The Awakening

by Allen Johnson

  “Look, officer . . .”

  “La ferme! Do it.”

  Anthony leaned against the car spread eagle.

  Then there was another commanding voice: “Qui êtes-vous? Who are you?” Anthony turned his head and saw a tall man in a suit and topcoat, carrying a bullhorn.

  “I’m Rossi. Anthony Rossi.”

  “Stand up, Mr. Rossi. We have been waiting for you. I am Inspector BenoÎt Garrone,” he said, flashing his badge.

  “But he rammed my car,” the police officer whined.

  “It is all right, Dupuy. I will take it from here.”

  Looking forlorn, Dupuy holstered his gun and examined the raw-metal scrape that fell across the entire side of the patrol car. In revenge, he gave Anthony’s car a swift kick, which reshuffled the bones in his foot, and he leaned two hands against the car to recover.

  “Ça va?” another officer asked with a smile.

  Dupuy straightened up and for no reason adjusted his tie. “He rammed my car,” he mumbled.

  Meanwhile, Anthony and Inspector Garrone rushed up the stairwell to the top floor of the seven-story parking lot.

  “We will be as close as we can without being detected,” Garrone said out of breath. “If I can, I will try to stay with you, but he is catégorique: He only wants to talk to you.”

  “What do I do?”

  “Rely on your best instincts. That is all anyone can do.”

  In the next moment, the two men emerged from the stairwell onto the final open-air floor. Anthony felt the cold wind smack his face, and his body shivered.

  Jean-Pierre Badeau was balanced on a corner of the three-foot high concrete barrier. One short step backward and he would fall to his death on a heap of steel beams. The wind was gusting and the thin man looked cold and fragile, despite the benefit of his down parka. “Only Rossi. I only want to talk to Rossi. You go away.”

  “We are here to help you,” the inspector said softly.

  “Only Rossi!” Badeau screamed, belting the words with such force that his body tilted backward, and he flapped his arms to regain his balance.

  “D’accord, I am going,” the inspector said, backing down the stairwell. “Bonne chance,” he whispered from below.

  Anthony eased forward, one step at a time. He got within ten feet of Badeau.

  “Stop! That is far enough, Monsieur Rossi.”

  “Okay, Jean-Pierre. I’ll stay right here. Let’s just talk.”

  “You want to talk now?” Badeau asked, his voice shaking from a mix of cold and raw emotion. “You do not talk, Monsieur Rossi. You rant, you moralize, you ridicule. You are very good at that, but you do not talk.”

  “I know, Jean-Pierre . . . .”

  “I am talking now,” he shouted. “It is not your turn to talk; you talk all the time. I am talking. You think you know everything. You think you are so malin, so smart: the all-knowing, all-powerful American, Monsieur Rossi. But, you know what, vous ne comprenez rien du tout. You do not understand anything.” Badeau suddenly changed his voice to a half whisper. “In fact, I think you are the most stupid person I know.” Badeau pivoted on the barrier and flung his arms out. “Anthony Rossi est un parfait idiot!” he screamed to the world.

  Anthony rushed forward, and then Badeau flipped back around.

  “Stop! Not another step, you espèce de . . .”

  Anthony pulled up short, having gained five feet on Badeau.

  “Okay. May I talk now, Jean-Pierre?”

  “I do not know, Monsieur Rossi. What are you going to say? Are you going to tell me I am not à la hauteur? I am not good enough? Are you going to tell me I don’t know how to do my job? Maybe you want to tell me to stop farting. Eh, oui, c’est ça! You want me to stop farting, n’est pas? Well, I am sorry if I have offended you, Monsieur Rossi, but that is what I do. I fart. I am a farter. Some people are born musicians. But not me; I am a born farter. And if that does not please you, Monsieur Rossi, you can … you can …” Badeau could not finish his sentence; even in his rage he could not curse at another human being.

  “You’re right, Jean-Pierre. I have been a bastard. I know my treatment of you has been a disappointment.”

  “A disappointment! A disappointment! No, a cola soft drink is a disappointment. An over-cooked steak is a disappointment. No wine with your bread and cheese is a disappointment. But what you do is something else, Monsieur Rossi. What you do is . . . honteux . . . disgraceful! A disappointment? No, you treat me like la merde.”

