The Man Who Risked It All

by Laurent Gounelle

  That’s life. We seldom realize at the time that the difficult moments have a hidden function: to make us grow. The angels disguise themselves as demons and deliver marvelous presents wrapped up as foul parcels. Whether it’s a failure or an illness or the vicissitudes of daily life, we don’t always want to accept the so-called present, nor do we always have the impulse to unwrap it and discover the hidden message inside.

  The meeting room was full when I arrived. There were far more of us than usual. Once a month, the whole recruitment department came together, not just our part of it. There was an unoccupied chair next to Alice, which she was probably saving for me. I threw my Closer down on the table and calmly took my place. It was nice to be the last one to arrive; you felt expected.

  “Look at Thomas,” Alice whispered in my ear.

  I looked around and spotted him.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look again.”

  I leaned forward to get a better look and saw nothing but the haughty air he usually had. Then I saw it. I couldn’t believe my eyes. A brand-new Dupont lying on the table in front of him. You couldn’t miss it. Next to me, Alice was covering her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing.

  “Morning, all.”

  The powerful voice made me jump. Marc Dunker, our CEO, had invited himself to the weekly meeting. I hadn’t even noticed him when I came in. Silence fell over the room.

  “I’m not going to interfere for long with your agenda,” he said. “But I wanted to tell you about a new type of assessment test that I discovered on a trip to Austria, where we’ve just opened our eighteenth office. I know you already have a good dozen or so tools at your disposal, but this one is different, and I wanted to introduce it to you personally.”

  Our curiosity was aroused. What had he gone and found?

  “We all know,” he went on, “that it is more difficult to assess someone’s character than their skills. You have all worked in the field for which you are recruiting, so you know how to ask the right questions to discover if the candidate has the necessary know-how to succeed in the given vacancy. On the other hand, it is not always obvious how to distinguish between his real talents and those he professes. I’m not even talking about the so-called shortcomings that ninety percent of your candidates claim. They all seem to be perfectionists with a tendency to work too hard, don’t they? But between imaginary talents and predictable defects, it’s not easy to get a precise reading of their tendencies at work. This test allows you to assess a character trait that is fundamental to many posts with responsibility, especially those that have a management function. I mean self-confidence. It’s extremely difficult to measure it during recruitment. I’ve known people who have had so many recruitment interviews that they are very sure of themselves in that setting, whereas if you put them in a business, they turn to jelly when faced with the first colleague who winds them up a bit. You can flex your muscles at an interview but not be able to stand up when faced with your team.”

  “What you say is right, Marc, but most of the time, the person who lacks self-confidence in his life also lacks it in front of the recruiter.”

  There was a murmur among those present. The person who had just spoken was a young consultant, freshly arrived at the firm, who had come from a rival company where first names were the norm. Of course, we consultants used first names among ourselves, but our boss had never given in to this fashion for relational pseudo-proximity and expected us to address him as Mr. Dunker. It was hypocritical, but Marc Dunker cared deeply about signs of respect from his staff.

  “I didn’t know we were on first-name terms,” Dunker said dryly.

  This was his usual putdown in these circumstances. He avoided responding to the consultant and continued: “The test I’m talking about is awkward to use because it requires the presence of at least three people. But they don’t have to be consultants. In practice, you can use just about anyone,” he said with a sneer.

  Our curiosity was aroused.

  “The test is based on the idea that real self-confidence is independent of other factors. It’s a personal characteristic that corresponds to a person’s unshakeable faith in their own value, in their abilities, so it can’t be harmed by external criticism. Conversely, unwarranted or phony self-confidence can’t stand up to a hostile environment, and the person loses a considerable part of their faculties when attacked. But I’ve said enough. A good demonstration is worth more than a long speech! I need a volunteer.”

  He scanned the group, a little smile on his lips. Eyes looked at the ground or into space.

  “The ideal thing would be a member of the Accountant Recruitment team, because we need someone good at math!”

