Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  His display got me thinking. Sometimes we give, other times we don’t. Of all the homeless people, we give to the ones who touch us the most, those who find the words capable of stirring us. The conclusion hit me smack in the face: ultimately, even with the destitute, it’s the survivors who perform best, since they’re the ones who succeed in undermining the competition. If I end up homeless, I’m not at all sure I’ll be one of the survivors. Not like Charles.

  At home in the evening, I was meant to be tired because—having risen at 4 a.m.—I’d done my morning shift at Logistics before going on to nail the test at BLC Consulting. The truth is I haven’t told Nicole that I won’t be going back to Logistics anytime soon. The Monday after head-butting Mehmet and my two-day suspension from work, I was greeted by a letter that arrived by recorded delivery. I’d been fired. It was a shocker, because we badly need the money.

  I took myself to the job center immediately to see if my adviser had anything up my alley. Normally I fall under the wings of APEC, the recruitment agency for people at executive level, but they don’t offer part-time work. I prefer the employees and workers section. It’s a couple of notches down the pecking order, where you have a slightly greater chance of survival.

  Since I didn’t have an appointment, he saw me in the corridor between the waiting room and the cubicles that serve as offices. I told him that Logistics no longer needed me.

  “They haven’t called me,” he said with surprise.

  He’s young enough to be my son, but frankly I’m relieved he’s not. But he is kind to me—he treats me like a father.

  “They will call you. In the meantime, you haven’t got something quick for me?”

  He nodded at the bulletin board.

  “They’re all there. Right now there’s pretty much nothing.”

  If I had a forklift license or vocational training as a cook, I’d have a better chance at landing something. I had to search the unskilled jobs, but my sciatica counts me out of the rare vacancies on that front. As I left I made a small gesture at him through his office screen. He was interviewing a girl of about twenty. He responded with an irritated look, as though he half-recognized me but was struggling to place me.

  The following day I received a letter by registered post from Logistics’ lawyer. I’d been reading up on similar cases, and there’s nothing complicated: I hit my manager, and he denies kicking me. He’s saying he was walking past and “brushed” me. Getting fired is not the worst of it: I could end up in court for assault. Mehmet has cast-iron evidence recording his gravely incapacitating injuries and the potential aftereffects they could cause. The letter detailed his balance and orientation issues, and his severe post-traumatic stress, the long-term repercussions of which will be hard to predict.

  He is demanding 5,000 euros in damages.

  Just shy of sixty years old, I got kicked in the backside by my superior, yet it seems I have “seriously violated the principle of hierarchy in the company.” That’s it. I have disrupted the social order. For its part, Logistics is demanding 20,000 euros in damages. That’s fifty times the monthly salary that I’m no longer receiving.

  Nicole, my love, her patience is wearing thin. She’s had her fill. I decided not to bring this up with her. The report I gave her of the test required her to draw on every last drop of energy and encouragement she had left at the end of the day: wait for the results, we’re never in a strong position to judge ourselves, you don’t know for sure that the young guns did better, just because they seemed so confident doesn’t mean they gave the best answers, especially with the open-ended questions it’s all about experience, something they lack, and what’s more if the recruitment people called you in then it’s because they’re looking for a more considered approach, someone more tried and tested. I know the spiel by heart. I love Nicole more than anything, but the spiel . . . the spiel I hate.

  Later on she finally fell asleep. I got up as quietly as possible so as not to wake her. I do that when I can’t sleep: I get dressed and go out for a stroll around the neighborhood. These last few years it’s become something of a ritual. After traumatic experiences like the one at the métro earlier on, I need to steady my thoughts. This time I walked a bit farther than usual. I was far from home, near the RER station. The gates were open and the cold wind was rushing through the pedestrian tunnels. The garbage cans were overflowing and cans of beer lay strewn across the cement. A heavy neon light flooded the station. I pushed at a little metal placard that read STAFF ONLY and went down a flight of stairs. I was on the well-lit platform. I didn’t feel as if I was crying, but all the same the tears started to flow. I was standing up, feet planted on the track ballast, legs apart. I waited for the train.

  All that for nothing.

  In the morning, I’m shocked to see the envelope with the BLC Consulting logo. I hadn’t expected anything for a week, and it’s not even been three days. I open it in such a hurry that I tear off part of the letter.

  Holy fuck.

  I sprint up to the apartment and then back down again, and very soon it’s midday and I’ve been pacing back and forth outside Nicole’s resource center for an hour, jittery as a cat, until finally she comes out. She sees me from a distance and can tell from my body language that it’s good news. She smiles as she comes toward me, I hold out the letter, she scans it and right away says, “My love,” and her voice catches. I am overwhelmed by the certainty that a miracle has just taken place in our life. Both of us have tears in our eyes. I know I must resist the temptation, but I already have a strong urge to call the girls. Mathilde in particular, I don’t know why. Probably because she’s the more normal of the two, the one who’ll process it quicker.

  Against all expectations, I have passed the tests. I’ve made it through.

  Individual interview: Thursday, May 7.

  This is unbelievable . . . I made it through!

