The Man Who Risked It All

by Laurent Gounelle

“I’m the one who told the press about Dunker’s malpractices!”

  My voice resounded impressively in this temple of mockery, and silence fell instantly. Total silence, absolute, deafening. The amazing silence of a hall of 15,000 people. Mockery gave way to stupefaction. The clown onstage was suddenly no longer a clown. He was an enemy, a dangerous enemy who had wiped out their savings.

  Igor Dubrovski’s words came back to me, no longer a technique to be applied but a philosophy to be adopted: Embrace your neighbor’s world, and he will open himself up to you.

  Embrace your neighbor’s world. We weren’t individuals fighting each other; we were human beings linked by the same aspirations, the same desire to live a better life. What set us apart was, at bottom, only a tiny detail, compared to what brought us together. But how was I to share this with them? How was I to explain it? And how would I find the strength to express myself?

  The image of Speech-Masters passed before my eyes, allowing me to reexperience the wonderful feeling of that occasion. I possessed, somewhere deep within me, the necessary resources. I was capable, if I dared, of going toward these people and speaking to them from the bottom of my heart.

  The rostrum now seemed like a barrier, a hindrance. I reached out and removed the microphone from its stand, and, leaving my notes behind, walked toward the crowd, alone and unarmed, offering my vulnerability. I walked slowly, carried along by a sincere wish for peace. I was afraid, but my fear gradually gave way to a new feeling, a feeling of confidence.

  I reached the front of the stage. I could make out the grave expressions of the people nearest to me. Farther away, the faces faded until they became the vague, colored brushstrokes of an Impressionist painting. But I could feel all eyes on me, in the heavy and intense silence.

  It was obvious that I couldn’t deliver my prepared speech. Written a week earlier, it was disconnected from the present, dissociated from the emotions of the moment. I had to be content with the words that came to mind. “You speak with your heart,” Étienne had said.

  I looked at all these people gathered around me. Their sense of helplessness and their anger were palpable. I could feel them vibrating in my body.

  I brought the microphone to my lips.

  “I know what you’re feeling at this moment,” I said. My voice resounded in the gigantic space, assuming an unsuspected and impressive sonority. “I can feel your concern. You invested your money in our company’s shares. My revelations to the press made the share price fall, and you’re furious with me. You see me as a vile person, a traitor, a bastard.”

  Not a murmur in the crowd.

  “That’s what I would think, too, if I were in your place.”

  The entire hall remained in absolute silence—a tense, electric silence.

  “Your hopes of financial gain have been disappointed. Perhaps you needed that money to improve your standard of living, your purchasing power, or to improve your pension, or to grow the capital you will leave to your children. Whatever your concerns, I understand them, and I respect them.

  “Perhaps you think I gave this information to the press out of hatred for Marc Dunker, out of a desire for personal vengeance. It could have been the case, given all that he has inflicted on me. And yet, no, that is not the reason. I published the information with the precise goal of making the share price drop.”

  Some insults could be heard. I went on, “Of making the share price drop and thereby making you come to the annual meeting, so that I could speak to you face-to-face.”

  The tension was at its maximum, and I could feel the audience totally concentrated on my words, burning to discover my thoughts, to give a meaning to my actions.

  “When it was founded, the stock exchange’s purpose was to allow businesses to collect money from the public to finance their development. Those who chose to invest, whatever the amount, placed their confidence in a company and trusted its ability to develop over time. They believed in its plan. Then the lure of gain made some invest for ever-shorter periods, moving their capital from one company to another to try and tap short-term gains and thereby maximize their income. This speculation became widespread, and bankers invented financial tools that allow all sorts of betting on share movement, including betting on a falling market. The person who speculates on the share price going down makes money when the business starts to be in difficulty. That’s a bit like profiting from a decline in your neighbor’s health. Imagine: Your neighbor has cancer. You bet a thousand dollars that his health will decline dramatically in the next six months. Three months later, the cancer metastasizes. Great! Your investment is up twenty percent. Of course, you think there’s no link between this example and the market—your neighbor is a person and not a company. But this is the heart of the problem. Since the stock exchange has become a casino, we have forgotten its prime function, and especially we’ve forgotten that behind the names of the companies we gamble on like we’re playing roulette, there are people—living, flesh-and-blood people, who work in these companies and devote much of their lives to the company’s development.

  “The price of your shares is directly linked to the prospect of short-term gains. For the share price to go up, the company must publish excellent results each quarter. But a company is a little like a person in another way: its health has ups and downs, and that’s quite normal. And sometimes, just as it does in a human being, an illness allows the company to step back a bit, see things differently, adjust its trajectory, and then set off again with a new equilibrium, stronger than before. As a shareholder, you have to be patient. If you deny the reality that a company’s health goes up and down, then the company will deny its difficulties—it will lie to you or make decisions that will generate positive results in the short term. By publishing bogus job vacancies or by deliberately canvassing insolvent companies, Marc Dunker simply responded to the demands of a game whose rules are intolerable.

