Inhuman Resources

by Pierre Lemaitre

  I make a pained expression and reluctantly agree.

  “That’s shameful! They can’t make you pay to get a job. It’s illegal, apart from anything else!”

  This makes my blood boil.

  “Listen, my boy. What’s allowed and what’s illegal is another matter entirely! Do you know how long I’ve been unemployed?”

  I’m shouting. He tries to simmer things down:

  “It’s been . . .”

  “Four years!”

  My voice has become very shrill. This is driving me close to the edge.

  “Have you ever been unemployed?”

  I’m bellowing now. Gregory looks around the room, afraid of making a scene. I have to ram home this advantage, so I raise my voice a notch higher. I want this loan, I want him to back down, I want a memorandum of understanding. I’m determined he will give me his word.

  “You can shove your stupid morals up your ass! You’ve got a job, and all I’m asking you is to help me find one! Is it that complicated? Hey—is it that complicated?”

  He motions at me to calm down. I try a different tactic. I move closer and talk in a hushed tone.

  “You could lend me 25,000 euros for whatever, a car, a fitted kitchen . . . There we go, that’ll work, a fitted kitchen—you’ve seen ours. And then I repay in twelve months. One thousand seven-hundred euros per month plus interest is not a problem, I’m telling you, there’s no risk for you.”

  He doesn’t answer but looks me in the eye with renewed self-assurance. The look of a professional. In just a few seconds my status has changed. Now I’m negotiating a loan. Before I was his father-in-law. Now I’m a client.

  “It’s out of the question, Alain,” he says firmly. “To lend an amount like that, we need guarantees.”

  “I’ll have a job.”

  “Yes, maybe, but right now you don’t.”

  “The job title is HR manager. It’s for a very big company.”

  Gregory frowns. Another change of status: now he’s taking me for a fool. The situation is slipping away from me. I attempt a reboot.

  “Fine, what do people need to get 25,000 euros from you?”

  “Sufficient income.”

  “How much?”

  “Listen, Alain, this is no way to go about it.”

  “Okay, what if I have a guarantor?”

  His eyes light up.

  “Who?”

  “I dunno. You.”

  His eyes close.

  “It’s impossible! We’re buying an apartment! Our debt ratio will never stretch—”

  I grab his hands across the table and grip them in mine.

  “Listen to me, Gregory.”

  I realize I’ve only got one round left, and I’m not sure I have the courage to fire it.

  “I’ve never asked you for anything.”

  This is going to require a lot of energy. A whole lot.

  “The thing is, I don’t have any other options.”

  I look down at our intertwined hands and rally my thoughts. Because this is tough, really tough.

  “You’re my only hope.”

  I gather my strength between each word, trying hard to focus elsewhere, like a first-time prostitute limbering up for her debut blow job.

  “I must have this money. It’s vital.”

  Good God, I’m not going to have to stoop this low, am I?

  “Gregory . . .”

  I swallow back my saliva. Fuck it.

  “I’m begging you.”

  There, I said it.

  He’s as stunned as I am.

  His profession as a usurer has led to countless family disputes, and now here I am, sitting in front of him begging for the charity of a loan. The situation is so improbable that it leaves us both feeling dizzy for a while. I took the gamble that this surprise strategy would make him do a U-turn, but Gregory shakes his head.

  “If only it were up to me . . . You know I would. But there’s no way I can fast-track a case. I have bosses. I don’t exactly know what your income is, Alain, or Nicole’s, but I doubt . . . If you needed three thousand, or even five thousand, we could see, but . . .”

  What happens next is, I think, attributable to just one word. Begging. I shouldn’t have begged him. I did something that can never be undone. I realized it was a mistake before I’d even said it, but I did it anyway. As I lean back in my chair and twist around to my right, like I’m about to scratch my ass, I am not completely conscious of my actions, but I am sure that they are the inevitable consequence of a single word. Ghastly wars must have been waged like this, because of a single word.