  Anthony made no effort to defend himself.

  “Why do you do that?” Badeau asked. “Why do you ridicule people? Do you want them to be humiliated? Does that make you feel important?” Badeau was suddenly crying through his words. “Do you think that I am not trying? Do you think I want to be incompétent, Monsieur Rossi? Is that what you think?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Bien sûr que non. You know I cannot sleep at night, Monsieur Rossi? Did you know that? You know why? Because I am thinking about the job. I’m thinking about your putain job, and I cannot tolerate it anymore.” Badeau bowed his head and wiped the tears from his closed eyes.

  Anthony sprung forward, his arms outstretched. At the same instant, Badeau opened his eyes, saw Anthony rushing toward him, and took one step backward. Anthony plunged forward and wrapped his arms around Badeau, catching him just under the armpits. Badeau was dangling over the side, and Anthony’s grip was slipping on the slick nylon of Badeau’s parka. The crowd screamed from the street below.

  “Hold on!” Anthony shouted.

  His grasp around Badeau’s chest gave way. For one second, there was a flurry of arms, and with a shout from his gut, Anthony snagged one sleeve and then the second. Almost immediately Badeau started to slip out of his parka. Anthony quickly adjusted his grip—grabbing Badeau’s left wrist and, with that anchor held firm, the right wrist.

  Anthony looked into Badeau’s eyes, and he saw the face of terror. He saw a man who was driven to desperation, but in the end, a man who still clung to life.

  “Au secours! I do not want to die,” Badeau said, his legs flopping about trying in vain to find a foothold.

  “You are not going to die,” Anthony said almost matter-of-factly and with all his strength hoisted Badeau’s upper body over the barrier.

  The inspector was now at Anthony’s side, and he reached over the barrier and clutched Badeau by the belt; together they pulled the thin man over the wall, where he collapsed on the floor.

  Anthony threw his arms around the sobbing Badeau. “I’ve got you, Jean-Pierre. You’re okay. From now on everything will be okay.”

  The medics were there. They put Jean-Pierre on a stretcher and tied him in. Then they headed down the stairs, Anthony holding Badeau’s hand all the way down to the ground floor.

  At the ambulance, Anthony saw Hennessy, Lucy, and Jack. They all looked shaken.

  “I’m going with him,” Anthony said to Hennessy. “Would you drive the Mercedes to the hospital? The keys are still in the car.” He spotted the name of the hospital on the side panel of the ambulance. “It looks like we’re going to the Hôpital Saint-Louis.”

  There were tears in Hennessy’s eyes. “Sure,” he said, his throat tight. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you, Anthony, thank you.”

  Anthony placed his hand over Hennessy’s heart as a sign of gratitude and started to step into the ambulance.

  “We cannot allow that, sir. C’est interdit,” the medic said, wagging his finger in Anthony’s face.

  Inspector Garrone showed the medic his badge. “Let him go. I will take responsibility.”

  “But it is interdit!” the medic protested again.

  At that point, the inspector surprised Anthony. The American had lived among Parisians long enough to know many of their conventions. For example, given a choice, a Frenchman will predictably protest his anonymity, especially after violating a bureaucratic policy—after all, an unnamed offender cannot be held accountable. So, the insp
ector broke national character when he stepped up to the medic, leaned into his face, and spoke in stern, staccato syllables. “Listen. My name is Inspector BenoÎt Garrone—that is spelled G-a-r-r-o-n-e; I will tell you one last time: I take responsibility. D’accord?”

  The medic finally relented: “D’accord. Agreed.”

  “I’m going with you,” Lucy said to Anthony.

  Anthony looked at his secretary and then the ambulance driver.

  “You take responsibility for her too?” the driver asked the inspector.

  “Yes, yes. Go!”

  Anthony and Lucy got in the ambulance and sat down beside Badeau, who had an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth.

  “You’re going to be all right, Jean-Pierre. I’m going to see to it,” Anthony said.

  Badeau nodded.

  Lucy leaned forward and took Badeau’s hand. “Jean-Pierre, c’est moi, Lucy. We’re here for you.”