  Half the people there relaxed, while the other half got even tenser. The vise was tightening around us. He took his time, and I sensed he was deriving a sadistic pleasure from the suspense he was creating.

  “Who’s going to volunteer?” he repeated.

  It was obvious that no one was going to accept such an invitation without knowing what ordeal lay in wait.

  “Right. Then I’ll have to choose the volunteer myself.”

  I think the Nazis did the same sort of thing, inveigling prisoners to take responsibility for what their torturers were about to inflict on them.

  “Let’s see, let’s see.”

  I tried to look as unconcerned as possible, glancing down at the cover of my Closer. You could have heard a pin drop. The atmosphere was thick with tension. I felt Dunker’s heavy gaze bearing down on me.

  “Mr. Greenmor.”

  I was the volunteer. My heart skipped a beat. I had to hang on. Not weaken. He was going to make me do his pathetic test in front of all these people. Could it be revenge? Larcher had no doubt told him about our altercation at the last business meeting. Perhaps Dunker wanted to bring me back into line and remove any desire to do it again. Stay calm, I told myself. Don’t give in. Don’t give him that pleasure.

  “Come on, Alan.”

  Okay, now he’s calling me by my first name. To soften me up, no doubt. I got up and walked toward him. All eyes were on me. Apprehension, still palpable a few seconds ago, had given way to curiosity. In fact, they might as well have been at the theater. Or more likely the Coliseum. I looked at Dunker. Ave Caesar, morituri te salutant. Hail Caesar, those who are about to die salute you. No, I’m not really the gladiator type.

  Dunker pointed me to a chair two yards away from him, facing the group. I sat down, trying to appear both indifferent and sure of myself. Not easy.

  “This is how it works,” he said, talking to the group. “First of all, it must be pointed out to the candidate that this is a game and that none of what we’re going to say to him corresponds to reality. It’s just for the test. It’s important to tell him this, in order not to get us into trouble. The press is giving us a rough enough time as it is at the moment.”

  What was going on here? I could tell it was going to be no laughing matter. I had to hang in there at all costs.

  “My role,” he went on, “is to give Mr. Greenmor some fairly simple mental arithmetic problems.”

  Mental arithmetic? That was okay. I was expecting worse. I would be able to look after myself.

  “Meanwhile,” he continued, “you’re going to say things to him, things that are rather unflattering—criticism, reproaches. In short, your objective is to undermine his morale by saying all the unpleasant things that come into your head. I know some of you don’t know Alan Greenmor well, or at all. It doesn’t matter. You’re not trying to say what’s true, just unpleasant criticisms to try and discourage him.”

  What was this rubbish? I wasn’t going to let myself be lynched in public.

  “I don’t see the point of this test,” I said.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it? The candidate who has genuine self-confidence will not be perturbed in any way by criticism that is not justified.”

  I understood that Dunker had seen in me the ideal person to act as h
is stooge. He obviously felt that I was fairly easily unsettled. He was almost certain to make a brilliant success of his demonstration, to impress the crowd at my expense. I mustn’t take part. Absolutely not. I had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Quick: Find an excuse, anything, but get out of it, I thought.

  “Mr. Dunker, this test seems to me to be very difficult to use in recruitment. It’s not very ethical.”

  “There’s no problem as long as you are perfectly transparent. Besides, the candidate will be free to agree to it or not.”

  “Precisely, nobody will agree to it.”

  “Mr. Greenmor, you are a consultant, aren’t you?”

  I hate people who ask you questions they know the answer to, just to force you to confirm what they’re saying. I simply looked him in the eye.

  “So you ought to know that candidates are ready to do a lot to get a good job.”

  I wasn’t going to win on this line of argument. He would always have an answer. Find something else to say right away … or tell the truth.

  “I don’t wish to take part in this exercise,” I said, getting up.