  I wind up, gather all my strength, and slam my fist into his face. He wasn’t expecting that at all. It’s instant chaos. My clenched fist strikes him between the cheekbone and the jaw, his body is flung backward, and his hands reach out in a desperate reflex to grab hold of the table. He’s flung back six feet, crashing into another table and taking two chairs with him, his arms flailing around for support as he falls, his head smacking into the post behind him and his throat letting out a rasping, bestial yelp. All the regulars turn around as the din of shattered glass, broken chairs and upturned tables is replaced by stunned silence. The space in front of me is clear. I clutch my fist so hard against my stomach that it hurts. Then, to everyone’s bewilderment, I stand up and leave.

  I have gone from never hitting anyone in my entire life to doing it twice in the space of a few days: first my Turkish supervisor, now my son-in-law. There’s no escaping it. I have become a violent man.

  I’m back in the street.

  I have yet to grasp how damaging the results of my actions will be.

  But before worrying about that, I intend to solve my one problem, my one and only problem: finding this 25,000 euros.

  11

  Having laid my son-in-law out for the count, I continue on my way. From the outside, anyone might think I’ve lost all feeling.

  Once upon a time, I knew myself well. I mean that my behavior rarely surprised me. When you’ve experienced most situations, you also learn the correct responses to them. You even notice the circumstances where self-control isn’t necessary. Family scuffles with pricks like my son-in-law, for example. Past a certain age, life starts repeating itself. The thing is, anything you do or don’t acquire through experience alone you can learn in two or three days’ worth of management seminars, with the aid of grids that class people according to their character. The process is practical, it’s playful, it boosts your spirits at little cost, and it makes you feel clever. It even lets you imagine you might become more efficient in the workplace. In short, it soothes you. Over the years, trends have changed, and so have the criteria. One year you get tested to see if you are methodical, energetic, cooperative, or determined. The next it might be to check if you’re hardworking, precocious, pioneering, persistent, empathetic, or imaginative. If you have a new coach, it turns out you are protective, directive, putative, emotive, or responsive, while the next session you attend helps discern whether you’re action, method, idea, or procedure oriented. The whole thing’s a hoax, but no one can get enough of it. It’s like with horoscopes, where you always end up identifying traits that match your own. The reality is that you never know what you’re truly capable of until you find yourself in extreme circumstances. Right now, for example, I’m surprising myself a lot.

  My phone rings as I’m leaving the métro. I’m always wary when things are moving too fast, and things are moving too fast now.

  “My name is Albert Kaminski.”

  A pleasant, open voice, but it’s too soon. Come on, I only posted the ad this morning and already . . .

  “I believe I can offer you what you’re looking for,” he tells me.

  “And what is it I’m looking for?”

  “You’re a novelist. You’re writing a book that revolves around a hostage taking and you need practical, concrete advice. Precise information. Unless I misread your advertisement?”

  He is well spoken and not at all f
azed by my direct question. Seems solid. I get the impression he is calling from a public place where he has to keep his voice down.

  “And you have personal experience in this field?”

  “Of course.”

  “That’s what everyone says.”

  “I’ve experienced several real hostage situations, all with different circumstances and in the recent past. Last few years. If your questions are about how this sort of operation unfolds, then I think I’ll be able to answer most of them. If you want to meet me, here’s my number: 06 34 . . .”

  “Wait!”

  There’s no doubt he’s skilled. He speaks calmly, he doesn’t get annoyed by my deliberately aggressive questions, and he’s even managed to wrest back the initiative, since I’m the one requesting a meeting. This could well be my guy.

  “Are you free this afternoon?”

  “Depends what time.”

  “You tell me . . .”

  “From 2:00 p.m.”

  It’s a date. He suggests a café near Châtelet.

