The Man Who Risked It All (34 page)

Euphoric, I left my office and rushed to the staff room. I didn’t exactly expect to find champagne coming out of the machines, but I drank a Perrier, savoring my first victory.

Returning to my office, I passed cubicles full of employees stressed out by the ever more dehumanizing management style, harassed by the demands of stock-market profitability, and no longer motivated by an exciting business plan. What a waste to see all these people unhappy on the job when every one of them could be fulfilled, could bloom in their work! The contrast with my enthusiasm at that moment was stark. I suddenly understood that it wasn’t just my fear of Dubrovski that was making me take on my final task. Caught up in the whirlwind of an intoxicating game whose first round I had just won, I felt within me the first stirrings of a calling, a mission. Even though I risked losing everything and finding myself in the street, I had only one desire now: to go to the end.

Coming back from lunch, Marc Dunker casually glanced at his share price on the Internet. “What’s all this shit?” he suddenly shouted.

Andrew’s voice could be heard from the next room. “Do you need anything, sir?”

Dunker ignored him. “What’s happening, for Christ’s sake?” he bellowed.

Andrew appeared in the doorway. “Did you read the newspapers I put on your desk this morning, sir?”

“No, why? What’s up?” Dunker asked, worried.

“Er … it would appear there have been leaks, sir.”

Marc Dunker’s heart skipped a beat. He jumped up and grabbed the pile of papers. “What are you saying?” he asked, madly searching through
La Tribune
, half-tearing pages as he went.

“Page twelve, sir,” Andrew prompted.

Dunker immediately saw the article his secretary had highlighted in yellow. He read it, then closed the paper and slowly sat down.

“There is a black sheep among us,” he said with a thoughtful air. He was calm, but his face had gone red. “It doesn’t matter,” he stated, as though to convince himself. “In a couple of weeks, everybody will have forgotten.”

47

D
UNKER WAS RIGHT
: The stock exchange has a short memory. For ten or so days, the Dunker Consulting share price remained at the level it had fallen to, then slowly started rising again. The investors apparently couldn’t have cared less about the fate of the unfortunate candidates replying to bogus vacancies. All our CEO had to do was publish projected accounts so optimistic they were laughable for the financial markets to regain confidence. Investors, it seems, seldom look too deeply into the real capabilities of a business. In any case, the reality matters very little, as long as everyone involved gets excited. Fortunately, I had a little surprise up my sleeve, likely to calm them down.

I called Fisherman at
Les Echos
. Had my prediction coming true put an end to his skepticism? I now had to strengthen my embryonic credibility.

“I have another piece of information for you,” I said in a confidential tone of voice.

Zero reaction from Fisherman. But he didn’t hang up.

“The Dunker Consulting share price will go down by more than four percent the day after tomorrow,” I told him.

Once more, I had pulled a figure out of thin air. A little bird told me that the accumulation of scandalous news would amplify the stock exchange’s reaction.

“The day after tomorrow?”

A miracle. He had spoken. He was licking the hook with the tip of his tongue.

“Yes, the day after tomorrow.”

That way I was leaving him time to print his predictions in tomorrow’s edition of the paper.

No answer.

I hung up, beginning to regret having chosen Fisherman. I had bet on him because of his constant criticism of my company in his articles, but my mistake had been to believe that he had it in for my boss personally and would leap at anything that tarnished the firm. Perhaps I’d projected my own feelings onto Fisherman. Thinking about it, he seemed totally devoid of emotion. He was critical of Dunker only because he didn’t believe in his strategy.

This realization spoiled the rest of my day. My whole plan depended on Fisherman. Was I failing already? That evening, I had great difficulty going to sleep.

The next day at dawn, I went down to the kiosk to buy
Les Echos
. Not the slightest word in it about Dunker Consulting. I was disgusted. It was too late to turn to another journalist. I was probably going to use the last of my ammunition for nothing, but I had to continue counting on Fisherman. When a gambler has played red all evening in vain, he seldom has the courage to put his final bet on black, because if, as ill luck would have it, red came up, he would never forgive himself.

At lunchtime, I went back to the fax machine and sent every newsroom irrefutable proof that Dunker Consulting had knowingly decided to canvass insolvent companies.

It had taken me nearly three days just to choose the theme of my talk. Obviously, you can only speak well about a topic you know. That being so, I had a choice between accounting—my original training—and my present profession, recruitment. The latter was a minefield. I risked having my audience remember unpleasant personal experiences of job hunting and then projecting their resentment onto me. So I took refuge in a topic from accounting. Besides, wasn’t it a hiding place for all the timid people on the earth? My talk might not be very exciting, but at least I was lessening the chance of endangering my relationship with the audience. If they fell asleep, I would feel all the safer.

I prepared my text with great care. When you suffer from stage fright, it’s very useful to have a script to hang on to in order not to stand there desperately searching for words, mouth dry and head empty.

I arrived at Speech-Masters early. It would be comforting to see the associates arrive one by one rather than having to face them all at once. It would give me time to get acclimated—to master my fear and not let it grab me by the throat and rob me of my intellectual powers.

