Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  I think she had to read it several times before it registered. She was still wearing her coat when I saw her appear at the door of my study, resting her shoulder against the frame. She was holding the letter in her hand, head tilted to the side. This is one of her classic mannerisms and, along with two or three others, by far my favorite. It’s almost like she knows it. When I see her in that position, I feel comforted by the extreme grace she has. There is something doleful about her, a litheness that’s hard to explain . . . a languor that is extraordinarily sexual. She was holding the letter in her hand and staring at me. I found her extremely beautiful, or extremely desirable, and was overcome by a furious urge to jump her. Sex has always been a powerful antidepressant for me.

  At first, when I didn’t regard unemployment as a fatal situation, just a calamitous, worrying one, I was constantly jumping Nicole. In the bedroom, in the bathroom, in the corridor. Nicole never said no. She is very perceptive and understood that it was my way of affirming that I was still alive. Since then, anxiety has given way to anguish, and the first visible effect of this is that I’m practically impotent. Our lovemaking has become rare, challenging. Nicole is very kind and patient, which only makes me more unhappy. Our sexual barometer is all over the place. We pretend not to notice or that it’s not important. I know Nicole still loves me, but our life has become much more difficult and I can’t help feeling that it cannot carry on like this forever.

  But back to her clutching the letter from BLC Consulting.

  “Sweetheart, this is unbelievable!” she said.

  I reminded myself that I really needed to track down the author of Charles’s quotation about the Devil and hope. Because Nicole was right. A letter like this was out of the ordinary, and at my age, having not worked in my field for more than four years, I didn’t have the faintest chance of landing the job. A glimmer of optimism stirred in Nicole and me that very second. As though the months and years that had passed had taught us nothing. As though the two of us could never be cured of our hope.

  Nicole moved toward me and gave me one of those wet kisses that make me go wild. She’s brave. There is nothing harder than living with a depressive. Apart from being depressed yourself, of course.

  “Do we know who they’re recruiting for?” Nicole asked.

  I turned around my screen to show her BLC Consulting’s website. The name comes from its founder, Bertrand Lacoste. Serious pedigree. The type of consultant who charges himself out at 3,500 euros a day. When I first joined Bercaud, with my whole future ahead of me (and even several years later, when I signed up for a lifelong-learning course to get a coaching qualification), becoming a high-level consultant like Bertrand Lacoste was exactly what I dreamed of: efficient, always one step ahead of my opposite number, producing lightning-quick analyses and a barrage of managerial solutions whatever the situation. I never finished the course because our girls arrived around then. That’s the official version. Nicole’s version. In reality, I never had the talent for it. Deep down, I have the mindset of an employee: I am the prototypical middle manager.

  I said:

  “The ad is vague. They talk about an ‘industry leader with a global presence.’ Apart from that . . . the job’s based in Paris.”

  Nicole watched me scroll through web pages on employment regulations and new laws on continuing professional development that I had spent the afternoon reading. She smiled. My desk was strewn with Post-its and notes to self, and I had taped various sheets of paper to my bookshelves. She seemed to realize at that moment that I had worked relentlessly all day. She is one of those people who immediately picks up on the slightest domestic detail. If I move something, she notices as soon as she enters the room. The only time I’ve been unfaithful, a long time ago (the girls were still very young), she found me out that very evening, despite all the precautions I’d taken. At first, she didn’t say anything. It was a tense evening. In bed, she simply said to me in a tired manner:

  “Alain, never again . . .”

  Then she curled up next to me in bed. We have never exchanged another word on the subject.

  “I don’t have a chance in a thousand.”

  Nicole places the letter from BLC Consulting on my desk.

  “You never know,” she says, taking off her coat.

  “Someone my age . . .”

  She turns toward me.

  “How many applications do you figure they received?” she says.

  “Maybe three hundred and something.”

  “And how many do you think have been called up for the test?”

  “I’d say . . . around fifteen?”

  “So explain to me why they have chosen your application out of more than three hundred. Do you think they didn’t notice your age? Do you think that passed them by?”

