The Man Who Risked It All (38 page)
“The choice is yours. In the end, it’s not a CEO you are going to choose, but the sort of satisfaction you want to feel in the long run. On the one hand, you will have the satisfaction of having maximized your revenue and perhaps going a bit farther for your holiday at the end of the year, or buying a slightly bigger car, or leaving a little more money for your children to inherit. On the other hand, you will have the satisfaction of taking part in a fabulous adventure: the return of humanism to the business world. And each day you will perhaps feel a little glow of pride, the pride of having contributed to building a better world, the world you will leave to your children.”
I looked out at all the people. They seemed close, despite being so numerous. I had told them what I had in my mind and heart; there was no point in adding anything. I didn’t feel the need to finish with a well-turned formula to mark the end of my speech and set off applause. Besides, it wasn’t a speech, simply the expression of my deepest convictions, of my faith in a different future. I stayed a few seconds just looking at the assembled, in a silence that no longer frightened me. Then I went back to my isolated chair, apart from the others. The directors at the table were looking at their feet.
The vote and the count lasted an eternity. It was already night when I became CEO of Dunker Consulting.
T
HE NEARER
I got, walking along the paths through the perfumed gardens of the Champ de Mars, the more gigantic the Eiffel Tower seemed, dominating me with its immense height. Lit crimson by the setting sun, it was majestic and disquieting at the same time. Yet there was no longer any objective reason for my apprehension. The success of my final task the day before freed me from Igor’s clutches, and we were going to be able to celebrate my victory in peace. But somehow, in my eyes, the tower remained a trap. I had the feeling of going back into a cage that I had escaped.
Reaching the foot of the Iron Lady, I looked up at the top. Vertigo made me reel. I felt minute and fragile, a penitent kneeling at the feet of a god-like giant, begging it to grant him mercy.
I headed for the south tower, weaving through the tourists, and introduced myself to the man who was screening people waiting to use The Jules Verne’s private elevator.
“What name is the reservation under?” he asked, about to look at the list he had in his hand.
“I’m with Monsieur Igor Dubrovski.”
“Right, sir, please follow me,” he replied at once, without even looking at the piece of paper.
I followed him into the space at the foot of the tower. He gave a discreet sign to his colleague, who was waiting with some customers. We slipped in front of them and entered the old, narrow elevator with its iron-and-glass walls. The door closed noisily behind us like a dungeon door, and we rose among the tangle of metal that constitutes the tower.
“Monsieur Dubrovski hasn’t arrived yet,” he told me. “You’re the first.”
The elevator rushed upward. Arriving at the second floor, I felt a pang as I recognized the great wheel pulling the elevator cable. I felt my hands become moist. The man led me to a maître d’ who greeted me with great distinction. I followed him across the restaurant to our table, next to the window. He offered me an aperitif while I waited. I chose a Perrier.
The atmosphere was subdued and pleasant. A restrained décor in black and white. The late-day sun reached into every corner, accentuating the ethereal feel of the place. A few tables were already occupied. I caught snatches of conversation in foreign languages.
I couldn’t help but shudder when I looked out. Those beams were only too familiar. In the end, it was healthy to come back to the scene of my trauma. I experienced it as the possibility not of wiping out the past but at least of writing another story on top of it.
What a lot of ground I had covered since that day. I felt as if I had freed myself from my chains, like a boat casting off the moorings that have kept it dockside. I had discovered that most of my fears were just an invention of my mind. Reality sometimes takes the shape of a terrifying dragon that disappears when you dare to look at it head on. Spurred on by Igor, I had mastered the dragons in my mind, and it now seemed to be inhabited by benevolent angels.
Igor … Igor Dubrovski. Yves Dubreuil. Was he going to shed light on the shadowy areas that remained, now that our pact was coming to its end? Was I going to understand at last his motives, or would I continue to see him as an old, half-mad psychiatrist?
Time was passing, and Igor hadn’t come. The restaurant was gradually filling up, and the ballet of waiters, maître d’s, and sommeliers was being played out, a fluid and silent choreography. I had another drink. A bourbon this time. I never drank the stuff, but suddenly I wanted one.
Igor wouldn’t come. I knew it deep down. In a confused way, I could feel it.
I dined alone, carried by the mildness of the evening, lulled by the languorous chords of a jazz-inspired pianist. In the sky, the stars were shining peacefully.
T
HE MAN SAT
down comfortably under the arbor and placed next to him the cup of steaming coffee he had brought. He got a cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips. He struck a match on the side of a little box, broke the match, and swore as he threw the broken end on the ground. The second match caught fire at once, and he lit the cigarette, taking a drag.
It was the best moment of the day. The sun had barely begun to rise in the still pale blue sky. It was going to be hot.
The man opened his paper,
La Provence
, and read the headlines on the front page. Not much news at the end of August. Another forest fire rapidly brought under control by the Marseilles fire department with the help of Canadair fire-fighting planes.
Must have been a pyromaniac,
he thought,
or some thoughtless tourists picnicking in the countryside despite the ban.
Another article reported on the increased numbers attending summer festivals, which nonetheless didn’t always cover costs.
