The Man Who Risked It All (17 page)

Dunker pointed me to a chair two yards away from him, facing the group. I sat down, trying to appear both indifferent and sure of myself. Not easy.

“This is how it works,” he said, talking to the group. “First of all, it must be pointed out to the candidate that this is a game and that none of what we’re going to say to him corresponds to reality. It’s just for the test. It’s important to tell him this, in order not to get us into trouble. The press is giving us a rough enough time as it is at the moment.”

What was going on here? I could tell it was going to be no laughing matter. I had to hang in there at all costs.

“My role,” he went on, “is to give Mr. Greenmor some fairly simple mental arithmetic problems.”

Mental arithmetic? That was okay. I was expecting worse. I would be able to look after myself.

“Meanwhile,” he continued, “you’re going to say things to him, things that are rather unflattering—criticism, reproaches. In short, your objective is to undermine his morale by saying all the unpleasant things that come into your head. I know some of you don’t know Alan Greenmor well, or at all. It doesn’t matter. You’re not trying to say what’s true, just unpleasant criticisms to try and discourage him.”

What was this rubbish? I wasn’t going to let myself be lynched in public.

“I don’t see the point of this test,” I said.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? The candidate who has genuine self-confidence will not be perturbed in any way by criticism that is not justified.”

I understood that Dunker had seen in me the ideal person to act as his stooge. He obviously felt that I was fairly easily unsettled. He was almost certain to make a brilliant success of his demonstration, to impress the crowd at my expense. I mustn’t take part. Absolutely not. I had nothing to gain and everything to lose.
Quick: Find an excuse, anything, but get out of it
, I thought.

“Mr. Dunker, this test seems to me to be very difficult to use in recruitment. It’s not very ethical.”

“There’s no problem as long as you are perfectly transparent. Besides, the candidate will be free to agree to it or not.”

“Precisely, nobody will agree to it.”

“Mr. Greenmor, you are a consultant, aren’t you?”

I hate people who ask you questions they know the answer to, just to force you to confirm what they’re saying. I simply looked him in the eye.

“So you ought to know that candidates are ready to do a lot to get a good job.”

I wasn’t going to win on this line of argument. He would always have an answer.
Find something else to say right away … or tell the truth
.

“I don’t wish to take part in this exercise,” I said, getting up.

A murmur ran through the room. I was proud to have had the courage to refuse. I probably wouldn’t have had it a few weeks before.

I had already taken three steps toward my seat when Dunker called out, “Do you know the definition of grave professional misconduct in French law, Mr. Greenmor?”

I froze, still with my back to him. I didn’t answer. Total silence fell in the room. I swallowed hard.

“Serious misconduct,” he went on in his odious voice, “is defined by the employee’s intention to harm his employer. A refusal to take part in this test would harm me because it would undermine my demonstration in front of the whole team that has met specially for the occasion. That’s not your intention, Mr. Greenmor, is it?”

I remained silent, still with my back to him. The blood was beating in my temples.

No need to draw me a picture. I was perfectly aware of the consequences of grave professional misconduct: no notice, no severance pay, and loss of any accrued vacation pay. I would have to leave immediately, empty-handed.

“Is it, Mr. Greenmor?”

My body felt leaden, fixed to the ground. My head was empty.

“Make up your mind, Greenmor.”

Did I really have a choice? It was horrible. To be honest, I shouldn’t have refused in the first place; I wouldn’t have found myself in this humiliating position. The only way out was to do his stupid test. I had to get a grip on myself. Swallow my pride. Come on. Come on. I made a superhuman effort and turned around. Everyone’s eyes were on me. I went back to the chair without looking at Dunker, sat down in silence, my eyes riveted on a spot on the ground. I was on fire. My ears were ringing. I had to get back in control again. Forget the shame. Gather my wits. Find the energy. Channel it. Breathe. Yes, that’s it. Breathe. Calm down.

He took his time, and then began to call out his calculations.

“Nine times twelve?”

Don’t hurry to reply. I wasn’t his pupil.

“One hundred and eight.”

“Fourteen plus seventeen?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Twenty-three minus eight?”

I forced myself to slow the rhythm of my answers. I had to refocus, gather my strength. I would need them. Zen.

