Awakening, 2nd edition (7 page)

A leader . . . What a clever use of English language. What a nerve. They honestly don ’t know what “leader ” means. For them it ’s just a new buzzword. Just another trend. Just a sound. A typical leader for them is an enthusiastic smooth talker who is very good at reading management ’s mood, proficient at running meetings and in possession of decent kiss-up skills. Ignorance is bliss. A true leader is something entirely different . . .

It begins with the face. Old or young, fresh or tired, cute or unattractive—none of this matters. None of it. It ’s all about the faith. The faith that shines from inside. And the voice. Timbre is of no importance. It ’s the passion that makes all the difference. Authentic, impossible -to -imitate passion and bleeding faith dripping from every word, from every gesture. The context, the scope, the message—everything pales in comparison to these true signs of a leader.

“ . . . It is a problem, it ’s a serious, big, ugly problem. But mark my words—we will tackle it and we will prevail!”
“Hey, you! Play by our rules or get lost!”
“Get rid of him. He ’s of no use to us . . .”
“I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat . . .”

Voices blending together into one Voice. Faces blending together into one Face. And behind the Face, behind the Voice, behind the assertiveness and confidence—inner strength and will. An unbreakable combination. A true foundation for everything else. Right circumstances, environment, education—all these factors are important, but they are worth nothing without it. That ’s what being a leader means. And , like it or not, you can ’t become one. No training in the world will ever make you one. You have to be born one.

But obviously not a word will be said about this in that place. This workshop is going to be nothing but a boring extension of the boring fussy world I live in five days a week. People in this world take pride in using words that are more suitable for an army command center than for peaceful office workers. Strategy, losses, troops, power struggles . . . Although “strategy ” in this world refers to tasks such as finding ways to cut expenses by switching to a cheaper brand of toilet paper. And “power struggle ” usually implies the likes of complaining to the manager about a peer with the hidden agenda of seizing a couple of headcounts from the department next door. As for “leader , ” in this world he is often a harmless balding man who until he reached the age of seventeen had been going by the nickname Heffalumpy. Oh well . . . w hy grumble? At least this week will be different.

Different people, different goals . . . It ’s good to have goals in life, isn ’t it? Except there ’s a fine print. Someone said that our goals keep us going, but it ’s our dreams that makes us tick. So if you disconnect your goals from your dreams don ’t be surprised if one morning you realize that your life is on autopilot.

But what if you don’t have dreams in the first place?

Chapte r Two

The mountains were grayish blue. They stood silently, dissecting the fresh morning sky, their steep, broken lines stretching along the entire horizon. As if brought to life by the brush of a skillful impressionist, the ridges were changing their tint from a pale ghostly hue to a soaked -through full color. And beneath them, surrounded by the lush green mass of trees, lay the mirror of the lake.

Michael slowly breathed in cool morning air. This balcony was too welcoming to leave quickly. The view alone was worth waking up at 5:00 a.m. and going for a three -hour drive. He could ’ve taken the option of arriving last night, but another day at work meant less surprises with the project ; h ence the jolly sound of the alarm clock at five in the morning and the crack-of-dawn trip.

The mountain highway, fearlessly clinging to the rim of a breathtakingly steep canyon, gave way to a gravel road looping among majestic woods. The road ended unexpectedly with an idyllic landscape. Right in the middle of the landscape , a two-story lodge towered proudly. Its long logs had darkened with age, and it was easy to assume that this construction went back at least a hundred years. Yet the building was free of any signs of decay. On the contrary, the tall straight walls exuded sturdy strength like an ancient but still living and mighty tree.

The lodge stood right by the waterline, its shiny windows looking out over the sleepy lake. Three snow-white powerboats, accompanied by a couple of wooden boats with bright -red oars, rocked softly on the waves by the short wooden pier.

Flashes, then, like well-edited scenes in a movie : a professional welcoming smile from the concierge ; a spacious lounge with stuffed animals and deer antlers on the walls ; a room ’s dark wooden door ; a huge bed with a dark wood en headboard . The workshop was scheduled to begin in twenty minutes, but Michael had no desire to spend this time alone in his room. He tossed his jacket on the bed and left for the boardroom , where, according to the card on the desk, the workshop was about to take place.

A cozy midsize conference room with a skillfully created business world atmosphere and a touch of comfort and relaxation welcomed visitors . Four round tables arranged in a half-moon and the glossy folders neatly placed on their surfaces hinted at the expected number of attendees . A rectangular table facing the round ones designated the place from which the wisdom was about to be imparted . Two of its cousins settled along the walls in the company of several flipcharts, boasting clean untouched sheets of paper.

The room was nearly deserted. A lone respectable-looking round-faced man labored over his cup of coffee in the corner next to the buffet table with its selection of scrambled eggs, muffins and fruits. The man seemed fully engaged in the act of pouring just the right amount of cream into his morning drink. Michael nodded to him briefly on his way across the room, and stepped out on to the balcony.

And there, separated from him only by the dew-covered dark wood railing, the beauty of the mountains that had just a woke n seized him. Somehow it reminded him of a photograph he had seen last week in National Geographic . He grinned to himself. How weird human life had become if the first thing that comes to mind in front of a striking nature scene is a picture from a magazine. Common sense would suggest that it should be the other way around. But , then again, who said that human life has much to do with common sense? These days you are considered a weirdo if you live without a phone. Yet nobody cares if you live without a purpose. Anything wrong with that picture? And so you stand here, overlooking this morning beauty, a nd you can ’t help but mentally map it to that bright photo: the colors, the lulling calm of the sleepy water and the pines running down the hill to meet the lake. And even the rushing powerboat—that photo had it , too.

