That particular morning, I met Thomas, a colleague, in the corridor.
“Well, we thought you’d died the day before yesterday,” he said, sarcastically.
If only you knew, my friend
. “I must have picked up a virus going around,” I lied. “Fortunately, it didn’t last.”
“Right. I won’t get close to you then,” he said, taking a step back. “Even if it would suit you all if I was so ill I couldn’t give you the usual hiding at the end of the month!”
Thomas was the consultant who got the best results, and he never missed an opportunity to remind us of it. I admit his figures were fairly impressive. He was a workaholic who put in impossible hours, regularly went without lunch, and was so focused on his targets that he sometimes forgot to say hello to people he walked past in the corridors. At any rate, he never stopped to chat, except when he had an opportunity to blow his own horn, either by announcing his quarterly results or by telling you that he had just bought the latest fashionable car or had eaten the night before in the trendy restaurant that all of Paris was talking about.
Everything about Thomas was calculated to serve his image, from the brand of clothes he favored to the
Financial Times
tucked casually under his arm when he arrived in the morning. Each gesture, each word, indeed everything he owned and did was an element of the persona he had carefully constructed and identified with. I would sometimes imagine Thomas naked on a deserted island without his Armani suit or Hermès tie or Weston loafers or Vuitton bag, without personal targets to reach or glory to obtain or anyone to impress. I could see him sliding into an infinite torpor, as unable to live without others’ admiration as the rubber plant in our waiting room could survive without Vanessa’s weekly watering.
But in fact, he would probably become the archetypal Robinson Crusoe, adopting the appearance and behavior of the exemplary shipwreck as diligently as he had cultivated that of the dynamic executive. Once he had been rescued by fishermen—amazed by his capacity for survival—he would have returned to France a hero, recounting his exploits of survival on every TV channel, while carefully preserving his eight-month beard and wearing a loincloth like nobody else. The context would change, but not the man.
“Having a chat, are we, then?”
Mickaël was another of my colleagues. He didn’t take himself seriously, but he did think he was cleverer than everyone else.
“It doesn’t matter for some of us,” retorted Thomas, quick as a flash.
Mickaël just laughed and walked away. Slightly tubby, with jet-black hair, he always wore a crafty look. His results were perfectly decent, although I suspected he took it fairly easy. Several times I had gone into his office unannounced. Each time he had given the impression he was absorbed in a candidate’s tricky case on his computer, but the images on his screen, reflected in the glass doors of the bookcase behind his desk, made you wonder if candidates were so desperate for employment that they were sending naked photos of themselves in the hope of increasing their chances of getting a job as an accountant.
“He’s jealous,” Thomas said in a confidential tone.
Every week, companies contacted the firm with their recruitment needs and inquired about our terms and conditions. Vanessa took the calls, made out a file card for each query, and passed it on to a consultant. It goes without saying that we welcomed these leads. It was much easier to sign a contract with a company that had contacted us than to cold-canvass strangers by telephone. Vanessa was supposed to distribute the file cards evenly among us, but I had recently discovered that in fact she favored Thomas. Visibly fascinated by the image of a winner that he projected, she must take pleasure in the idea that she was vital to his success. I was sure I was the least favored member of the team, even though, on the rare occasions she passed a contract on to me, she did it in a way that suggested she was giving me alone a chance to profit from the only call that Dunker Consulting had received that month.
T
WO WEEKS AFTER
our first meeting, Dubreuil reappeared in circumstances similar to the previous time. When I came out of the office, I saw his Mercedes parked in the middle of the sidewalk.
Vladi got out, walked around the car, and opened the back door for me. I ground out my cigarette, frustrated because I had just lit up after spending the whole afternoon without smoking. I was less anxious than the previous time, but slight apprehension still tightened my stomach, as I wondered what fate lay in store for me today.
The Mercedes pulled away from the curb, making a U-turn on the Avenue de l’Opéra and heading toward the Louvre. Two minutes later, we were speeding along the Rue de Rivoli.
“So, were you physically thrown out of the Paris bakeries?”