“Fifteen.”

He waved his arms at the group to invite them to make criticisms. I continued avoiding their eyes. I could hear coughs, an embarrassed hubbub and … silence.

“It’s up to you, now!” he said, motioning them to jump in. “You must say anything negative that comes to mind about Mr. Greenmor.”

I had become
Mr.
again.

“Don’t worry,” he said to the group. “Let me remind you that you’re not trying to say what’s true. Besides, we all know that Alan has mainly positive qualities. It’s just a game, for the purpose of the test. Come on, speak your mind!”

So now I was
Alan
again. Almost his friend. And I only had positive qualities. What a manipulator.

“You’re useless.”

The first hostile remark.

“Eight times nine?” Dunker asked.

“Seventy-two.”

“Forty-seven times two?”

“Ninety-four.”

“More, more,” he shouted at the group, waving his arms. He was berating my colleagues like a general urging his troops to come out of the trenches and fight under enemy fire.

“You can’t count!”

Second hostile remark.

“Thirty-eight divided by two?”

I took a deep breath in order to break the rhythm he was trying to impose.

“Nineteen.”

“Go on! Go on!”

It was as if he was shouting at people pushing a broken-down car until they reached the necessary speed to start the engine.

“You’re no good!”

So far the remarks had left me indifferent. They didn’t ring true; my colleagues were even more embarrassed than I was.

“Thirteen times four?”

“Fifty-two.”

“Amateur!”

“Thirty-seven plus twenty-eight?”

“Buck up!”

“Sixty-five.”

“Faster! Out with it!” Dunker shouted at the group.

“Nineteen times three?”

“You’re dawdling!”

“Too slow!”

“Fifty-seven.”

“You’re rubbish at math!”

Dunker now had a satisfied smile on his face.

“Sixty-four minus eighteen?”

“Useless!”

“You can’t count!”

“No good!”

The attacks were beginning to come from all over. I had to concentrate on Dunker’s questions and forget about the others. Block them out.

“Forty-six.”

“Second-rater!”

“Slacker!”

“Hurry up!”

“You’re so slow!”

The machine was out of control now. Everybody was shouting at me at the same time. Dunker had won.

“Twenty-three plus eighteen?”

“You don’t know.”

Don’t listen to them. Visualize the figures. Nothing but the figures: 23 and 18.

“You’re no good!”

“Much too slow!”

Nasty laughter in the room.

“Idiot!”

“Halfwit!”

“Dunce!”

“No hope, you’ve no chance!”

“You’re screwed!”

They were becoming like excited wild animals, as they entered into the spirit of the game.

“Twenty-three plus eighteen?” Dunker repeated, all smiles.

“Forty-two, no …”

The smile grew wider.

“You goofed up!”

“Can’t count!”

“Forty-one.”

“Twelve plus fourteen?”

“You won’t get it!”

“You’re useless!”

“You’re pitiful!”

Twelve plus fourteen. Twelve, fourteen.

“Twenty-four. Twenty-six!”

“You’re worse and worse!”

“Eight times nine?”

“Rubbish!”

“Sixty-two. No … eight times nine, seventy-two.”

“You don’t know your tables, moron!”

I was going under. Completely. Had to refocus. Cut myself off from what I was feeling.

“Four times seven?”

“Idiot!”

“You won’t get it!”

“You don’t know!”

“You’re a waste of space!”

“Four times seven?” Dunker repeated.

“You dummy!”

“Twenty … four.”

“You’ve screwed up!”

“Cretin!”

“Dope!”

“Jerk!”

“Three times two?”

“Ha, ha! Can’t count!”

“Three times two?”

Laughter, loud and horrible. Some people were doubled over, laughing hysterically. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.

“Two times two?”

“He’s forgotten his two-times table!”

“Two times two?” Dunker repeated, euphoric.

“Moron!”

All of a sudden, Dunker stopped and silenced the group.

“Okay, that’s enough!”

“Waste of space!”

“Stop, that’s enough! That’s enough!”

I was bewildered, stunned. I felt very, very ill. Dunker had realized this and immediately became serious. It had turned nasty. He knew he was responsible and must have known the risk he was running.

