Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  To everyone’s surprise, even though we considered her to be unaccomplished in intellectual activities requiring rigor and detail (or perhaps it’s because of this), Lucie became a lawyer. For the most part, she defends women who have been abused. As with funerals or taxes, there won’t be any shortage of work in this field, but she’s hardly about to make a fortune.

  “It’s a three- or four-room apartment in the nineteenth,” Mathilde continues, completely in her element. “Near Jaurès. It’s not exactly the neighborhood we were after, but . . . all the same, it’s nice and bright. And it’s on Gregory’s line, which is handy.”

  “How much?” Lucie asks.

  “Six hundred and eighty thousand.”

  “Wow, there you go . . .”

  I find out that they only have 55,000 euros for their deposit and that, despite Gregory’s connections in the banking sector, getting a mortgage will be tricky.

  This sort of thing hurts. Once upon a time I was in charge of the “Bank of Maman and Papa.” They would ask without any hesitation, I would play hard to get, then give in with mock frustration, lending them sums they would never repay, and we all knew I was delighted to do it. It’s nice to be useful. Nowadays, Nicole and I have cut back our lifestyle to the bare minimum, which is plain to see everywhere: in what we have, what we wear, what we cook. We used to have two cars, partly because that seemed more practical, but mainly because we never questioned it. Over the years, our level of living rose through a combination of successive promotions and pay raises for both of us. Nicole landed deputy manager at her resource center, and I became head of HR at Bercaud. We used to look to the future with confidence, sure that we’d manage to pay off the mortgage on our apartment. For example, when the girls moved out, Nicole wanted to do some work on the apartment: keep just the one spare room, knock through the dividing wall between the living room and the second bedroom to turn it into a double-sized living room, then shift the water pipes so the sink could go under the window. That sort of thing. So we put some money aside. The plan was simple. We’d put the mortgage repayments on hold, pay for the work in cash, and go on vacation. We were so confident; it was a no-brainer. It would still be a few years before we’d pay off the mortgage, but we had money, and we went ahead with the renovations, starting with the kitchen. In terms of dates, that’s very easy to remember: the builders started tearing everything down on May 20, and I was fired on May 24. We stopped the work immediately. After that, the engine tanked, the nose dive began, and we’ve been in free fall ever since. As the kitchen had already been ripped up, from the plumbing to the tiles, I had to enter DIY mode. I erected a sink on two bits of plasterboard and reconnected some makeshift plumbing. Since it was temporary, we bought three kitchen cabinets that I attached to the wall. We went for the cheapest ones, which unsurprisingly meant the ugliest ones. And the least sturdy. I’m always petrified of putting too many dishes in them. I also laid some linoleum directly onto the cement. We replace it every year. I usually do it to surprise Nicole. I open the door with a grand gesture and say: “We’ve got a new kitchen!” And she usually says something along the lines of: “Let’s crack open a half bottle!” We both know it’s not the most hilarious of jokes, but we do our best.

  Since my unemployment benefits weren’t enough to pay the bills, we dipped into the savings earmarked for the renovations. And when these reserves dried up, we realized that we still had four years of mortgage to pay off before the apartment was ours, and Nicole said we’d have to sell it to buy somewhere smaller that we could pay for in cash. I refused. I’ve worked for twenty years to get this apartment, and I cannot bring myself to sell it. The longer it’s gone on, the less Nicole feels able to say anything about it. For now. She’ll be right in the end. Especially if this Mehmet business turns sour. I’m not sure if we’ll manage to save face in front of our daughters. Nowadays they are coping just fine by themselves. They can’t even do me the good turn of asking for money.

  I have successfully completed the béchamel. It’s the same as ever. Just like us around the table—we’re the same as ever. Before, our predictable conversations and repetitive jokes were fine, but in the last year or two everything has irritated me. I’ve lost my patience, I freely admit it. This evening especially . . . I am desperate to tell the girls that I’ve been called in for a job that is absolutely perfect for me, that I haven’t had a break like this for four years, that in two days I’m going to pass the aptitude test with flying colors before storming the interview, and in one month, kids, your disappointment of a father will be nothing but a distant memory. But instead of that I say nothing. Nicole smiles at me. She is superstitious. And happy. There is so much confidence in those eyes.

  “So this guy,” Gregory is saying, “enrolls to read law. And the first thing he does . . . anyone know?”

  No one knows. Except Mathilde, who doesn’t want to spoil her husband’s show. I haven’t really been listening, I just know that my son-in-law is a prick.

  “He took his college to court!” he announces with adulation. “He compared his enrollment fees to those from the year before and deemed the increase to be illegal because it hadn’t been matched by a ‘significant rise in the loans available to students.’”

  He bursts out laughing in a manner intended to highlight the brilliance of his story.