  Of course not. Nicole is right. I spent half the afternoon turning the theories around in my head. Each time I come up against the same impossible point: my CV stinks of “man in his fifties” from a mile off, so if they’re calling me in, there must be something about my age that interests them.

  Nicole is very patient. While she peels the onions and potatoes, she listens to me as I detail all the technical reasons they might have for selecting me. She can hear the excitement bubbling up in my voice despite my attempts to contain it. I haven’t received a letter like this for more than two years. At worst, I never hear back; at best, I get told to get lost. I never get called to interview anymore, because a guy like me is of no interest to anyone. So I’ve come up with all sorts of hypotheses about the response from BLC Consulting, and I figure I have fallen on the right one.

  “I think it’s because of the scheme.”

  “What scheme?” Nicole asked.

  The rescue plan for seniors. It turns out that seniors are not working for long enough anymore. If only the government had gotten in touch, I could have saved them the expense of some very costly studies. In this case, we’re obviously talking about people who are still in work. It seems they stop working even though the country still needs them. And if that’s not terrible enough, it gets worse. Apparently, there are seniors who want to work but can’t find a job. Whether they’re not working enough or are no longer working at all, the older generations represent a serious problem to society. The government has therefore agreed to help by providing cash incentives for companies that agree to employ the elderly.

  “It isn’t my experience that interests them, it’s because they want tax exemptions and other benefits.”

  Sometimes Nicole does this thing with her mouth to feign skepticism, jutting out her chin slightly. I love it when she does that, too.

  “The way I see it,” she says, “these sorts of companies have no shortage of cash, so they don’t give a damn about government reward schemes.”

  The second part of my afternoon had been dedicated to clarifying this whole reward scheme business. And, once again, Nicole is right—it’s a weak argument. The tax exemptions only last a few months, and the scheme only covers a small part of the salary of an employee at this level. And, what’s more, it’s on a sliding scale.

  No, in the space of a couple of minutes Nicole has come to the same conclusion it has taken me a day to reach: if BLC is calling me in, it’s because they are interested in my experience.

  For four years I have exhausted myself explaining to employers that a man of my age is just as dynamic as a younger person, and that experience leads to savings. But that’s a journalist’s argument, fine for the “Jobs” supplements in the newspapers; it just pisses off employers. Now, for the first time, I get the impression that someone has properly read my cover letter and studied my application. This makes me feel like I might have hit a home run.

  I want the interview to happen right here, right now. I want to scream.

  But I keep it cool.

  “Let’s not mention anything to the girls, okay?”

  Nicole agrees that’s for the best. It has been tough for the girls seeing their parents living hand to
mouth. They never say a word, but they can’t help it—the image they have of me has worn away. Not because of unemployment, but because of the effects unemployment has had on me. I have aged, I have shrunk, I have grown gloomy. I’ve become a pain in the ass. They don’t even know about my job at Pharmaceutical Logistics. Raising their hopes that I might have landed something, only to announce later that I have blown it, is another flop I cannot face.

  Nicole cuddles up against me. She delicately places a finger on the bump on my forehead.

  “Care to explain?”

  I do my best to relate the story in a neutral tone. I’m pretty sure I even put a humorous spin on it. But the idea of me being kicked in the ass by Mehmet does not amuse Nicole in the slightest.

  “He’s wrong in the head, that Turk!”

  “That’s not a very European reaction.”

  But again my attempt at humor falls flat.

  Nicole strokes my cheek pensively. I know full well that she feels bad for me. I try to seem philosophical, despite my heavy heart and despite realizing from the mere touch of her hand that we are entering into fragile emotional territory.

  “Are you sure this business ends here?” Nicole asks, looking at my forehead.

  That’s it: next time I’m marrying an idiot.

  But Nicole places her lips on mine.

  “Screw it,” she says. “I’m sure this is the job for you. I’m certain of it.”

  I close my eyes and pray that, with all his talk of hope and the Devil, my friend Charles is just being a tedious piece of shit.

