No reaction.
He doesn’t have the whole story, but he’s got most of it.
The details don’t matter at all.
Fontana doesn’t budge. The seconds tick on.
“But ultimately, despite appearances, you haven’t thought about a thing. What you did was motivated by pure anger. You took off with the cash, ran for forty yards, then stopped. And now here we are sitting opposite each other, Monsieur Delambre. What a miscalculation . . . In all honesty, I find it a complete mystery. Well, I have my theories. I don’t think you were out to benefit yourself by taking this money. You’re keeping it warm for your little family, not for yourself. After a hostage taking like that, you can’t be under any illusions: best-case scenario, you’ll be out in fifteen years. That’s if you don’t get cancer first.”
Fontana leaves a heavy silence hanging.
“Or if I don’t have you killed first. Because my client is very, very, very angry, Monsieur Delambre.”
I can picture the fallout. The board of directors at Exxyal Europe won’t have been given the details, but major shareholders can’t be left in the dark. However much you love your CEO, a thirteen-million-euro hole in the finances is going to ruffle some feathers. Of course, a thirteen-million-euro hole in the finances isn’t enough to get the boss of a big multinational fired—that would be absurd—but it’s in everyone’s interests for order to be restored. Capital on one side, unemployment on the other. Dorfmann must have given his shareholders some guarantees. He will have promised to recover the slush fund, to bring it home.
Fontana looks at my hand, and it starts hurting terribly.
“How much do you want?”
My throat is so dry that my voice doesn’t carry. I’m forced to repeat the question.
“How much do you want?”
Fontana looks surprised.
“All of it, Monsieur Delambre. Absolutely all of it.”
Okay. Now I see why Exxyal didn’t give him the real number.
If I pay back the ten million they’re asking for, that leaves me with three.
That’s their offer.
Forget the bit after the decimal point. Let’s not split hairs. Give back the slush fund, keep three million euros, save your life, and everything can go back to normal. Wipe the slate clean. That’s what profits and losses are all about. If I deduct Romain’s share, that leaves me with two million. Two million: easily enough to pay back Mathilde and Lucie, and to make Nicole change her mind about selling the apartment.
But I figure I’m entitled to a bit more than that. I’ve crunched the numbers in my head several times. The sum I took from Exxyal Europe is less than three years’ salary for one of the top dogs. Okay, it’s a millennium’s worth if you’re on the minimum wage, but fuck, I’m not the one who sets the rates.
I play my final card.
“And what about the payee list?”
My tone is the same. Fontana raises his eyebrows, but his question is a silent one. He hunches his shoulders a bit, like someone expecting a brick to land on his head.
I don’t move. I wait.
“Explain that one to me, Monsieur Delambre.”
“I understand your proposal regarding the cash. I just want to know what to do with your client’s contact list. You know, the payees from this fund. Along with the details of the accounts their fees are transferred into for services to your client. There are all sorts in there: French deputy ministers, foreign politicians, sheikhs, businessmen . . . I’m just wondering what to do with it, since you brought it up.”
Fontana looks extremely animated. Not only because of me, but because his client hasn’t told him everything, which he finds very irritating. He clenches his jaw.
“I’ll need some tangible proof for my client. A copy of your document.”
“I’ll forward you the first page. Give me an e-mail address to send it to.”
I’ve sown some more doubt. Fontana’s a prudent man. He’ll look into this, and if I’m telling the truth, his client will have to tread very carefully with me. I’ve bought myself some time.
“Fine,” he says at last. “I’ll need to discuss this with my client.”
“That seems very sensible. Discuss away.”
I make my final play. I smile, full of self-confidence:
“Keep me posted, will you?”
Fontana hasn’t moved an inch, but I’m already on my feet.
I walk down the corridor, legs like jelly.
In two days, three at most, Fontana will find out I’m bluffing and that there’s no list whatsoever.
He’s going to be livid.
If my new strategy doesn’t yield any results in the next two days, Bébétâ and Boulon are going to quite literally make a killing themselves: my insides will be emptied onto the concrete of the exercise yard.