  An intimate blend of right-leaning convictions and leftist fantasies, my son-in-law adores this kind of story. He teems with anecdotes about patients suing their therapists, or twin brothers laying into each other before a tribunal, or mothers with large families attacking their children. In certain variations, customers might get compensation from a contravention by their local supermarket or a car manufacturer. But Gregory verges on the orgasmic when the rulings go against the public sector. Perhaps the railroad has been found guilty because of a broken ticket machine, or the tax office has been forced to hand out a rebate to someone who’s filed their return. Another time it might be the Ministry of Education losing against a parent who, after carrying out a comparison of students’ marks for an essay on Voltaire, feels that their child has been the victim of some grave act of discrimination. Gregory’s jubilation is directly proportionate to how inane the issue is. It’s his way of showing that the law allows for the perpetual recurrence of the noble David versus Goliath struggle. In his mind, there is something grandiose about this fight. He is convinced that the law enforces democracy. Once you get to know him a bit, you are mighty relieved that he works in finance. Had the guy been a lawyer, he would have done unimaginable damage.

  “That’s a bit troubling,” Lucie says.

  Gregory, not fazed by the idea of giving a law lecture in front of Lucie, a lawyer, pours himself another glass of the Saint-Émilion he brought, visibly delighted to have provoked a heated debate, over the course of which his hypothesis will be demonstrably, indisputably superior.

  “On the contrary,” he says. “It’s reassuring to know that we can still win even if we are the weaker party.”

  “Does that mean you could sue me just because you think the blanquette was underseasoned?”

  Everyone turns to me. Maybe it was my voice that alerted them. Mathilde silently implores me. Lucie looks triumphant.

  “Does it need more salt?” Nicole asks.

  “It’s an analogy.”

  “You might have chosen a different one.”

  “Well, it’s a bit trickier with the blanquette,” Gregory concedes. “But it’s the principle that counts.”

  In spite of the look on Nicole’s face, which is one of extreme unease, I decide to hold my ground.

  “But the principle is what bugs me. It’s idiotic.”

  “Alain . . . ,” Nicole urges, laying her hand flat on top of mine.

  “What do you mean ‘Alain’?”

  Nobody understands why I’m so annoyed.

  “You’re wrong,” Gregory replies, not a man to back down when he thinks he has the initiative. “This story shows that anyone”—
he leans into the “anyone” so that each of us is aware of the weight of his conclusion—“absolutely anyone can win if they have enough energy to do it.”

  “Win what?” Lucie says, to calm things down.

  “Well,” Gregory stutters, thrown by such a basic jab, “well, win . . .”

  “I’m skeptical of anyone who has the energy to chase a tax rebate or thirty euros’ worth of enrollment fees . . . surely that energy could be better spent on less selfish causes?”

  Here’s how this usually pans out. Mathilde jumps to the defense of her prick of a husband, Lucie perseveres, and within a couple of minutes the two sisters are at each other’s throats. Then Nicole slams her fist on the table, never quite at the right moment. When the others have gone, she sulks until she can’t contain herself any longer, at which point she explodes at me: after the children, it’s the parents turn to have a blazing row.

  “You’re a real pain in the ass!” Nicole says.

  In her underwear, she slams the wardrobe door and disappears into the bathroom. I can see her bottom through her panties—a great start.

  “I was on fire,” I say.

  But my joshing hasn’t gotten a laugh out of her for twenty years.

  When she returns to the bedroom, I’m once again immersed in my notes. Nicole comes back to earth. She knows that we have reached a critical point with this miraculous news. This is pretty much my last chance, and seeing me reviewing my notes in bed calms her down. She smiles.

  “Ready for the big moment?”

  She lies down next to me, picks up my notes, and moves them slowly to one side, the way a parent might take off their sleeping child’s glasses. Then she slips her hand under the sheets and finds me right away.

  Ready for the big moment.

  From: Bertrand Lacoste [b.lacoste@BLC-Consulting.fr]

  To: Alexandre Dorfmann [a.dorfmann@Exxyal-Europe.com]

  Sent: Monday, April 27, 9:34 a.m.

  Subject: Selection and recruitment

  Dear Monsieur Chairman,

  Please find below an outline of the main points covered in our recent meeting.

  In the course of the coming year, your group is to proceed with the closure of its Sarqueville site and the subsequent wide-ranging layoff plan.

  You wish to select one of your current executives to take charge of this difficult mission.

  As such, you have asked me to devise a method of assessment to identify the individual who is the most steadfast and reliable: in short, the most competent.

  You approved my Hostage-Taking Simulation Plan, over the course of which the executives under assessment will—without prior warning—be ambushed by an armed commando.

  The ensuing test will make it possible to measure the candidates’ ability to remain calm under pressure, their conduct in an extremely stressful scenario, and their loyalty to company values, above all when they are pressed by the hostage takers to betray them.

  With your agreement, we will link this operation with our own recruitment process for an HR assistant: the candidates for this HR position will be required to conduct the role play, thereby allowing us to assess their professional aptitude.

  Combining these two operations can only be of benefit: at the same time as your executives are being assessed, the candidates for the HR role will be able to showcase their skills as assessors.

  I have taken it upon myself to recruit the necessary personnel and to make the material arrangements for the role play. This is, as you can imagine, a rather complex process: we require weapons, actors, a site, a plausible scenario, a concrete plan of action, behavior observation criteria, etc.

  In addition we require a watertight premise for calling in candidates to carry out aptitude tests. For this, Monsieur Chairman, your valuable insight will be necessary. And your participation. All in due course.