  What will have happened since my departure? It must have taken my son-in-law some time to get back on his feet. I picture him spread-eagled on the floor right in the middle of the room. The owner comes running up, slips his hand under his head, and says: “Wow, you seem pretty shaken up! Who was that guy?” Ultimately, though, I don’t know Gregory that well. I have no idea whether he’s brave, for example. Maybe he stands up and dusts himself off to salvage some dignity. Or maybe he starts yelling: “I’ll kill him, the bastard!” That line always seems pathetic. The big question, of course, is whether he’ll call Mathilde now or wait until this evening. My entire strategy hinges on that decision.

  The entrance to the lycée where Mathilde teaches English is located down a side street. At lunchtime, there are always loads of kids loitering on the pavement outside. Plenty of heckling, noise, rowdiness—boys and girls spilling over with white-hot hormones. I keep my distance, huddled in the doorway to an apartment building. Mathilde picks up quickly. There’s a racket going on at her end as well as mine. She’s surprised. I can tell that her husband hasn’t called her yet. The window of opportunity is very narrow, and it is essential I don’t let it close.

  “Here? Now? Is it Maman, is something wrong? Where are you? Outside, but where?”

  “No, it’s not Maman, don’t worry, nothing serious, I need to see you, that’s all, yes it’s urgent, in the street, just here . . . If you’ve got five minutes . . . Yes, straightaway.”

  Mathilde is prettier than her sister. Less beautiful, less alluring, but definitely prettier. She’s wearing a delightful printed dress, the sort of dress you notice on a woman right away. She has an attractive, swaying walk that reminds me a bit of Nicole, but her expression is anxious, fearful.

  It’s so hard to explain, but I get there in the end. My request is hardly crystal clear, but Mathilde latches onto the bottom line: 25,000 euros.

  “But, Papa! We need it for the apartment. We’ve signed the preliminary contract!”

  “I know, my angel, but the sale’s not for another three months. I’ll have paid you back well before then.”

  Mathilde is very flustered. She starts pacing around the street, three angry steps this way, three mortified steps back.

  “Why do you need this money?”

  I tried the same tactic on her hubby an hour ago, and I know it won’t go down well this time either, but right now it’s all I have.

  “A bribe? Twenty-five thousand euros for a bribe? That’s crazy!”

  I nod bitterly.

  Four more nervous paces along the pavement, then she turns to me:

  “Papa, I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

  She has a lump in her throat, and she’s looking me straight in the eye. She has summoned up all her courage. I’ll have to tread carefully.

  “Angel . . .”

  “No Papa, don’t ‘angel’ me! No emotional blackmail, I’m warning you!”

  Looks like I’ll have to tread very, very carefully. I put forward my argument as calmly as I can.

  “How do you intend to pay me back in two months?”

  Mathilde is a practical woman who never strays from concrete fact, and she always asks the right questions. Even when she was little, the moment we needed to plan anything—a trip, a picnic, a party—her hand would be the first to go up. Her wedding required almost eight months’ preparation. Everything was arranged with military precision . . . I’ve never been so bored in my whole life. Maybe that’s why she seems so distant from me sometimes. She’s standing in front of me. I suddenly ask myself what I’m really doing here. I shoo away the image of Gregory sprawled across the café floor, his cheek pressed up against the pillar.

  “Are you sure they’ll pay an advance to someone they’ve only just hired?”

  Mathilde has agreed to discuss the matter. She doesn’t realize it yet, but her refusal is now long gone. She’s still prowling up and down the pavement, just more slowly now, keeping nearer and returning quicker.

  She’s hurting, and it’s starting to make me hurt, too. I’ve been so caught up in my own helter-skelter situation that I’ve lost all qualms. If I had to lay out her cretin of a husband again, I’d do it in a flash, but now, suddenly, I feel bereft. My daughter is before me, torn apart by her conflicting obligations, a genuine moral dilemma: her home or her father. She has saved up this money; it is the sum of her life’s hopes and dreams.

  It’s her printed dress that rescues me: I realize that the shoes and bag are matching. The sort of outfit that Nicole should be able to afford.