33
Day one: nothing.
As I move around, I keep an anxious eye on Boulon. As far as he’s concerned, I don’t exist. He hasn’t received an order concerning me. I’m still alive today.
Keep faith.
It should work. It has to work.
Day two: nothing.
Bébétâ is pumping iron in the gym. He sets down his dumbbells to hold up his hand at me, because nodding hello while he’s doing something else is beyond his capabilities.
You can tell right away with him: he hasn’t received an order concerning me either.
The day goes slowly. Jérôme wants to chat, but he can see that now’s not the time.
I only venture out of my cell once. I try to bargain for a blade from a guy I know. I want to be able to defend myself, even if I won’t know what to do should the situation arise. He’s not interested in anything I have to exchange, and I return to my cell empty handed.
I stop eating. Not hungry.
I can’t stop running through everything in my head. It might work. Tomorrow’s another day.
I hang on to that.
Day three: the last.
I can’t see Boulon or Bébétâ.
Not a good sign.
Generally speaking, I know where I might find them. I don’t want to bump into them, but not seeing them makes me even more anxious. I do a broad sweep of their usual hangouts as discreetly as possible. I look for Officer Morisset and remember that he’s away for a few days. One of his friends is dying, and he’s gone to his bedside.
I return to my cell and stay put. If they are looking for me, they’ll have to come here.
I’ve been sweating since early this morning.
Midday arrives and still there’s no news. Tomorrow, I’m a dead man. Why didn’t it work?
And then it’s 1:00 p.m.
TF1.
My face is on the front page. It’s a work mug shot that dates back to the Jurassic. God knows how they got their hands on that one.
Right away, two, three, four inmates come rushing in to watch the rest of the story in our cell. They slap their thighs in excitement. Others say “Shhhh!!” so they can hear the anchorman better. There’s a real crackle of excitement.
The journalist reports that this morning, Le Parisien published a double spread on me and my story, printing an extract from the first few pages of the manuscript I’d sent them. They went for the juiciest bits. I’m announcing the imminent release of my book, which tells the full story.
And, my word, if it isn’t just the most heartrending testimony of a real-life victim of the crisis! Pitch perfect.
First, some background. Delambre. That’s me. One of the inmates gives me a comradely slap on the back.
Delambre—an out-of-work senior in search of a job—and his professional background, his story, the good years followed by the scourge of unemployment later in life. The sense of injustice; the years in the doldrums. This man has been to hell and back. The humiliation before his children. His hopes of working again constantly frustrated, then the slide into hardship, and finally depression.
The hostage taking? An act of desperation.
The moral of the story? He’s facing thirty years in prison.
The country’s heart bleeds. My testimony is deemed “shattering.” Archive images follow from a few months before: Exxyal Europe headquarters, the parking lot full of police, flashing lights, the hostages safe and sound in their foil blankets, then there’s me, the guy they’ve trussed up and captured, being marched off at pace. The inmates in our cell howl with joy, and from elsewhere there’s another “Shhhh!”
The guest analyst is a sociologist who has come in to comment on depression in executives and on social violence. The current system discourages and demotivates people, pushing them to extremes. The weakest feel like only the strongest can succeed. Older employees increasingly face the threat of exclusion. He has a question for the viewers: “In 2012, we’ll have ten million seniors. Does that mean ten million thrown onto the scrap heap?”
My story becomes symbolic; the drama of my unemployment a fact of society.
Well played.
Fuck you, Fontana.
An inmate hugs me around the neck, delighted to be pals with a TV star.
Vox pops . . .
Ahmed, twenty-four, warehouse assistant: “I read the article in Le Parisien . . . I get it, I’m behind him all the way. Yeah, I’ll read the book. It’s all we can talk about at work. An unemployed guy in jail just for being unemployed . . . it’s not right. Isn’t the suicide rate high enough as it is?”