  4

  This letter from BLC Consulting has been a real bombshell. I can’t sleep anymore. My mood swings between euphoria and pessimism. Whatever I’m doing, my mind constantly comes back to it and creates all sorts of scenarios. It’s exhausting.

  On Friday, Nicole spent part of the day on her resource center’s website and printed off dozens of pages of legal information. After four years out of the game, I’m badly behind. The regulations in my field have changed a lot, especially regarding dismissals (things have become far more relaxed in that department). As for management, there have been plenty of innovations, too. Fashions are changing at breakneck speed. Five years ago, everyone was crazy about transactional analysis, but that’s seen as deeply antiquated today. Current trends include “transition management,” “sectorial restructuring,” “corporate identity,” the development of “interpersonal relations,” “benchmarking,” and “networking.” But above all, businesses champion their “values.” It’s no longer enough to work . . . now you have to “adhere.” Before, you just had to agree with the business, nowadays you have to amalgamate with it. To become one with it. Suits me just fine: they employ me, I amalgamate with them.

  Nicole sorted and selected the documents, I did some review cards, and since this morning she has been firing questions at me. We’re cramming. I am pacing around my study, trying hard to focus. Having composed various mnemonics to help, I’m now muddling them all up.

  Nicole makes tea and flops back onto the sofa with papers all around her. She’s still in her bathrobe, as is often the case, especially in winter, when she doesn’t have anything planned for the day. Wearing her old T-shirt and mismatched woolen socks, Nicole smells of sleep and tea; cozy as a croissant and beautiful as spring. I adore her abandon. If I weren’t so stressed by all this job stuff, I would take her straight back to bed. Given my current performance in the sex stakes, I desist.

  “No touching,” Nicole says, on seeing me finger my bruise.

  I don’t think about the knock often, but I’m cruelly reminded of its presence the moment I step in front of a mirror. This morning it turned a ghastly color. Mauve in the middle and yellow on the sides. I’d hoped it would make me look manly, but the effect is more grubby. The paramedic told me I would have it for about a week. As for Mehmet, he’s off for ten days with his broken nose.

  The teams for day-night shifts were swiftly reshuffled to compensate for our absences. I pick up the phone and call my colleague Romain. I get Charles.

  “The shifts are a mess,” he explains. “Romain did the night and I’m on afternoons for two or three days.”

  A supervisor is doing overtime to stand in for Mehmet, who has already informed the company that he would like to get back to work sooner. Now there’s someone who doesn’t need management seminars to learn about adhering to values. The overseer who has temporarily replaced him told Charles that Senior Management cannot tolerate brawling in the workplace. “What is the world coming to when team leaders wind up in the hospital for reprimanding a subordinate?” the guy would have said. I don’t know the significance of that, but it’s of no value to me. I decide not to say anything to Nicole so as not to worry her: if I get lucky with the job through BLC Consulting, I can deal with all the crap from before with a big grin on my face.

  “I’ll put some foundation on you tomorrow,” Nicole jokes as she inspects my forehead. “No, seriously! Just a bit, you’ll see.”

  We’ll see. I tell myself that tomorrow is just an aptitude test, not an interview, by which point the bruise will have more or less disappeared. If I make it that far, of course.

  “Well, of course you’ll make it that far,” Nicole assures me.

  True faith is confusing.

  I try to hide it, but my excitement is sky high. It’s not the same as yesterday or the day before: the closer the test gets, the more my nerves overwhelm me. On Friday, when we started reviewing, I had no idea how badly behind I was. When I did realize, it sent me into a panic. All of a sudden, the girls coming around doesn’t seem like such a welcome distraction. The thought of losing prep time sends me into a fluster.

  As soon as he enters, Gregory points at my forehead and says, “What happened here, grandpa? Starting to get a bit wobbly on your feet?”