  Mathilde is canny when it comes to hitting the sales, one of those women who goes on scouting missions two months in advance and who, by sheer force of preparation and strategy, one day manages to purchase her dream outfit despite its being wildly beyond her means. Mathilde must be the result of some freak genetic quirk, since neither of her parents is capable of such an achievement. I’m sure it’s what attracted her husband to her.

  Speaking of whom . . . I picture him back in his office. A secretary will have brought him a freezer bag full of ice cubes as he considers whether or not to sue his father-in-law. He’ll be fantasizing about a judge—the long arm of the law—issuing the sentence loud and clear. Gregory gleefully immerses himself in the scenario: he leaves the courtroom in triumph, his wife weeping by his side. Mathilde looks down, forced to recognize that her husband’s values are superior to her father’s. She is torn. But not Gregory. Awash with sanctimony and righteous anger, fearless and upstanding, Gregory sweeps down the steps of the Palais de Justice, which has never before been so deserving of its name. Behind him is me, his father-in-law, broken and battered, gasping for breath, begging . . . There’s that word again. Begging. I had to beg him.

  Me.

  I press on:

  “Mathilde, I need this money. Your mother and I both need it. To survive. I’ll pay back whatever you’re able to lend me. But I’m not going to beg you.”

  Then I do something terrible: I bow my head and walk away. One step, two steps, three . . . I walk quickly because the momentum is in my favor. I’m ashamed, but I have to be resilient. To get this job, to save my family, to save my daughters, I have to be resilient.

  “Papa!”

  Score!

  I close my eyes as the scale of my deceit dawns on me. I turn back. I will never forgive the system for what it is doing to me. Fine, it’s me who is rolling around in the mud, me who is being vile, but in exchange, may the gods of the system give me what I’m due. May they let me back in the game, back in the world. Let me be human again. Be alive. May they give me this job.

  Mathilde has tears in her ears.

  “How much exactly do you need?”

  “Twenty-five thousand.”

  The die is cast. It’s over. The rest is just formalities, and Mathilde knows how to take care of those. I have won.

  My ticket to hell is guaranteed.

  I can breathe.

  “You have
to promise me,” she begins.

  She detects so much confidence in me that she can’t help but smile.

  “I can swear to whatever you want, my angel. When do you exchange?”

  “We don’t have an exact date. Two months . . .”

  “I’ll have paid you back, angel, cross my heart.”

  I pretend to spit on my hand.

  She hesitates.

  “Because . . . I’m not going to say anything to Gregory, all right? So I’m counting on you . . .”

  Before I can even answer, she has grabbed her cell to call the bank.

  All around us the schoolchildren are yelling, jostling, joking with each other, drunk with the joys of being alive, and of being attracted to one another. For them, life is nothing but one huge prospect. We are here, my daughter and I, standing in the midst of them, both of us bolt upright as the tide of youthful enthusiasm pitches up from side to side. All of a sudden Mathilde seems less pretty, somewhat faded in her dress that now seems less elegant, more ordinary. I have a think and it comes to me: my daughter looks like her mother. Because she’s afraid of what she is doing, because her father’s situation is wearing down her resistance, Mathilde seems jaded. Her chic outfit even takes on the appearance of a tired cardigan.

  She’s on the phone and gives me an inquisitive look.

  “In cash, yes,” she confirms.

  It’s a wrap. She raises an eyebrow at me and I close my eyes.

  “I can be there around 5:15 p.m.,” she says. “Yes, I realize twenty-five thousand is a lot in cash.”

  The bank manager is not taking this lying down. He likes his money.

  “The sale won’t be happening for another two months at least . . . By then . . . Yes, no problem. Five o’clock, yes, perfect.”

  She hangs up, terrified at having crossed the point of no return. My daughter resembles me, now. She’s broken.

  We stay there without saying anything, just looking. A wave of love rolls right through my body. Without thinking I say, “Thank you.” It hits Mathilde like an electric shock. She helps me, she loves me, she hates me, she’s scared, she’s ashamed. No father should provoke so many powerful emotions in a daughter or take up so much space in her life.