“Monsieur Greenmor, I know you’re there!”
I started to walk to the door and then stopped. I felt my heart beating faster. Come on. I unzipped my jeans and let them slide to the floor.
Dubreuil was really a madman …
“Open that door!”
Her voice was full of hate. I took the few steps that separated me from the door. I had massive stage fright.
Now.
Holding my breath, I slid down my boxers, stepped out of them, and threw them across the room. It was horrible being naked in such circumstances.
“I know you can hear me, Monsieur Greenmor!”
Courage.
I reached for the door handle. I couldn’t believe what I was doing. I was no longer quite myself.
She gave three final knocks as I turned the handle. I had the feeling I was working my own guillotine. I pulled the door toward me, and, as soon as it was half-open, I felt a cool draft, as if to remind me I was naked. Torture.
The sentence. I must say the sentence. With enthusiasm. Go on, it’s too late to back out.
I opened the door wide.
“Madame Blanchard! How lovely to see you!”
Clearly, she got the shock of her life. She must have been pushing against my door to be able to hit it with such force, because when it opened, she nearly lost her balance. She jerked back with a start and then froze, her eyes bulging, her face flushing violently. Her mouth opened, but no noise came out.
“Come on in!” I said cheerily.
She remained rooted to the spot, her mouth still agape, staring at my nakedness, unable to say a word.
It was dreadful finding myself naked in front of my old neighbor, but I was encouraged by her reaction. It almost made me want to lay it on even thicker.
“Come on, I’m sure you’d like to have something to drink with me,” I cajoled.
“I … I … no … I … Mon … Mon … Monsieur … I … but … I …”
It was as if she had turned to stone, as she mumbled incomprehensibly, her eyes riveted to my penis. It took her several minutes to come back to her senses, then stammer an excuse and back away.
She never came to complain about the noise again.
S
UNDAY
, 6:00
A.M.
The ringing brought me out of a deep sleep. There’s nothing more annoying than being woken in the middle of a dream. An immense weariness came over me. It was the third text message that night. I could take no more. I didn’t even have the strength to get up. I remained lying down for a long time, forcing myself to keep my eyes open, fighting not to go back to sleep. What a nightmare!
I had immense trouble sitting up. I could no longer bear having to smoke at all hours of the day and night. It was a real ordeal. Annoyed, I reached out and pulled a cigarette from the pack on the bedside table. I couldn’t face getting up to go to the window. Never mind the smell. I’d roll up the butt and ashes in a handkerchief so I wouldn’t smell the foul stench of stale tobacco as I went back to sleep.
I grabbed my box of matches—a small box, decorated with a drawing of the Eiffel Tower. The first match broke in two in my numb fingers. The second one burst into flame with the characteristic sulfur smell. This was my only moment of pleasure before the dreaded chore. I brought the match to my cigarette. As the flame licked the end of it, I inhaled. The smoke invaded my mouth, attacking my palate, my tongue, and my throat, spreading its strong, acrid taste. I exhaled. My mouth felt like it was coated. Revolting.
I inhaled a second time. The smoke burned my throat, inflamed my lungs. I coughed, a dry cough that made the foul taste on my tongue worse. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t carry on like this. It just wasn’t possible. It was more than I could take. Stop. Have pity.
Frantic, I looked around for something that could give some relief and finally caught sight of the guilty messenger: my mobile phone. Dubreuil’s text messages. Dubreuil! I nervously reached out and grabbed the phone. Pressing the keys, I scrolled through the record of messages received. My eyes were stinging, and I had difficulty reading. Finally I found the number the messages were coming from. I hesitated a few seconds, and then pressed the Send key. With a beating heart, I lifted the phone to my ear and waited. A silence, then a ring tone. Two rings. Three rings. Someone answered.
“Hello.”
Dubreuil’s voice.
“It’s me, Alan.”
“I know.”
“I can’t take any more. Stop sending me text messages all the time. I’m … I’m at a breaking point.”
Silence. No answer.