  A murmur ran through the room. I was proud to have had the courage to refuse. I probably wouldn’t have had it a few weeks before.

  I had already taken three steps toward my seat when Dunker called out, “Do you know the definition of grave professional misconduct in French law, Mr. Greenmor?”

  I froze, still with my back to him. I didn’t answer. Total silence fell in the room. I swallowed hard.

  “Serious misconduct,” he went on in his odious voice, “is defined by the employee’s intention to harm his employer. A refusal to take part in this test would harm me because it would undermine my demonstration in front of the whole team that has met specially for the occasion. That’s not your intention, Mr. Greenmor, is it?”

  I remained silent, still with my back to him. The blood was beating in my temples.

  No need to draw me a picture. I was perfectly aware of the consequences of grave professional misconduct: no notice, no severance pay, and loss of any accrued vacation pay. I would have to leave immediately, empty-handed.

  “Is it, Mr. Greenmor?”

  My body felt leaden, fixed to the ground. My head was empty.

  “Make up your mind, Greenmor.”

  Did I really have a choice? It was horrible. To be honest, I shouldn’t have refused in the first place; I wouldn’t have found myself in this humiliating position. The only way out was to do his stupid test. I had to get a grip on myself. Swallow my pride. Come on. Come on. I made a superhuman effort and turned around. Everyone’s eyes were on me. I went back to the chair without looking at Dunker, sat down in silence, my eyes riveted on a spot on the ground. I was on fire. My ears were ringing. I had to get back in control again. Forget the shame. Gather my wits. Find the energy. Channel it. Breathe. Yes, that’s it. Breathe. Calm down.

  He took his time, and then began to call out his calculations.

  “Nine times twelve?”

  Don’t hurry to reply. I wasn’t his pupil.

  “One hundred and eight.”

  “Fourteen plus seventeen?”

  “Thirty-one.”

  “Twenty-three minus eight?”

  I forced myself to slow the rhythm of my answers. I had to refocus, gather my strength. I would need them. Zen.

  “Fifteen.”

  He waved his arms at the group to invite them to make criticisms. I continued avoiding their eyes. I could hear coughs, an embarrassed hubbub and … silence.

  “It’s up to you, now!” he said, motioning them to jump in. “You must say anything negative that comes to mind about Mr. Greenmor.”

  I had become Mr. again.

  “Don’t worry,” he said to the group. “Let me remind you that you’re not trying to say what’s true. Besides, we all know that Alan has mainly positive qualities. It’s just a game, for the purpose of the test. Come on, speak your mind!”

  So now I was Alan again. Almost his friend. And I only had positive qualities. What a manipulator.

  “You’re useless.”

  The first hostile remark.

  “Eight times nine?” Dunker asked.

  “Seventy-two.”

  “Forty-seven times two?”

  “Ninety-four.”

  “More, more,” he shouted at the group, waving his arms. He was berating my colleagues like a general urging his troops to come out of the trenches and fight under enemy fire.

  “You can’t count!”

  Second hostile remark.

  “Thirty-eight divided by two?”

  I took a deep breath in order to break the rhythm he was trying to impose.

  “Nineteen.”

  “Go on! Go on!”

  It was as if he was shouting at people pushing a broken-down car until they reached the necessary speed to start the engine.

  “You’re no good!”

  So far the remarks had left me indifferent. They didn’t ring true; my colleagues were even more embarrassed than I was.

  “Thirteen times four?”

  “Fifty-two.”

  “Amateur!”

  “Thirty-seven plus twenty-eight?”

  “Buck up!”

  “Sixty-five.”

  “Faster! Out with it!” Dunker shouted at the group.

  “Nineteen times three?”

  “You’re dawdling!”

  “Too slow!”

  “Fifty-seven.”

  “You’re rubbish at math!”

  Dunker now had a satisfied smile on his face.

  “Sixty-four minus eighteen?”

  “Useless!”

  “You can’t count!”

  “No good!”