  Badeau tried to say something, which made him choke.

  “Ça suffit!—that’s enough!” the medic said, adjusting his patient’s mask. “Let him rest.”

  Anthony and Lucy leaned back against the wall of the van, Anthony folding his arms across his chest in a vain effort to control his trembling hands.

  “You’re right, Lucy. We are here for him.” Then after a long pause, he added, “But it can’t stop with Jean-Pierre. The company has to take care of all its employees.” Then, suddenly, it was almost as if Anthony had become his old self, barking out orders. But this time his “barking” was driven by raw passion, not meanness. “I have an idea, Lucy. If I have any influence left in this company, I am going to create a new position—call it employee advocacy—and you will be its director.” The excitement was building up in his eyes. “Yeah, that’s it. You’ll make sure that every employee is treated like—here’s a novel idea—a human being. You’ll create career development programs, health programs, communication programs. You know how to do that kind of stuff.” Anthony paused as if he were visualizing the transformation. “Damn, this feels good to me. What do you think, Lucy?”

  The secretary actually giggled.

  “I know, I sound crazy.”

  “No, you sound on fire.”

  “I do, don’t I? More than anything, I’m excited about you. Lucy, you are going to change the image of TMS. I’m not talking about a new mission statement; that’s fluff. I’m talking about a new culture. Employee driven.” Anthony turned and faced Lucy straight on, his eyes still dancing. “What d’you say? Are you up for it?”

  Lucy looked at Anthony with a sense of wonder and renewed admiration. “Yes, Mr. Rossi, I think I am . . . think I am.”

  After a cursory examination in emergency, Badeau was admitted to the hospital for more intensive tests. When Anthony visited his room, he found the project manager sedated and sleeping soundly on his back. He pulled up a chair and took Badeau’s hand.

  “I don’t know if you can hear me, Jean-Pierre. I want you to know that I’m sorry. You were right about everything; I was such a shit. You are one courageous manager, Jean-Pierre, you crazy, out-of-control Frenchman.”

  Anthony dropped his head, closed his eyes, and listened. Then, after several minutes, he looked up at Badeau again. “Don’t worry about a thing, Bud. We’ve got you covered. You just rest up now . . . you hear?”

  The door to the hospital room flew open, and Badeau’s wife, Nicole, stormed in, a nurse on her arm, struggling hopelessly to calm the hysterical woman. Immediately sizing up the situation, Anthony took the woman by both shoulders and backed her out the door.

  “Calm yourself, Nicole. You’re no good to him this way.”

  “Do not tell me what to do. This is your fault.” She broke away from Anthony’s grip and beat her fists into his chest.

  Anthony let her pound on him, until, in total exhaustion, she fell limp into his arms. Anthony led her to a couch in the adjacent waiting room, where they both sat down side by side.

  “You did this,” she hissed. “Vous l’avez rendu fou—you drove him crazy. He could never please you.”

  “I know, Nicole. He was right; I was wrong. That will change. Everything will change.”

  “Oui, c’est certain,” she said sarcastically.

  “People do change, Nicole. It is possible to become a better person. I know that now. Give me a chance; give me a chance to make things right.”

  “And Jean-Pierre? What about Jean-Pierre?”

  “Jean-Pierre will be fine. There will always be a place for him in our company. We will not run from our people; we will see this problem through. You’ll see. Jean-Pierre will bounce back, and he will be free to choose whatever work he wants for himself and his family. D’accord?”

  “C’est promis?”

  “That’s a promise.”

  Nicole took off her glasses and swept the tears from her eyes, breathing long, disjointed sighs.

  Anthony looked into her eyes. “Now, do you think you would like to see Jean-Pierre? He’s been sedated and is resting peacefully, but I bet he can still feel the warmth of your hand. Talk to him; he will hear you. Tell him you love him; it’s the best medicine on earth.”

  “Yes. I would like to see him.”

  Anthony led Nicole back to Badeau’s room, where he left her, sitting by her husband’s side, his hand in hers.