“I beg you, let me stop. I don’t want to smoke anymore, do you hear? I can’t bear your cigarettes any longer. Let me stop!”
Silence again. Did he even understand the state I was in?
“I beg you.”
He broke the silence in a very calm voice. “Agreed. If that’s what you want, then you’re free to stop smoking.”
He hung up before I had the time to say thank you.
It was with a heart full of elation that I put the cigarette out, stubbing it directly on the bedside table, the last cigarette of my life.
D
UBREUIL REFUSED TO
help me prepare for my planned interview with Marc Dunker. “I don’t know your company, so how can I advise you what to say?” he told me when I asked. Finally, giving in to my insistence, he had offered me some tips.
“What’s difficult about it for you?” he asked.
“He’s shifty, he’s dishonest, and he’s always ready to make unjustified criticisms. As soon as you ask him something, or point to some malfunction, he tends to attack so he doesn’t have to reply.”
“I see. And what do you and your colleagues do when he criticizes?”
“We defend ourselves. We try to prove that he’s wrong, that the criticisms are unfair.”
“So you try to justify yourselves, is that right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“So you’re the ones who do all the work!”
“I don’t understand.”
“Faced with unwarranted criticism, you absolutely mustn’t justify yourself; otherwise you’re playing his game!”
“Perhaps, but what else can I do?”
“Torture him.”
“Very funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You’re forgetting one little detail.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t want to lose my job.”
“Be like the inquisitors in the Middle Ages. What did they call the unbearable torture they were about to inflict on someone?”
“I don’t know.”
“
We’re going to put him to the question
.”
“Put him to the question?”
“Yes.”
“And what’s the connection with my boss?”
“Faced with unfounded criticism, torture him by asking him questions.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Rather than justifying yourself, ask
him
questions to make him justify himself! And don’t let go. It’s for him to provide proof of his criticisms, not for you to prove they’re unfounded! In other words, make
him
sweat.”
“I see.”
“Push him into a corner. Ask him what right he has to assert what he’s saying, and don’t let him hide behind generalities. Ferret away, demanding details, facts. If he’s dishonest, he’ll have a hard time. And you know what? The best thing about all this is that you don’t even have to be aggressive. If you set about it carefully, you can bring him to his knees with great gentleness, in an apparently very respectful tone of voice. In short, you’ll force him to justify his criticisms while being above criticism yourself. And if you set about it carefully, there’s every chance he’ll never bug you again.”
I phoned Marc Dunker’s office and made an appointment with his secretary. Dunker’s secretary was male, a rarity in the business world. He was a very distinguished young Englishman named Andrew. His hiring had surprised everyone. Dunker clearly being the macho type, we would have imagined him going for a nymphet in a miniskirt and low-cut top, who would be at his beck and call, reassuring him of his superiority as a dominant male.
But no doubt Dunker’s choice was not random. I suspected him of having a secret complex about his humble origins. The English secretary, who went with him everywhere, compensated for Dunker’s lack of polish with his extreme elegance, courtesy, and—the icing on the cake—his refined French, spoken with a very British accent. With all the classiness of Her Majesty’s subject, Andrew by his mere presence ennobled his boss. The odd mistake in the gender of nouns only added a touch of charm.
That morning, I deliberately arrived five minutes late, just enough to send Dunker the message that I wasn’t his puppet. Andrew greeted me.
“I’m going to have to ask you to be patient for a little while,” he said. “Monsieur Dunker isn’t ready to see you yet.”
Of course. He was responding to my lateness by being even later. In France, time is an instrument of power.
Andrew invited me to have a seat on a red leather sofa. It stood in marked contrast to the perfectly white walls. One end of the spacious room was a waiting area for visitors; the other was Andrew’s office. Furnished in red leather that matched the sofa, the office was impeccably tidy.
“Would you like a coffee?” Andrew asked.
I was surprised by his question. Somehow I imagined that someone straight out of Buckingham Palace would offer me tea in a china cup.