“I’m going to eat sandwich bread from the supermarket for a month, the time it’ll take for people to forget me.”
Dubreuil gave a sadistic little laugh.
“Where are you taking me today?”
“See, you’re making progress! Last time, you didn’t even dare ask. You allowed yourself to be driven like a prisoner.”
“I
am
a prisoner of my promise.”
“That’s true,” he confirmed with a satisfied air.
We arrived at the Place de la Concorde. The muffled silence inside the luxurious sedan contrasted with the agitation of the drivers changing lanes in every direction and accelerating in spurts to try and overtake one or two cars. Big black clouds scudded across the sky above the Assemblée Nationale, as we turned onto the Champs-Élysées and the avenue opened up in front of us. The sky above the Arc de Triomphe was clear.
“So, where are we going?” I repeated.
“We’re going to test your progress since the last time, to make sure that we can go on to something else.”
I didn’t like the wording. It reminded me of certain tests that my firm made the candidates take.
“I never told you, but I have a distinct preference for theoretical tests, the ones with pieces of paper and boxes to check,” I said.
“Life isn’t a theory. I believe in the virtue of experience lived in the raw. That’s the only thing that really changes someone. All the rest is waffle, intellectual masturbation.”
“So, what have you cooked up for me today?” I asked, putting on an air of self-confidence, whereas in fact my heart was in my boots.
“Well, let’s say we’re going to bring this chapter to an end by taking our business elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere?”
“Yes, instead of the local bakery, you’re going to a prestigious jeweler.”
“You’re joking?” I said, suspecting that unfortunately, he was doing nothing of the sort.
“Indeed, there’s not much difference between them.”
“Of course, there is! There’s no comparison!”
“In both cases, you’re dealing with someone who’s there to sell you something. It’s the same. I don’t see what the problem is.”
“Of course you do! Don’t play the fool!”
“The main difference is located in the head.”
“But I’ve never set foot in a big jeweler’s. I’m not used to that sort of place.”
“You have to start someday. There’s a first time for everything.”
“The place will make me feel awkward before I even open my mouth. Your dice are loaded …”
“What’s troubling you, exactly?” he said, an amused smile on his lips.
“I don’t know. Those people aren’t used to dealing with people like me. I won’t know how to behave.”
“There’s no special code. It’s a shop like any other, except that it’s more expensive. That gives you the right to be harder to please!”
The Mercedes stopped at the top of the Champs-Élysées. Vladi turned on the hazard warning lights. I stared straight in front of me, guessing that my scaffold was on my right, just over there, within eyeshot. I plucked up my courage and slowly turned my head to the right. The stone building was imposing, with an immense shop window more than two stories tall. Above it, in gold letters, was the name of my executioner: Cartier.
“Imagine,” Dubreuil said, “what your life will be like when there is no longer any situation in the world that can make you feel awkward.”
“Great. But as things stand, I’m a long way away from that.”
“The only way to get there is to rub up against reality—to go and face the object of your fears until the fear disappears, not hide somewhere, which only heightens your fear of the unknown.”
“Perhaps,” I replied. But I wasn’t convinced.
“Come on, tell yourself that the people who are going to serve you are people just like you—wage-earners who probably can’t afford to buy jewelry at Cartier’s either.”
“What do I have to do exactly? What’s my mission?”
“You’re going to ask to be shown watches. You must try on a good dozen or so, ask lots of questions, and then leave without buying anything.”
My stress went up a notch.
“And there’s something else.”
He took his cell phone, dialed a number, and a discrete ringing went off in his inside pocket. He got out a small, flesh-colored device, pressed it, and the ringing stopped.
“Put this in your ear. That way, I can listen to your amazing feats, and you can hear me if I have things to say to you.”
I was dumbstruck.
“What’s all this about!”
“One last thing …”
“
What?
”
“Have fun. It’s the best piece of advice I can give you. If you manage to do that, it’s in the bag. Stop taking everything seriously. Step back and see this test as a game. That’s what it is, isn’t it? A game. There’s nothing to lose, just things to find out.”
