously been waiting for me since the end of the meeting.

“Are you going to lunch?” she asked.

She was smiling, but I detected some uneasiness. Was she afraid to be seen with me?

“Yes,” I told her.

She waited a second, as if she wished the idea would come from me, and then said, “Shall we have lunch together?”

“Yes, let’s.”

“I know a really nice restaurant that’s a bit out of the way. That way, we can talk freely.”

“What’s it called?”

“Le Repaire d’Arthus.”

“Never heard of it.”

“It’s rather … original. I won’t say any more about it. I’ll let you discover it for yourself.”

“As long as they don’t eat strange animals, it’ll be fine.”

“You Americans! You’re so squeamish.”

We walked down the Rue Molière and at the end ducked into a vaulted passageway connecting with the arcade that runs along the interior garden of the Palais Royal. What a haven of peace the garden is, in the midst of this busy district in the heart of Paris! Rows of chestnut trees, paths of packed earth, and the massive old building itself, loaded with history. Under the arches, we could smell the faint musty odor of centuries-old stone, as the click of our heels resounded on the worn flagstones.

At the north end of the garden, we climbed a staircase with a pretty wrought-iron handrail. We passed a shop selling old music boxes then turned into the Rue Croix des Petits Champs. The sidewalk of this busy old Parisian street is so narrow we had to walk single file. Each of the little shops we passed seemed unique, light-years from the big chain stores that sell the same things in every city of the world. An umbrella seller stood next to a pork butcher’s, next to a hat seller, followed by a tea merchant, then a specialist in craft jewelry. Food shops, shoe repairers, an antiquarian bookshop—I wanted to stop and look at them all.

“Do you know the Galerie Vivienne?” Alice asked.

“Not at all,” I told her.

We crossed the street and went under an archway squeezed between two shops, emerging in one of Paris’s famous covered passages. A beautiful relic of past centuries with a vaulted ceiling of glass and wrought iron, the gallery had been restored to its former glory. Upscale boutiques and restaurants lined the passageway. Our footsteps echoed like castanets as we walked along the mosaic floor. Away from the crowds and hustle bustle of the city, the gallery is an oasis of almost religious calm. Bathed in soft light, it has a melancholic serenity.

“The gallery dates from early in the 19th century,” Alice explained. “It was a fashionable gathering place during the Restoration. I come here when I need to take a break and forget the office for a bit.”

Back on the street, we noticed the smell of warm bread coming from a nearby bakery. It made me very hungry all of a sudden.

“Here we are!” said Alice, moments later, pointing to a restaurant with a deep gray painted facade.

We entered a small room with just 20 tables. The décor was baroque, and the walls were hung with pictures made up of quotations in carved wood frames. The owner—short, fair-haired, 40-ish, with a silk scarf knotted at the neck of his pink shirt—was in the midst of a conversation with two customers. He broke off as soon as he saw Alice.

“Here’s my recruiting sergeant!” he said in a mannered voice that if it hadn’t been accompanied by a knowing smile, would have seemed obsequious.

“I’ve already told you not to call me that, Arthus,” Alice said with a laugh.

He kissed her hand.

“And who is the handsome prince accompanying you today?” he asked, eyeing me intensely from head to toe. “Madame has good taste … and she’s taking risks, bringing him to Arthus.”

“Alan is a colleague,” Alice told him.

“Oh! You’re one as well! Don’t try and seduce me. I warn you: I’m quite unemployable in a company.”

“I only recruit accountants,” I replied.

“Oh,” he said, simulating great sadness. “He’s only interested in number-crunchers.”

“Have you got a table for us, by any chance, Arthus? I haven’t booked.”

“My astrologer told me that an important person would come today, so I’ve kept this table. It’s for you.”

“You’re too kind.”

He handed us the menus with great elegance. Alice put hers down without a glance.

“You’re not looking at it?” I asked.

“No point.”

I shot her an inquiring look, but she merely gave me an enigmatic little smile.

The menu was fairly extensive, and everything looked appetizing. Not easy to choose from such a fine variety of dishes. I hadn’t even finished reading when our host came to take our order.

“Madame Alice.”

“I’ll leave it to you, Arthus.”

“Oh, I like it when women submit to me! Henceforth, you’re mine. Has my handsome prince made up his mind?” he said, leaning toward me slightly.

“I’ll have a
mille-feuille,
a napoleon with tomatoes with basil, and …”

“No, no, no,” he muttered.

“Sorry?”

“No, no, that’s not a starter for a prince. Let me choose. Let’s see. I’m going to make you chicory with Roquefort.”

I was a little put out by his attitude.

“What’s Roquefort?”

Arthus’s jaw dropped in mock surprise.

“What? My prince is joking, isn’t he?”

“My colleague is American,” explained Alice. “He’s only been living in France for a few months.”

“But he has no accent,” Arthus said. “And he’s cute and not too big for a Yank. You weren’t brought up on cornflakes and Big Macs?”

“His mother was French, but he’s always lived in the States.”

“Right. We’ll have to educate him. I’m counting on you, Alice. I’ll look after him from the culinary point of view. So let’s start with Roquefort. You know that France has more than five hundred cheeses?”

“We’ve got a number in the States, you know.”

“No, you haven’t,” he said vigorously, with mock exasperation. “We’re not talking about the same thing! Not at all. What you have isn’t cheese, it’s plastic wrapped in cellophane. It’s gelatinous gum flavored with salt.

“We’re going to have to teach him everything!” Arthus continued. “Right. Let’s start with Roquefort. Roquefort is the king of cheeses, and the king of cheeses—”

I interrupted him. “Okay, let’s go with the chicory and Roquefort. Then, I’ll carry on with—”

“We don’t
carry on,
here, my prince. It’s not a pantomime.”

“Right. I’ll follow it up with—”