“It’s over,” he said. “We went a bit too far. This was just practice. In a real situation, we’d stop sooner. But here we were dealing with someone strong. It was all right, wasn’t it?” he said, looking at me. “I suggest we give Alan a round of applause for his courage. It can’t have been easy!”

Suddenly brought out of its trance, looking disconcerted and embarrassed, the group half-heartedly clapped. I caught sight of Alice, her eyes full of tears.

“Well done, my friend! You did really well,” Dunker said, giving me a big slap on the back as I left the room.

16

I
FLED THE
office, not bothering to finish the day. Nobody would dare criticize me for leaving. I left the building, turned left, and strode along the sidewalk with no particular destination. I just had to empty out the stress.

This painful experience had completely thrown me off center, and I felt violent anger toward Dunker. How could I now meet my colleagues’ eyes when I walked past them? That bastard had publicly humiliated me. He would pay for it. Dearly. I would find the way to make him regret playing with people like that.

The fact that the test had shown my lack of self-confidence paradoxically put me in a strong position. Things had gone too far, in public, and Dunker was responsible for that. I was probably in a position to give him a few problems on a legal level, and he must be aware of that. I was becoming almost untouchable.

I got a text message from Dubreuil and lit the prescribed cigarette. He would know how to help me get revenge, that was for sure. If only he would stop ordering me to light up all the time! Smoking is fine when you decide to do it but not when you’re made to.

Meditating on my revenge, I walked through the streets of Paris. The sky was threatening, full of big, black clouds. The air smelled of a thunderstorm. I was walking so fast that sweat began to gather on my brow. Was it the exertion or my anger? I could no doubt file a complaint and get some compensation, but then what? How could I carry on working in those conditions? The atmosphere would become unbearable. My colleagues would probably no longer dare to be seen in my company. Would I last long in such circumstances? Of course not.

Gradually, my anger gave way to bitterness, then despondency. I hadn’t felt so depressed since the day Audrey left me. She was a shooting star in my life, come to let me experience joy before disappearing in the night. If only she’d told me the reasons for her decision. If she had expressed criticism or blame, I could have blamed myself for her loss, or blamed her and thereby given her up more easily. As it was, her sudden, unexplained departure had prevented me from turning the page, from drawing a line under our relationship, and I missed her terribly. When my thoughts turned back to her, the loss tormented me. The memory of her smile bathed me in sadness. A part of me had disappeared with her. My body missed her body, and my soul felt orphaned.

It started to rain, a fine, melancholic drizzle. I carried on walking, slower now. I didn’t want to go home. Turning my back to the Louvre, I left the Rue de Rivoli and entered the Tuileries Garden, empty now, the people chased away by the rain. I walked along a path, under the trees. Finally, I sat down on an isolated stump. I thought of how unfair life could be. My childhood no doubt explained the lack of self-confidence I suffered from. I wasn’t responsible for it, and it tortured me. And as if that wasn’t enough, it attracted all the sorts for whom I was a natural victim, punishing me all over again. Life doesn’t spare those who are suffering; it inflicts a double penalty on us.

I remained like this for a long time. In the end, I got up and instinctively headed for Dubreuil’s neighborhood. He alone would be able to restore my morale.

The rain was beginning to stream down my cheeks and my neck. I felt as if it was washing me of what I had suffered, cleansing me of my shame.

I arrived at the gate to the mansion at the end of the day. The windows were closed, and the place seemed lifeless. I was suddenly certain that Dubreuil was not there. Usually he gave off such energy that it seemed possible to feel his presence even without seeing him, as if his aura could radiate through the walls.

I rang the videophone.

A man told me that monsieur had gone out. He didn’t know when he would be back.

“What about Catherine?”

“She is never here when he is away, sir.”

I wandered in the area a bit, finding pretexts not to go home, then had a bite to eat in one of the few local restaurants. I was frustrated not to see Dubreuil. A thought entered my mind: Suppose he, too, was the sort attracted by my weakness? After all, I had met him in very special circumstances, where my fragility was totally exposed. All this brought me back again to his motives for taking an interest in me, for helping me. Why was he doing all this? I would so have liked to know more, but how? I had no means of investigating.