  The “grandpa” is his in-joke. In these cases, Mathilde, my elder daughter, usually digs an elbow into his ribs, because she thinks I’m touchy about it. In my opinion, she’d do better to smack him in the fucking face. I say this because she has been married to him for four years, and for four years I’ve wanted to do it for her. Imagine, a guy with the name “Gregory” . . . Plus, he has slicked-back hair, which is another dead giveaway. Mating with a mug like this clearly doesn’t bother my daughter, but I’m sorry, it pisses me off. Nicole is right. I do feel touchy. She says it’s a result of inactivity. I love this word, even if it’s not the first that springs to mind when my alarm goes off at 4:00 a.m. to go and get my backside kicked.

  Mathilde is an English teacher. She is a very normal girl. She reserves an inexplicable passion for the quotidian. She adores doing the shopping, wondering about what she’s going to cook, thinking six months in advance about finding a good place to go on vacation, remembering the first names of all her friends’ children and everyone else’s birthdays, planning her pregnancies . . . This ability to fill up her life amazes me. There is something genuinely fascinating about generating such joy from the administration of the banal.

  Gregory is a branch manager at a consumer credit firm. He lends to people so they can buy loads of stuff, like vacuums, cars, and televisions. Greenhouses. In the brochures, the interest rates seem completely fine, but in actual fact you end up having to repay three or four times what you borrowed. And if you are having trouble repaying, it’s perfectly straightforward: you get another loan, but this time you need to repay thirty times what you borrowed. Standard. My son-in-law and I have spent entire evenings at each other’s throats. He represents pretty much everything I hate. It’s a real family drama. Nicole is of much the same opinion, but she has better manners than I do, and since she has work, she doesn’t spend hours on end thinking about it, whereas an evening with my son-in-law can leave me seething inside for three days straight. I always end up replaying the conversations like a football pundit after a match.

  When she’s at our place, Mathilde often comes for a chat in the kitchen while I finish the cooking. This is usuall
y a pretext for tackling any dishes left in the sink (she just can’t help herself). At her place she’s at it constantly; even at her girlfriends’ houses she knows where all the glasses go and where the cutlery lives. It must be some sort of sixth sense. I find it quite remarkable.

  She passes behind me and plants a kiss next to my ear, like a lover.

  “So you bashed yourself?”

  Her pity might have made things worse, but it is expressed with such kindness that actually it helps.

  I’m about to answer, but the doorbell rings. It’s Lucie, my second daughter. She is very flat chested, which causes her great distress. Nice guys find it cute, but try telling that to a girl of twenty-five. She’s thin, nervous, skittish. With her, reason doesn’t always prevail—she’s a passionate girl, quick to anger, more than capable of saying things she immediately regrets. She has a lot more childhood friends than her sister, who never gets cross with anyone. Lucie’s the kind of girl who would head-butt Mehmet, after which Mathilde would be waiting with the foundation.

  Lucie is flying solo tonight. Her life is complicated. She kisses her mother hello and whirls into the kitchen like a domestic hurricane. She lifts up the lid.

  “Did you add a squeeze of lemon?”

  “I don’t know, your mother’s in charge of the blanquette.”

  Lucie sticks her nose into the saucepan. No lemon. She offers to make the béchamel.

  “I’d rather do it myself,” I say politely.

  Everyone is well aware that béchamel is the only thing I can make. Don’t take that away from me . . .

  “I think we’ve finally found one,” Mathilde says, ready to burst.

  Lucie raises an eyebrow in surprise. She has absolutely no idea what her sister means. To buy her a bit of time, I feign bewilderment.

  “No?!”

  Lucie pretends to feel aggrieved, but inside she finds it funny.

  Our daughters are a true cross of their parents. Lucie resembles me physically, but she has her mother’s temperament; Mathilde’s the opposite. Lucie is lively and adventurous. Mathilde is hardworking and resigns herself to things easily. She is courageous and energetic, and does not ask for much from life. Just look at her husband. She was good at English, didn’t look much beyond that, and became an English teacher. Chip off the old block. Lucie, however, is more out there. She studied history of art, psychology, Russian literature, and I don’t know what else—she couldn’t settle on one subject because she found everything so interesting. She did well in studies that she never completed, changing plans as quickly as she did boyfriends. Mathilde did well in her studies because she’d started them, then married a friend from secondary school.