  Nicole hugs me tight, but she doesn’t want us to make a scene outside her workplace. I kiss a few of her colleagues and shake some hands in greeting as they head out for lunch. Everyone knows I’m looking for work, so when I go there I try hard to look my best, to appear as if I’m bearing up and not letting things get on top of me. For an unemployed person, being there when people are leaving the office is always tough. It’s not jealousy. The unemployment itself isn’t the hard part: what’s difficult is continuing to exist in a society based on labor economics. No matter where you turn, you are defined by what you don’t have.

  But now everything’s different. I feel as though my chest has burst open, that for the first time in four years I can breathe. Nicole says nothing; she is jubilant, holding my arm and squeezing it as we make our way down the street.

  In the evening we go to Chez Paul to celebrate, even though we both know this is a real extravagance. We act as though it’s no big deal, but that doesn’t stop us from selecting our dishes via the price column on the menu.

  “I’ll have a main course and a dessert,” Nicole says.

  But when the waitress arrives I order two starters (œufs en gelée, which I know Nicole loves), and a half bottle of Saint-Joseph. Nicole swallows hard, then smiles with resignation.

  “I’m so proud of you,” she says.

  I don’t know why she says that, but it’s always good to hear. I hurry to get around to what I consider the most important point.

  “I’ve thought about how I’m going to handle the interview. I figure they’ll have called in three or four of us. I have to stand out. My idea . . .”

  And off I go. I’m like an excited teenager recounting his first triumph over a grown-up.

  Every now and then Nicole places her hand on mine to let me know I’m speaking too loudly. I lower my voice, but within five minutes I’ve forgotten again. It makes her laugh. Good God, it’s been years since we were as happy as we are tonight. At the end of the meal, I realize that I virtually haven’t drawn breath. I try to tone it down, but I can’t control myself.

  Rue de Lapp is buzz
ing as though it were summer. We walk arm in arm, in love.

  “And you’ll be able to stop working at Logistics,” says Nicole.

  It takes me by surprise, and Nicole raises a quizzical eyebrow. I put on a facial expression that would seem credible enough to me, looking rather ashen in the process. If I don’t get this job and end up in court with 25,000 euros to pay in damages . . . Thankfully Nicole doesn’t notice anything.

  Instead of taking the métro at Bastille, I’m not sure why, she carries on walking, stops at a bench, and sits down. She rummages in her bag, takes out a little package, and hands it to me. I open it to find a little roll of fabric with an orange pattern, held together by a small piece of red string, at the end of which is a tiny bell.

  “It’s a lucky charm. It’s Japanese. I bought it the day you were called in to take the test. So far it seems to be doing the trick.”

  It seems silly, but it makes me very emotional. Not the gift itself. At least . . . I don’t really know anymore, but I feel emotional. I must have polished off the Saint-Joseph more or less on my own. It’s our life that I find moving. This woman, after everything we’ve been through, deserves every good fortune. As I stuff the talisman into my trouser pocket, I feel indestructible.

  From now on, I’m in the homestretch.

  No one’s going to stand in my way anymore.

  Charles often used to say: “The only certainty is that nothing happens as planned.” That’s classic Charles. He loves nothing more than a momentous phrase or a lofty stance. I wonder whether he might be an orphan. Long story short, I had horrendous nightmares in the run-up to the interview, but in the end it went pretty well.

  I had been invited to BLC Consulting’s headquarters in La Défense. I was biding my time in the waiting room, a large space with a luxurious carpet, uplighting, a stunning Asian receptionist, and discreet background music. A place tailor-made for boredom. I was a quarter of an hour early. Nicole had applied a very thin layer of foundation to my forehead to hide any trace of my bruise. I had a constant feeling that it was running, and I had to resist the temptation to check. In my pocket, I played the Japanese charm through my fingers.

  Bertrand Lacoste came striding in and shook me by the hand. At fifty years of age, he came across as absurdly sure of himself, but quite affable.

  “Would you like some coffee?”

  “No, thank you, I’m fine,” I said.

  “Nervous?”

  He asked this with a little smile. Slipping coins into the machine, he added:

  “Yup, it’s always difficult finding work.”

  “Difficult, but honorable,” I said.

  He looked up at me, as if seeing me properly for the first time.

  “So no coffee?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  And we stayed there, in front of the machine, with him sipping his synthetic coffee. He turned his back and considered the reception area around him with an air of glum resignation.

  “Fucking decorators—can’t trust them to do anything!”

  Straightaway that set the tone for me. I don’t know exactly what happened after that. I was so pumped up it came out automatically.

  “I see,” I said.

  This made him start.

  “What do you see?”

  “You’re going to play it all ‘casual.’”

  “Sorry?”

  “I said you’re going to play it all ‘relaxed,’ sort of ‘the circumstances are professional, but at the end of the day we’re all human beings.’ Am I right?”

  He shot me a look. He seemed livid. I told myself I’d gotten off to a decent start, then continued:

  “You’re playing on the fact that we’re more or less the same age to see whether I fall into the trap of being overfamiliar. And now I think you’re giving me this look to see if I panic and start backpedaling.”