  “This requirement for share-price growth brings with it enormous pressure on everyone, from the CEO to the most recent hire. It prevents people from working properly, calmly. It encourages short-term management that’s good for neither the business nor the employees nor the company’s suppliers who, squeezed hard, will reflect that pressure back on their own employees and suppliers. We end up with companies in good health laying people off just to maintain or improve their profitability. This threat now hovers over each one of us, pushing us into an individualism that affects the atmosphere between colleagues.

  “In the end, we all find ourselves living under stress. Work is no longer a pleasure, yet I am convinced it ought to be.”

  A deadly silence continued to reign in the hall. We were a long way from the stimulating laughter I had experienced at Speech-Masters. But I felt carried along by my own sincerity. I was just expressing what I believed deep down. I wasn’t claiming to possess the truth, but I believed wholeheartedly in what I was saying, and that gave me the strength to carry on.

  “We won’t remake the world today, my friends. Then again, I learned recently that Gandhi used to say, ‘We must be the change that we want to see in the world.’ And it’s true that the world is nothing more than the sum of each one of us.

  “If you want your shares to return rapidly to the price they were a few weeks ago and continue on a steep upward curve, then I advise you to reelect the man who leads the company today. If you choose to put me at the head of the company, I will not make any promises on that score. It’s even probable that the share will stay low for a time. What I do promise, on the other hand, is to make Dunker Consulting a more humane company. I would like everyone to be happy to get up in the morning with the thought that they are coming to work to express their talent, whatever their position. I would like our managers to be responsible for creating the conditions for the fulfillment and success of each member of their team, making sure that everyone can continue to develop their abilities.

  “And I am convinced that in such an atmosphere everyone will give their best, not with
the goal of meeting a target dictated by external demands but for the pleasure of feeling competent, of mastering their craft, of excelling. I want to build a company in which the results are the fruit of the passion we put into our work, rather than the consequence of pressure that destroys our pleasure and equilibrium.

  “I also promise total transparency in the management and results of the company. No more propaganda and misinformation. If we temporarily have bad results, why should we hide them? To keep you from selling your shares? But why would you, if you are signed on to a long-term plan? We all catch a cold or flu that puts us in bed for a week. Do you hide it from your partner for fear that they’ll leave you? I am convinced that a company whose operation is based on healthy values absolutely can grow and generate profits. But those profits must not be pursued obsessively, like a drug addict after his fix. Profits are the natural fruit of healthy and harmonious management.”

  Igor’s words came back to me: You can’t change people, you know. You can only show them a path, then make them want to go down it.

  “The choice is yours. In the end, it’s not a CEO you are going to choose, but the sort of satisfaction you want to feel in the long run. On the one hand, you will have the satisfaction of having maximized your revenue and perhaps going a bit farther for your holiday at the end of the year, or buying a slightly bigger car, or leaving a little more money for your children to inherit. On the other hand, you will have the satisfaction of taking part in a fabulous adventure: the return of humanism to the business world. And each day you will perhaps feel a little glow of pride, the pride of having contributed to building a better world, the world you will leave to your children.”

  I looked out at all the people. They seemed close, despite being so numerous. I had told them what I had in my mind and heart; there was no point in adding anything. I didn’t feel the need to finish with a well-turned formula to mark the end of my speech and set off applause. Besides, it wasn’t a speech, simply the expression of my deepest convictions, of my faith in a different future. I stayed a few seconds just looking at the assembled, in a silence that no longer frightened me. Then I went back to my isolated chair, apart from the others. The directors at the table were looking at their feet.

  The vote and the count lasted an eternity. It was already night when I became CEO of Dunker Consulting.

  52

  THE NEARER I got, walking along the paths through the perfumed gardens of the Champ de Mars, the more gigantic the Eiffel Tower seemed, dominating me with its immense height. Lit crimson by the setting sun, it was majestic and disquieting at the same time. Yet there was no longer any objective reason for my apprehension. The success of my final task the day before freed me from Igor’s clutches, and we were going to be able to celebrate my victory in peace. But somehow, in my eyes, the tower remained a trap. I had the feeling of going back into a cage that I had escaped.

  Reaching the foot of the Iron Lady, I looked up at the top. Vertigo made me reel. I felt minute and fragile, a penitent kneeling at the feet of a god-like giant, begging it to grant him mercy.

  I headed for the south tower, weaving through the tourists, and introduced myself to the man who was screening people waiting to use The Jules Verne’s private elevator.

  “What name is the reservation under?” he asked, about to look at the list he had in his hand.

  “I’m with Monsieur Igor Dubrovski.”

  “Right, sir, please follow me,” he replied at once, without even looking at the piece of paper.

  I followed him into the space at the foot of the tower. He gave a discreet sign to his colleague, who was waiting with some customers. We slipped in front of them and entered the old, narrow elevator with its iron-and-glass walls. The door closed noisily behind us like a dungeon door, and we rose among the tangle of metal that constitutes the tower.

  “Monsieur Dubrovski hasn’t arrived yet,” he told me. “You’re the first.”