We’re going to have to pay for the Parisians’ concerts with our local taxes again,
he said to himself.
He drank a sip of coffee and opened the paper to the inside pages.
The photo leapt out at him. Underneath, the headline in bold said: “A 24-year-old Man Elected CEO of the Biggest French Recruitment Firm.”
His cigarette fell out of the corner of his mouth.
“Well, I never! Josette, come and have a look at this!”
You can no more judge a man by his job title than you can judge a book by its cover. However, it inevitably changes the way others see him. My return to the office, two days after my election, was rather off-putting. There was a small crowd in the lobby when I arrived. It was as if the disbelief after the announcement of my election was such that my colleagues wanted to check the results for themselves. Each one greeted me after his fashion, but none of them addressed me as they normally would. I could already feel that personal interests were at play—I couldn’t hold it against them, and some were being cautious, while others were obviously inspired by the wish to cozy up to me in order to benefit from it sooner or later. Thomas was the most flattering among them, which didn’t surprise me. Only Alice was genuine in her reaction, and I felt her satisfaction was sincere.
I didn’t hang around but went up to my office. I had barely been there a quarter of an hour when Marc Dunker turned up.
“Let’s not beat around the bush,” he began, without even saying hello. “Since you’re going to fire me, we might as well get it over with. Sign here; that way it’s over and done with!”
He held out a sheet of paper. It was a letter typed on company letterhead and addressed to him, indicating that his services were no longer needed. Under the signature line, it read:
Alan Greenmor, Chief Executive Officer.
This guy was so used to deciding everything that he was sacking himself! I took the letter and tore it in two, then tossed it in the wastebasket. He stared at me, stupefied.
“I’ve thought about it long and hard,” I said. “Rather than serve as both president and managing director of the company, I’ve decided to keep just the overall presidency and to appoint a separate managing director. I’m offering you the job. You worship efficiency; you have a passion for results. We’ll set them to work for a noble cause. From now on, your mission, if you accept it, is to make this company a more humane business, producing high-quality services while respecting everyone from the clients to the employees to the suppliers. As you know, I am betting that happy workers will give the best of themselves, that suppliers treated as partners will rise to the trust we place in them, and that our clients will appreciate the value of what we have to offer.”
“It’ll never work,” Dunker said. “Have you seen the share price? The day after the annual meeting, it lost another eleven percent.”
“Nothing to worry about. It’s just the second big shareholder selling his shares. Henceforth, the company will be made up solely of small investors who believe in the new vision for the business. We’re finished with the pressure of a few big shareholders deciding everything! Now we are part of the same family.”
“You’ll be eaten alive. I give it six months before a competitor launches a hostile takeover! In less than two weeks he’ll be the majority shareholder, and you’ll be fired.”
“Hostile takeovers won’t work. A takeover is just an investor offering to buy the shares at a higher price than the market price. But I must remind you that the shareholders voted for me
after
I pointed out that the share price would go up less quickly than with you. So they’ve signed on to our business plan while giving up hope of short-term financial gain. I’m betting they’ll remain faithful and won’t be tempted by the siren song.”
“You’re not facing reality. They’ll give in. The flesh is weak when money is at stake.”
“You haven’t understood that the situation has changed. Your shareholders couldn’t care less about your business. Their only motivation was the lure of gain. That’s why you were a slave to the profitability of their investment. Those who have stayed with me are now united around a business plan, a real business plan based on a philosophy and values. There is no reason for them to go back on their values now. They’ll stay.”
Dunker looked at me, perplexed. I opened the file in front of me and took out a piece of paper that I held out to him.
“Take it; it’s your new contract. The terms are the same, except that you are now managing director and not CEO.” He looked at me, speechless, for a few seconds. Then I thought I caught a flash of malice in his eyes. He took a pen out of his pocket, leaned over my desk, and signed.
“Okay, I accept.”
At that moment my phone rang.
“There’s a journalist on the phone,” Vanessa said. “Shall I put him through?”
“Okay, put him through.”
Dunker nodded and left.
“Monsieur Greenmor?”
“Speaking.”
“Emmanuel Valgado from BFMTV. I’d like to invite you to be on our program on Tuesday morning. We’d like you to tell us the behind-the-scenes story of your takeover at Dunker Consulting.”
“I don’t really think of it as a takeover.”
“Precisely. That’s what interests us. The taping takes place on Monday at two o’clock. Will you come?”
“Just one thing. Will there be an audience?”
“Twenty people at most. Why?”
“Could I invite one or two people? I have an old promise to keep.”
“No problem.”
Marc Dunker left Alan Greenmor’s office with a slight smile on his lips. The young whippersnapper had had a vague desire for power, but he didn’t have the balls to do it on his own. That’s why he was keeping Marc as managing director. He was incapable of leading the business, and he knew it.
The ex-CEO was already rubbing his hands, as he ran up the stairs two at a time. He would soon gobble up this kid who was so naïve that he wasn’t even careful. No sense of power, that’s for sure. In the end, nothing would change. He, Marc Dunker, would control everything from the managing director position. The presidency would follow obediently. After a year, Marc would present his results to the annual meeting, and when the shareholders learned he had done all the work, he would be elected CEO hands down.