Éric greeted me kindly, putting me at ease right away. I looked at the platform like a condemned man looks at the scaffold from which he’s about to hang. I was surprised to see a microphone. On my previous visit, I hadn’t noticed that the room was equipped with a public address system.

People trickled in, saying hello to Éric, then joking among themselves. It was very pleasant and reassuring, even if, at the same time, I couldn’t help but think that if they were regulars, they had no doubt reached a level much above mine.

Éric shut the door at the agreed time, which was a miracle for Paris, a city where everyone thinks it’s normal to be 30 minutes late. I was glad to see that there were no more than 25 members present. I would be more at ease than if there had been a full house.

After a few announcements, Éric said to the group, “Today, I have the pleasure of welcoming a new member … “

Breathe,
I told myself.
Take deep breaths. Relax.

“… who is going to make his first speech: Alan Greenmor.”

Everyone clapped as I stepped onto the platform. My heart was pounding. All eyes were fixed on me. I took the microphone in my right hand, keeping my notes in the left so I could refer to them if need be.

“Hello, everyone,” I began. My voice was muted, as if it was stuck in my throat. My lips were trembling, and my body felt stiff. “I’m going to talk to you about a topic that I’m aware doesn’t have much sex appeal: American accounting practices.”

General laughter, immediately followed by thunderous applause.

Hey, what’s going on here?
I thought. This wasn’t what I had expected. I had spent nearly an hour looking for something funny to start my speech with, but I didn’t think it would be so successful. Their response immediately warmed my heart. My stage fright dropped 50 percent.
Let’s carry on. But I must articulate better, place my voice better.

“I studied the subject for four years in the U.S., and, er …”

Damn! What was I supposed to say next? A blank. A complete blank. Yet I knew my speech by heart! Oh, right, my notes.

Reading from my notes, I continued: “When I landed in France, where I come from on my mother’s side, and looked for work.”

I must seem such a moron reading a cheat sheet in front of everyone. It’s so uncool.

I continued, “The consultant in a large recruitment firm that you all know told me with a big smile that French accounting practices were so different from American ones that I might as well put my American qualifications in the garbage.”

More laughter. They’re all looking at me with broad smiles, in such a kindly way. I love them.

“He, too, laughed a lot as he told me that. I didn’t.”

Another outbreak of laughter, then long applause. I couldn’t believe it. It’s crazy how much fun it is to make an audience laugh. I suddenly understood why some people make a career of it.

“So I felt the need to study the differences between the French and American accounting systems.”

No more stage fright. I feel good, light. It’s wonderful.

I continued for ten or so minutes, managing to free myself almost completely from my notes. The audience looked really interested in the topic, which wasn’t that easy to achieve, believe me. Apparently, I was succeeding in capturing their attention, arousing their interest. I felt astonishingly good, more and more at ease. I even allowed myself to move around the platform as I spoke, still looking at the audience.

I finished amidst particularly loud applause, mingled with cheers. Some members stood up, soon followed by others, then the whole room.
A standing ovation!
I couldn’t get over it. They were chanting my name. I was deliriously happy.

Éric joined me on the stage, continuing to applaud. Then he asked everyone to take a few minutes to write down their comments.

A few moments later, Éric gave me a large envelope containing pieces of paper folded in four. I went and sat down in a corner of the room and started impatiently unfolding the messages, curious to know what little defects and points for improvement the audience had picked out. My surprise increased as I went through the comments and saw that 100 percent of them were positive! It was incredible, unimaginable. I couldn’t get over it. It seemed that behind the fear that had paralyzed me lay a hidden talent, a natural gift that was just asking to express itself.

Éric came to say that after a very first session, he advised going home at once rather than sitting through the other talks, so I could remember my performance better while quietly rereading the comments. I waved good-bye to the assembled associates and left.

I climbed the dark staircase as if I was climbing the steps to a palace, carried by my success. Nourished by the new strength I had gained, I felt ready to set out, if the day came, to meet my destiny.

48

“W
E HAVE A
traitor in our midst!”

“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Andrew, appearing in the doorway.

Dunker gestured to the two newspapers lying open on his desk. Then he dropped back in his chair, with the annoyed look he wore on bad days.

Andrew came up to the desk to look. The headline on
La Tribune
read, “Dunker Consulting: After the Bogus Vacancies, the Bogus Clients?”

Le Figaro:
“After the Job Vacancies without Jobs, the Clients Without Money.”

“That’s not good for our company!” remarked Andrew.

Dunker looked daggers at him. “Any more clever analyses where that one came from, Andrew?”

The Englishman blushed slightly but didn’t reply. He should have kept quiet. When the boss was in this mood, he would take it out on you by using the slightest thing you said against you.

“Yes, a traitor on the team, it’s obvious!” repeated Dunker. “The share price is going to go down more.”

He turned to his computer and nervously tapped on the keyboard.

“There we are! All it takes is some idiotic news making the rounds for these wimps to panic and sell! The share price is down two percent! And the market has only just opened!”