He placed the coffee on the low table in front of me, then went back to his desk and became absorbed in reading a file. From time to time, he picked up a black lacquer pen and noted something in the margin, then put the pen down in exactly the same place, perfectly aligned with the edge of the desk.
Finally, Dunker’s office door flew open as if a SWAT team was bursting in, and the CEO propelled himself into the middle of the room.
“Who wrote this report?” he shouted in an accusing tone.
“It was Alice, sir,” Andrew replied evenly.
“It’s unbelievable!” stormed Dunker. “She makes mistakes bigger than her ass! Tell her to reread her notes before giving me this sort of crap!”
He threw down the document, scattering its pages all over his secretary’s desk. Andrew gathered them neatly into a pile.
I swallowed hard.
Dunker turned toward me and held out his hand, suddenly calm and smiling. “Hello, Alan.”
I followed him into his office, a vast space dominated by an imposing triangular desk positioned with a point turned toward the visitor. Dunker sat down behind it and waved me to a stylish but very uncomfortable armchair facing him.
Though the window was open, the noise from the street below seemed distant, as if it was not allowed to penetrate the top floor of the building. Looking out, I could see the tip of the Obélisque on the Place de la Concorde, and beyond that the top of the Arc de Triomphe.
“It’s a lovely view, isn’t it?” Dunker said, seeing my gaze lingering outside.
“Yes, it’s lovely. But it’s a shame the Avenue de l’Opéra has no trees,” I said to break the ice. “It would smell nice, having some greenery under your windows.”
“It’s the only avenue in Paris without any trees,” Dunker said. “Do you know why?”
I didn’t.
“When Haussmann built it at Napoleon the Third’s request, he gave in to the Opéra’s architect who didn’t want anything to intrude on the view of his work from the Tuileries Palace.”
A fly came through the window and buzzed around us.
“You wanted to see me,” Dunker said. “What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to tell you about a certain number of things we could improve in the company.”
He frowned imperceptibly.
“Improve?”
My strategy to convince him was to embrace his world by synchronizing with his values of efficiency and profitability. He was always talking about them. All his decisions boiled down to them. I was going to try to prove to him that my requests went along with his priorities.
“Yes,” I continued, “for the well-being of all, and with a view to increasing the firm’s profitability.”
“The two rarely go together,” Dunker said, affecting a slightly amused air.
“Unless an employee who feels better works better,” I countered.
The fly landed on his desk. He flicked it away with the back of his hand.
“If you don’t feel happy with us, Alan …”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Don’t get excited.”
“I’m not getting excited,” I said, trying to appear as calm as possible, despite already wanting to push him out the window. What if he was deliberately misunderstanding what I said, just to throw me off?
Stop replying. Torture him with questions. Questions.
“Besides,” I went on, “what’s the link between my opinion that an employee who feels better works better and your hypothesis that I don’t feel happy in your company?”
Three seconds of silence.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
“No. What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, bad results can’t be excused by external causes,” said Dunker.
“Yet my …”
Don’t justify yourself. Ask questions, calmly.
“Who has bad results?” I asked innocently.
An expression of annoyance crossed his face. The fly landed on his pen. He brushed it away again, then changed the subject.
“So tell me: What are your ideas about things that could be improved?”
I had just won the first round.
“Well, first of all, I think we should take on a second assistant in our department, to help Vanessa. She is constantly overstretched, and you can tell she’s really under stress. The new assistant could type up our reports for us. I’ve calculated that we consultants spend almost twenty percent of our time typing up reports on our interviews. Given our hourly rate, that’s not at all profitable for the firm. If we had a second assistant, she could take down in shorthand what we want to put in our reports and then type them up. We could use the time gained to do really useful things that we alone can do.”
“No, each consultant must type up his notes. It’s the rule.”
“It’s precisely that rule that I’m calling into question.”
“When you’re well organized, it doesn’t take all that much time.”
“But it’s logical that clerical work should be done by the person whose hourly pay is the lowest. It’s better for a consultant to spend his time on activities that are more profitable for the company.”