  His glare softened and he smiled:

  “Right . . . well, we’ve succeeded in clearing the air, wouldn’t you say?”

  I didn’t answer.

  He chucked his plastic cup in the garbage can.

  “So, let’s get on with the serious stuff.”

  He walked ahead of me down the corridor, still with that long stride. I felt like a confederate soldier a few minutes before the enemy charge.

  He’d done his job well and studied my application carefully, incisively. The moment he came across a weakness in my CV, he pounced on it, exploiting the first sign of frailty in the candidate.

  “He carried on testing me, but the tone was different now.”

  “Did he tell you who he was recruiting for?” Nicole asks.

  “No, not at all . . . There were just two or three clues. It’s all pretty vague, but maybe I’ll manage to find out more. It’s in my interest to get ahead of the game. You’ll see why. At the end of the interview, I said to him:

  “‘I must say that I’m very surprised that you should be interested in a candidate of my age.’

  “Lacoste pretended to be nonplussed, but eventually he placed his elbows on the table and stared at me.

  “‘Monsieur Delambre,’ he said to me, ‘we are just another company in a competitive market. Everyone needs to stand out from the crowd. You with your employers, me with my clients. You are my wild card.’”

  “But . . . what does that even mean?” Nicole asks.

  “‘My client is expecting young graduates, which is what I’m going to give them; they’re not expecting an applicant like you—I’m going to surprise them. And then, between you and me, when push comes to shove in the next round, I figure the decision will make itself.’”

  “Is there another round?” Nicole asks. “I thought—”

  “‘There are four of you on the short list. The final decision will be based on one further test. I’m going to be open with you: you are the oldest of the four, but it’s not at all beyond the realms of possibility that your experience will make all the difference.’”

  Nicole begins to look suspicious. She cocks her head to one side.

  “And what is this ‘further test’?”

  “‘Our client intends to assess a selection of their top execs. Your mission is to conduct this assessment. You will be tested, if you will, on your ability to test others.’”

  “But . . .” Nicole still doesn’t see where this is going. “How does that work?”

  “‘We are going to simulate a hostage taking . . .’”

  “What?!”

  Nicole looks as if she’s about to choke.

  “‘. . . and your task involves placing the candidates under sufficient duress for us to test various criteria: their coolness under pressure, their conduct in an extremely stressful scenario, and their loyalty to the values of the company to which they belong.’”

  Nicole is struck dumb.

  “But that’s outrageous!” she cries. “You have to make these people think they’ve been taken hostage? At work? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  “‘There will be a commando unit played by actors, weapons loaded with blanks, cameras to film their reactions, and you will lead the interrogations and direct the commandos. You will need to use your imagination.’”

  Nicole is on her feet, disgusted.

  “That’s sick,” she says.

  There’s Nicole in a nutshell. You’d think that her capacity for indignation would have lost its edge over time, but not a bit of it. When she feels scandalized, she can’t help herself—nothing will stop her. In these situations, you have to try to calm her down right away, to step in before her reaction gets out of control.

  “You shouldn’t look at it like that, Nicole.”

  “How should I look at it? An armed commando unit comes bursting into their office, threatens them, interrogates them, for how long? An hour? Two hours? They think they might die, that these people will kill them? All that just so their boss can have a bit of a laugh?”

  Her voice is trembling. I haven’t seen her like this for years. I try to be patie
nt. Her attitude is understandable. But I’m already fast-forwarding ten days, and it hits me: everything hinges on one single, palpable fact: I have to pass this test.

  I try to smooth things over.

  “I know it’s not very . . . But you have to look at the situation from a different angle, Nicole.”

  “Why? Because you think this approach is acceptable? Why don’t we just shoot them too, while we’re at it?”

  “Wait—”

  “Or better still! Put some mattresses on the pavement without telling them, then hang them out the window! Just to see their reaction! Alain, have you gone completely mad?”

  “Nicole, don’t—”

  “And you’re really prepared to go along with this?”

  “I understand where you’re coming from, but you have to see things from my side, too.”

  “No way, Alain. I can understand anything, but that doesn’t mean I can forgive it!”

  She has moved into our train wreck of a kitchen.

  I see the two bits of drywall that have been holding up the sink for years. The current linoleum is even less resistant than last year’s, already curling up at the corners in pitiful fashion. Nicole, livid as she stands in the center of this mess, is wearing a woolen cardigan that she can’t afford to replace. It makes her look diminished. It makes her look poor. And she doesn’t even realize it. I take it as a personal insult.

  “For Christ’s sake, all I know is that I’m still in the running!”

  I’m shouting now. The violence of my tone roots her to the spot.

  “Alain . . . ,” she says, panic in her voice.

  “Don’t ‘Alain’ me! Fucking hell, can’t you see we’re turning into tramps? We’ve been slowly running aground for four years . . . soon enough we’ll be in the ground! So yes, it’s disgusting, but so is our life—our life is disgusting! Yes, those people are sick, but I’m going to do it, you hear me? I’m going to do what they ask. Everything they ask! Even if I have to fucking shoot them to get the job, I’ll do it because I’m fed up . . . I’m sixty years old, and I’m fed up of having my ass kicked!”