  The elevator rushed upward. Arriving at the second floor, I felt a pang as I recognized the great wheel pulling the elevator cable. I felt my hands become moist. The man led me to a maître d’ who greeted me with great distinction. I followed him across the restaurant to our table, next to the window. He offered me an aperitif while I waited. I chose a Perrier.

  The atmosphere was subdued and pleasant. A restrained décor in black and white. The late-day sun reached into every corner, accentuating the ethereal feel of the place. A few tables were already occupied. I caught snatches of conversation in foreign languages.

  I couldn’t help but shudder when I looked out. Those beams were only too familiar. In the end, it was healthy to come back to the scene of my trauma. I experienced it as the possibility not of wiping out the past but at least of writing another story on top of it.

  What a lot of ground I had covered since that day. I felt as if I had freed myself from my chains, like a boat casting off the moorings that have kept it dockside. I had discovered that most of my fears were just an invention of my mind. Reality sometimes takes the shape of a terrifying dragon that disappears when you dare to look at it head on. Spurred on by Igor, I had mastered the dragons in my mind, and it now seemed to be inhabited by benevolent angels.

  Igor … Igor Dubrovski. Yves Dubreuil. Was he going to shed light on the shadowy areas that remained, now that our pact was coming to its end? Was I going to understand at last his motives, or would I continue to see him as an old, half-mad psychiatrist?

  Time was passing, and Igor hadn’t come. The restaurant was gradually filling up, and the ballet of waiters, maître d’s, and sommeliers was being played out, a fluid and silent choreography. I had another drink. A bourbon this time. I never drank the stuff, but suddenly I wanted one.

  Igor wouldn’t come. I knew it deep down. In a confused way, I could feel it.

  I dined alone, carried by the mildness of the evening, lulled by the languorous chords of a jazz-inspired pianist. In the sky, the stars were shining peacefully.

  53

  THE MAN SAT down comfortably under the arbor and placed next to him the cup of steaming coffee he had brought. He got a cigarette out of the pack and put it between his lips. He struck a match on the side of a little box, broke the match, and swore as he threw the broken end on the ground. The second match caught fire at once, and he lit the cigarette, taking a drag.

  It was the best moment of the day. The sun had barely begun to rise in the still pale blue sky. It was going to be hot.

  The man opened his paper, La Provence, and read the headlines on the front page. Not much news at the end of August. Another forest fire rapidly brought under control by the Marseilles fire department with the help of Canadair fire-fighting planes. Must have been a pyromaniac, he thought, or some thoughtless tourists picnicking in the countryside despite the ban. Another article reported on the increased numbers attending summer festivals, which nonetheless didn’t always cover costs. We’re going to have to pay for the Parisians’ concerts with our local taxes again, he said to himself.

  He drank a sip of coffee and opened the paper to the inside pages.

  The photo leapt out at him. Underneath, the headline in bold said: “A 24-year-old Man Elected CEO of the Biggest French Recruitment Firm.”

  His cigarette fell out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Well, I never! Josette, come and have a look at this!”

  You can no more judge a man by his job title than you can judge a book by its cover. However, it inevitably changes the way others see him. My return to the office, two days after my election, was rather off-putting. There was a small crowd in the lobby when I arrived. It was as if the disbelief after the announcement of my election was such that my colleagues wanted to check the results for themselves. Each one greeted me after his fashion, but none of them addressed me as they normally would. I could already feel that personal interests were at play—I couldn’t hold it against them, and some were being cautious, while others were obviously inspired by the wish to cozy up to me i
n order to benefit from it sooner or later. Thomas was the most flattering among them, which didn’t surprise me. Only Alice was genuine in her reaction, and I felt her satisfaction was sincere.

  I didn’t hang around but went up to my office. I had barely been there a quarter of an hour when Marc Dunker turned up.

  “Let’s not beat around the bush,” he began, without even saying hello. “Since you’re going to fire me, we might as well get it over with. Sign here; that way it’s over and done with!”

  He held out a sheet of paper. It was a letter typed on company letterhead and addressed to him, indicating that his services were no longer needed. Under the signature line, it read: Alan Greenmor, Chief Executive Officer.

  This guy was so used to deciding everything that he was sacking himself! I took the letter and tore it in two, then tossed it in the wastebasket. He stared at me, stupefied.

  “I’ve thought about it long and hard,” I said. “Rather than serve as both president and managing director of the company, I’ve decided to keep just the overall presidency and to appoint a separate managing director. I’m offering you the job. You worship efficiency; you have a passion for results. We’ll set them to work for a noble cause. From now on, your mission, if you accept it, is to make this company a more humane business, producing high-quality services while respecting everyone from the clients to the employees to the suppliers. As you know, I am betting that happy workers will give the best of themselves, that suppliers treated as partners will rise to the trust we place in them, and that our clients will appreciate the value of what we have to offer.”

  “It’ll never work,” Dunker said. “Have you seen the share price? The day after the annual meeting, it lost another eleven percent.”

  “Nothing to worry about. It’s just the second big shareholder selling his shares. Henceforth, the company will be made up solely of small investors who believe in the new vision for the business. We’re finished with the pressure of a few big shareholders deciding everything! Now we are part of the same family.”