  When Anthony left the room, Hennessy was waiting for him in the hallway. He had witnessed the scene with Nicole and was flooded with emotion. The two men stood silently for a moment in the center of the hall. Hennessy looked into Anthony’s eyes and shook his head in wonderment. They embraced.

  “Incredible,” Hennessy said. “You’re incredible.”

  “What do you say we call it a day?”

  The two men walked to the elevators and on to the parking lot.

  Hennessy gave Anthony his car keys. “You did a number on the Benz, but it still rolls.”

  “That’s what counts.”

  “Listen, Anthony. There’s something . . . well, something I’d like to say.”

  “Hennessy, I’m really bushed. Can it wait until tomorrow? I’d really like to be able to give you my full attention, and right now I’m running on empty.”

  “Sure. As a matter of fact, Jack and I were hoping that we could both drop into your office tomorrow morning sometime.”

  “That would be fine.”

  “How about ten o’clock?”

  “Good. I’ll see you then.”

  Anthony drove straight to his small apartment. Once in his room, he took one brief look at the narrow street below: the compact French cars parked bumper-to-bumper and pressed against the eighteenth-century storefronts, two wheels on the road, two wheels perched on the sidewalk. He then lay on the bed, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. The following day would demand a hundred decisions. What would be his place in the company? Would he even stay on? What about Penelope? And—always first in his heart—what about Lupita and Diego and his life in Spain?

  His head turned over all the options. Sometimes he thought he had all the pieces in place, and then everything fell apart, and he started all over again. Everything was riding on the next day.

  In the shadows of his sleep, Anthony heard someone whistling a lilting melody. He knew that tune; it was “La Violetera.” He searched the darkness for Diego, hearing his voice before he saw him.

  “Hola, Antonio.”

  “Where are you, Diego?”

  “I am here,” he said, stepping out of the shadows.

  But Diego’s eyes were cast down, and Antonio did not recognize him. “Who are you?”

  “Do you not know me?” Diego asked, raising his head.

  It was true; it was Diego, but a young Diego—a man of twenty. His back was straight, his hair pitch black, and his smile gleaming. He was the most beautiful man he had ever seen.

  Antonio smiled and threw himself at his friend, wrapping his arms around his waist and lifting his feet off the ground. “Diego! You are so young and h
andsome!”

  “I have not always been old,” Diego said with a warm laugh. He held Antonio by the shoulders, inspecting him at arm’s length. “There is someone that I would like you to meet,” he said, looking over his shoulder at someone in the dark.

  Anthony squinted, trying to make out the figure, who finally stepped into the light. It was a brown-skinned, barefooted woman in white—exquisitely beautiful. She had a luminescence about her that was overwhelming. At first he thought it was Lupita, and he nearly swept her up in his arms. But it was not Lupita.

  Young Diego spoke: “Antonio, may I have the honor of presenting the love of my life, Lupe.”

  Antonio was speechless. Tears came to his eyes. He looked at Diego, who only smiled. Antonio stepped forward, took Lupe’s hand, and kissed it tenderly.

  “Oh, no Antonio,” Lupe said. “You must give me a hug,” and she took Antonio in her arms, caressing the back of his head, as was Lupita’s way.

  “I am so honored to meet you, Lupe,” he said.

  “And I am honored to meet you.”

  “We are all honored,” Diego said, putting his arms around Lupe and Antonio.

  “I am so glad that you have come,” Antonio said.

  “We thought you might need our advice,” Diego said with a smile.

  “Oh, yes, yes!” Antonio said.

  “Is it so difficult?” Diego asked. “You already possess everything you need: Silence, love, charity, and peace.”

  “Yes, but what should I do?”

  “You must answer that for yourself,” Lupe said. “With whom do you stand? Do you stand with the rebels, who have no rules, no conscience, no trust in elections—with those who believe only in bayonets and blood?”

  “Or will you stand with the people?” Diego continued, as if his thoughts were a natural extension of Lupe’s thoughts. “Will you think deeply, love profoundly, serve completely, and harvest peace?”

  Diego moved to Antonio and cupped his son’s face in his hands: “Do not make this more difficult than it is: Are you Anthony or are you Antonio?” Then, the young Diego kissed his son on both cheeks, smiled a calming, paternal smile, and then withdrew a step.