  I suggest we schedule this double operation for Thursday, May 21 (we must choose a day when the offices are closed, and that Thursday—Ascension Day—strikes me as appropriate, if you agree).

  I will be submitting a proposal in the near future.

  Yours,

  Bertrand Lacoste

  5

  Nicole tells me that I’m very negative and that things always turn out better than expected. She’s right again. Two days ago I was extremely depressed. Fine, eleven adults in a room, working away at an exam like schoolchildren, is hardly a massive deal. After all, in life we’re constantly being assessed. No, what got to me was the realization on entering the room that I was the oldest. Or rather the only old person. Three women, seven men, aged between twenty-five and thirty-five, all looking me up and down as though I was a casting error or some prehistoric curiosity. It was predictable, but still demoralizing.

  We were shown in by a girl with a Polish name, Olenka or something. Pretty girl—sparkling. Icy. Chilling. I don’t know what her job is at BLC (she didn’t say), but judging by her authoritative attitude and her pushy manner, you got the sense that she gives it everything, that she would sell her soul to be taken seriously. Must have been an unpaid intern. Behind her was a pile of papers, the tests she’d be handing out in a few minutes’ time.

  She started by briefing us: the eleven of us had been selected from one hundred and thirty-seven candidates. For a millisecond, a silent yet palpable air of triumph filled the room. Then she introduced the position, omitting to name the recruiting company. The job she described suits me so well that during the course of her short announcement, I pictured myself wholeheartedly and delightedly accepting the offer.

  But I came back down to earth with a crash when we were handed a thirty-four-page pack of questions that were either open ended, closed, semi-open, half closed or three-quarters open (not sure how they’re going to pick through all that) and given three hours to complete it.

  I was caught seriously off guard.

  I had mainly boned up on legislation, but the questions were very much geared toward “management, training, and assessment.” I had to summon all my reserves as I tried to recall information that seemed to date back to the Flood. Since I was sidelined I have lost my reflexes. The new techniques and last-ditch gimmicks I’d discovered two days earlier with Nicole had not stuck. I didn’t manage to apply them to the practical examples we were given. At times I found myself just filling in the blank and hoping for the best. That’s all I’m good for—autofill.

  Over the course of the test I realized that my handwriting is terrible, at times barely legible. I had to try harder with the open-ended questions. I was almost relieved when I had to answer with a checkmark. A real chimp. Or an old chimp, more like.

  To my right there was a girl of about thirty who looked vaguely like Lucie. At the start I attempted a complicit smile. She looked at me like I was trying to get her into bed.

  By the end I was exhausted. All the candidates filed out and we just gave one another a nod, like distant neighbors who sometimes bump into each other by accident.

  Outside it was a beautiful day—it would have been perfect weather to celebrate a victory.

  I walked toward the métro station, each step leaving me more desperate. It was like a gradual dawning, one layer at a time. I’d left a whole load of questions unanswered. As for the others, the right answers came to me afterward, each one different from the one I’d given. In this sort of game, the youngest ones are like ducks to water. Not me. It was a competition aimed at an age bracket I don’t belong to. I tried to tally the precise number of questions I’d got wrong, but I lost count.

  When I left I was just tired, but by the time I’d arrived at the métro I had sunk into a terrible depression. I could have cried. I realized that I’d never escape this. In the end, head-butting Mehmet seems like the only good solution, the only one that fits what is happening to me. There are terrorists who crash lorries full of explosives into schools, others who plant nail bombs in airports. I felt a strange connection with them. But instead of doing that, I’ve fallen for something else. Each time, I p
lay the bastards’ game. A job ad? I respond. Tests? I pass. Interviews? I attend. Have to wait? I wait. Have to come back? I come back. I’m obliging. For guys like me, the system is there, for all eternity.

  It was the end of the afternoon and the métro carriages were filling up. Normally I move down the station by walking along by the ticket machines, but this time, I don’t know why, I made my way down the edge of the platform, along the white line that you can’t cross without putting yourself at risk of being hit by the approaching train. I was like a drunkard, my head spinning. Suddenly there was a great gust to my left. I hadn’t been aware of the incoming train, not even heard it enter the station. Each one of its carriages rushed past me, missing me by an inch. Nobody made a start toward me. I suppose everyone here is living dangerously. My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It was Nicole calling for the third time. She wanted some news, but I didn’t have the strength to answer. I spent an hour on a bench at the station, staring at the thousands of passengers piling in to get home. Finally, I decided to board a train.

  A youngish man got on just behind me but remained standing at the end of the carriage. As soon as it left, he started yelling to contend with the sound of the train as it whistled round the bends. He relayed his story at such a speed that no more than a few words could be made out: “hostel,” “work,” “illness.” He smelled of booze, rattled on about meal vouchers and métro tickets, said he wanted work but work didn’t want him. A few other words emerged from his garbled speech: he had children, he wasn’t “a beggar.” The commuters stared at their shoes or suddenly became immersed in their free newspaper as he passed before them with a polystyrene Starbucks cup in his outstretched hand. Then he left the carriage to get onto the next one.