“Hmm.”
“You know, one can see life as a series of pitfalls to be avoided, or as a vast playground that offers enriching experiments at every street corner.”
I didn’t answer but opened the car door and got out. The traffic noise hit me, and a warm wind woke up my dulled brain.
I took a few steps, lit a cigarette and smoked it, taking my time. With a bit of luck, the police would come and tell the Mercedes to move on.
Dubreuil had spoken of a test. He wanted, he said, to test my progress. That probably meant he would set other unpleasant tasks for the weeks ahead. To free myself, I absolutely had to pluck up my courage and manage a satisfactory performance. I had no choice, in any case. He wouldn’t let go; I was sure of that.
I tossed my cigarette on the sidewalk and vigorously ground it out, turning my foot from side to side longer than necessary. As I looked up at the glass window of this temple of luxury, a shiver ran down my spine.
Come on, chin up,
I told myself.
S
WALLOWING HARD
, I pushed the revolving door. An image of my mother exhausting herself in the laundry flashed across my mind. Three young men in dark suits were standing in the spacious entrance hall, their arms by their sides. One of them opened the second door into the shop. I tried to assume a confident air, even though I was being dropped into a universe that was totally alien to me.
The door opened into a vast space with a high ceiling, dominated by a monumental staircase. The room was furnished with display counters in precious woods, sparkling like mirrors. A great, glittering chandelier hung overhead. Walls hung with velvet absorbed the light. I detected a subtle perfume, barely a scent, calming and captivating at the same time. A thick dark red carpet muffled the noise of my footsteps. Then a pair of woman’s shoes, very beautiful, extremely feminine with stiletto heels, was coming toward me, one after the other, delicately. I looked up at slim legs that went on forever, then a short black skirt, tight, topped by a narrow-waisted jacket. Very narrow-waisted. When I finally lifted my head, I was looking into the ice blue eyes of a glacial beauty with blonde hair, perfectly smooth, done up in a chignon.
She looked straight at me and spoke in a very professional voice: “Good evening, sir, what can I do for you?”
She didn’t smile in the slightest, and I wondered, paralyzed, whether she was behaving as usual or she had already marked me as an intruder, someone who would never be a customer. I felt unmasked, stripped bare by her confident gaze.
“I’d like to see your men’s watches,” I managed to say.
“Our gold collection or our steel one?”
“Steel,” I replied, pleased to be able to choose a range less distant from what I was used to.
“Gold! Gold!” Dubreuil screamed in my earpiece.
I was afraid the sales assistant would hear his voice, but she didn’t seem to notice. I remained silent.
“Follow me, please,” she said in a tone of voice that immediately made me regret saying
steel,
a tone that meant
I knew it.
Hateful.
I followed her, looking down at her shoes. You can tell everything about a person by watching the way they walk. Her walk was definite, studied, nothing spontaneous. She led me to the first room and headed for one of the wooden vitrines. A tiny golden key moved between her fingers, with their perfectly manicured red nails, and the glass top rose up. She took out a tray lined in velvet, on which the watches were enthroned.
“Here we have the Pasha, the Roadster, the Santos, and the famous Tank Française. Each has a self-winding mechanical movement.”
I wasn’t listening to what she said. Her words resounded in my head without me trying to give them a meaning. My attention was caught by the precise gestures accompanying her words. She pointed to each watch with her long fingers, not quite touching them. Her gestures alone seemed to increase the prestige of these inert assemblies of metal parts.
I was supposed to ask to try the watches on, but her words and her gestures revealed such perfection that I feared sounding like an idiot. Then I remembered that Dubreuil was listening. I had to take the plunge.
“I’d like to try this one on,” I said, pointing to a watch with a steel-and-rubber band.
She put on a white glove, as if her fingerprints might spoil its beauty, then grasped the watch with her fingertips and held it out to me. I was almost embarrassed to take it in my bare hand.
“It’s one of our latest creations. A quartz movement in a steel case, with chronograph function and three counters.”