He took his eyes off the powerboat that was madly ripping up the calm water, and looked at his watch. All right, it ’s time to go. The show is about to begin in a few minutes, and a cup of coffee would be nice.

The boat, meanwhile, valiantly reached the pier. A little dark figure jumped swiftly to the dock and began tying the knot quickly around the cleat . Michael watched the figure’s swift , fluid movements for a moment , then went back indoors .

The room, now filled with a dozen people, felt cozier but now seemed even smaller. Michael stopped at the door, not rushing to go inside.

So this is the crowd .
Assuming that they used the same criteria across the board , e very one of these people must be a middle manager. Each one has risen quickly through the ranks. Each one has been demonstrating great potential. And of course, each one of them must be ambitious to some degree and dreaming about getting to the top.

They also should be about the same age. At first glance, they seemed to all be in their thirties. And this sounds like the right age group. Bright young talents in their early twenties rarely end up in management. Much more often , they work enthusiastically around the clock, making their employers richer and managers happier. And then suddenly some of them go off to set up their own companies, and a few short years later the entire world starts saying, “Wow” in astonishment, while the ambitious managers in their thirties desperately try to land a job at one of these hot new startups.

Nevertheless, one youngster had somehow ended up in this crowd, although the jury was still out on his talent. Michael watched for a while this tall cherub whose cheeks were lightly tinged with youthful pinkness. The cherub ’s confidence suggested that he indeed was in possession of a talent, albeit a very special one. Observing his moves was definitely entertaining.

Now he gallantly gives way to a graceful woman with a short , nearly boyish haircut. The woman says something to him, he replies and the expression on her face indicates that she likes the answer. And now he confidently shakes hands with a stocky mustached man. Complimenting this one would be a harder task, but it seems he ’s up to the challenge—a smile is forming under the mustache line. Way to go, cherub! And now he ’s looking to his right at someone, looking for too long, and as he slacken s the control over his face, his young age becomes even more obvious.

Michael followed the awed gaze of the gray eyes. The cherub ’s freeze was understandable —t he blonde was a real looker. Better than a looker. She, of course, was well aware of this , which only served to add even more of a special touch to her movements, gestures and facial expressions. She and a brown-haired woman with a boyish haircut , constituted the entire female population of the room. Given her looks, she had a nice week ahead of her—a week filled with attention from ten bored men trying to pretend they don ’t care about making an impression on her.

By the way, are there really only ten of us?
Michael counted the attendees. Thirteen. A curious number. In addition to superstitious associations, the counting revealed two men in their forties, a security guard—or at least someone who could easily pass for one—and an inquisitive gaze from the blonde. That look told Michael that his stay at the door had been long enough . He returned the gaze and stepped into the room.

Joan watched the medium-heighted black-haired man with subtle irony in his otherwise non-animated face come in from the balcony and stop at the door. What a character, she thought, as the man openly examined the crowd with an attention he didn ’t even bother to hide.

The guy has no manners
. It ’s fine to be curious about the people you ’re about to spend a week with—I for one, am curious , too—but this doesn ’t mean you can just stand and stare at everyone like that. Mind you, this boy standing next to the table has been watching me for a while , too. But , to his credit , he ’s only been staring like that at me , so that’s acceptable. Let ’s smile back at him. Here. A charming smile for you. Translation: I know you ’ve been watching me. Now he ’s going to blush or somehow get embarrassed. But what do you know; he ’s not anywhere close to blushing. Oh my, he ’s smiling back. And his smile is very attractive. What a self-confident boy. And he ’s stopped courting Sheila, or whatever this businesslike woman had called herself when we ran into each other at check -in.

I wonder whether she perms her hair. Probably. The color is too nice. At any rate, she ’s no competition . She ’s cute, I give her that. Definitely takes good care of her face and figure, but there ’s something not feminine about her . Not in the way she looks, but in the way she behaves. She seems to be very confident about herself. Not about her beauty, but literally about herself . And that doesn ’t fly well with most men. At least, with worthy men. They prefer to save this kind of confidence for themselves.

Speaking of worthy men . . . what a collection! Take this one, for instance. Tall, but reasonably tall, not Empire State Building kind of tall. A very attractive, manly face that bears the seal of honesty and dignity. Charming, especially when he smiles. Which he does rather frequently. There is something in his face that reminds of that first-man-in-space Russian, whatever his name was. And it doesn ’t stop with the face. He ’s well built , too , and appears to be no stranger to the gym—not a common habit for the management crowd. He, of course, is nearly dwarfed by that Mr. Universe in the far corner. But that buff guy dwarfs everyone in the room. That said, his build is his only distinction. Shoulder breadth rarely correlates positively with IQ score . . .

And here’s another one. Just entered the room, quickly glanced at the faces, but , unlike the ironic visitor from the balcony, proceeded into the room promptly. Short haircut, perhaps too short—this lively face would look even better with longer hair. Eyes are very sharply outlined. And they are so clear, so confident, so fast. Not too tall, but very proportional. There ’s something dangerous about him. Dangerous in a good, attractive way. And as if this wasn ’t enough—“Please be seated, ” a sonorous voice disrupted her flow of thought.