  The attacks were beginning to come from all over. I had to concentrate on Dunker’s questions and forget about the others. Block them out.

  “Forty-six.”

  “Second-rater!”

  “Slacker!”

  “Hurry up!”

  “You’re so slow!”

  The machine was out of control now. Everybody was shouting at me at the same time. Dunker had won.

  “Twenty-three plus eighteen?”

  “You don’t know.”

  Don’t listen to them. Visualize the figures. Nothing but the figures: 23 and 18.

  “You’re no good!”

  “Much too slow!”

  Nasty laughter in the room.

  “Idiot!”

  “Halfwit!”

  “Dunce!”

  “No hope, you’ve no chance!”

  “You’re screwed!”

  They were becoming like excited wild animals, as they entered into the spirit of the game.

  “Twenty-three plus eighteen?” Dunker repeated, all smiles.

  “Forty-two, no …”

  The smile grew wider.

  “You goofed up!”

  “Can’t count!”

  “Forty-one.”

  “Twelve plus fourteen?”

  “You won’t get it!”

  “You’re useless!”

  “You’re pitiful!”

  Twelve plus fourteen. Twelve, fourteen.

  “Twenty-four. Twenty-six!”

  “You’re worse and worse!”

  “Eight times nine?”

  “Rubbish!”

  “Sixty-two. No … eight times nine, seventy-two.”

  “You don’t know your tables, moron!”

  I was going under. Completely. Had to refocus. Cut myself off from what I was feeling.

  “Four times seven?”

  “Idiot!”

  “You won’t get it!”

  “You don’t know!”

  “You’re a waste of space!”

  “Four times seven?” Dunker repeated.

  “You dummy!”

  “Twenty … four.”

  “You’ve screwed up!”

  “Cretin!”

  “Dope!”

  “Jerk!”

  “Three ti
mes two?”

  “Ha, ha! Can’t count!”

  “Three times two?”

  Laughter, loud and horrible. Some people were doubled over, laughing hysterically. I didn’t know what I was doing anymore.

  “Two times two?”

  “He’s forgotten his two-times table!”

  “Two times two?” Dunker repeated, euphoric.

  “Moron!”

  All of a sudden, Dunker stopped and silenced the group.

  “Okay, that’s enough!”

  “Waste of space!”

  “Stop, that’s enough! That’s enough!”

  I was bewildered, stunned. I felt very, very ill. Dunker had realized this and immediately became serious. It had turned nasty. He knew he was responsible and must have known the risk he was running.

  “It’s over,” he said. “We went a bit too far. This was just practice. In a real situation, we’d stop sooner. But here we were dealing with someone strong. It was all right, wasn’t it?” he said, looking at me. “I suggest we give Alan a round of applause for his courage. It can’t have been easy!”

  Suddenly brought out of its trance, looking disconcerted and embarrassed, the group half-heartedly clapped. I caught sight of Alice, her eyes full of tears.

  “Well done, my friend! You did really well,” Dunker said, giving me a big slap on the back as I left the room.

  16

  I FLED THE office, not bothering to finish the day. Nobody would dare criticize me for leaving. I left the building, turned left, and strode along the sidewalk with no particular destination. I just had to empty out the stress.

  This painful experience had completely thrown me off center, and I felt violent anger toward Dunker. How could I now meet my colleagues’ eyes when I walked past them? That bastard had publicly humiliated me. He would pay for it. Dearly. I would find the way to make him regret playing with people like that.

  The fact that the test had shown my lack of self-confidence paradoxically put me in a strong position. Things had gone too far, in public, and Dunker was responsible for that. I was probably in a position to give him a few problems on a legal level, and he must be aware of that. I was becoming almost untouchable.

  I got a text message from Dubreuil and lit the prescribed cigarette. He would know how to help me get revenge, that was for sure. If only he would stop ordering me to light up all the time! Smoking is fine when you decide to do it but not when you’re made to.