Françoise, forty-five, secretary: “I’m scared of being laid off one day. It terrifies me, in fact. I don’t know where I’d go. And when you’ve got kids . . . I read the article in Le Parisien and I understood. In the office, we can barely talk about anything else. I’m going to buy a copy for my husband.”
Jean-Christian, 71, retired: “It’s all a bunch of nonsense. People who really want work can find it. They do whatever, but a job’s a job, even if it’s just packing boxes at a warehouse.”
All the guys around me jeer. If I ever see Jean-Christian in the flesh, I’ll shove my Pharmaceutical Logistics pay stub up his butt. Jerk. Not that it matters.
I catch Jérôme’s eye. He’s laughing. He gets it.
The TV and the papers all close with the announcement of the book’s release: “A devastating account that is sure to turn political heads.” I haven’t found a publisher yet, but the last five minutes have left me confident that there won’t be any trouble on that front.
From now on, I’m the most famous unemployed person in France.
A paragon. Untouchable.
I stretch. I breathe.
Boulon and Bébétâ are going to have to look for work elsewhere.
I stand up. I’m going to demand to see the warden.
Anything happens to me now, the prison administration are going to come under fire. They’ll have to protect me. I’m a celebrity.
It’s as if I’ve committed insider trading: I’ve bought myself a ticket to the VIP wing.
34
Usually, Lucie takes out the huge files and the reams (I mean reams) of notes filled out with her pretty, precise handwriting. Today, nothing. She doesn’t move, her eyes fixed on the table. Her fury is bubbling with a delirious intensity. If I wasn’t her father, she’d have smacked me outright.
“If you were a client, Papa, I’d be calling you a bloody bastard.”
“I’m your father. And you did just call me that.”
Lucie is white as a sheet. I wait, but she’s waiting, too. I launch in.
“Listen, let me explain . . .”
That was all she was waiting for. A trigger, a word. Her rage floods out like a river that’s broken its banks.
Here are the highlights:
“This is a betrayal . . . You couldn’t have done anything in the world more shitty . . . I don’t want to defend you anymore . . . I caved in to your shameless emotional blackmail . . . Ever since, I’ve worked day and night to give us the best chance when it comes to the trial and you, behind my back, you write your fucking memoirs and go and send them to the press . . . Shows how little you appreciate my work . . . How little you appreciate me . . . Because you can’t have written that shit overnight! . . . Days, weeks even . . . Days and weeks when you were seeing me, speaking to me regularly . . . You’ve made a complete mockery of me . . . But it’s not even that . . . You did it without telling me, because in your eyes, I’m of no importance whatsoever . . . I’m just a little cog in the machine . . . Sainte-Rose doesn’t want anything to do with this case now . . . He’s ditched me . . . He said: ‘Your client’s more of a threat than the jury. He’s a loose cannon. You don’t stand a chance, leave it.’ . . . The investigating magistrate asked me if I’m trying to put pressure on him or the jury by exposing the case in the media . . . ‘Maître, you gave me your word that the investigation would proceed without any disturbance, and you’ve just broken that promise. From now on, I know where things stand with you.’ . . . You’ve ruined my reputation . . . And Maman clearly wasn’t in on this either. Well, guess what—she is now! . . . Since seven this morning there’s been a mob of journalists downstairs screaming at her if she so much as opens the curtains . . . And there’s no hope they’ll leave her alone anytime soon . . . The telephone’s ringing off the hook . . . She’ll have to put up with this for months . . . Well done! You’ve made everyone’s life easier . . . I suppose you’re happy . . . You’ve got what you wanted: a bestseller! . . . Did you dream of becoming a star? . . . Well, bravo—job done! . . . With all those royalties you won’t struggle to find a lawyer you can piss all over as much as you like . . . Because I’ve had enough of your bullshit.”
End of highlights. And end of conversation.
Lucie picks up her bag and knocks angrily at the door, which opens immediately, and she disappears without looking back.
Probably better that way.
After a tirade like that, any explanation would have fallen on deaf ears.
And how do I explain myself to her, anyway? Maybe: “I’m staring at a trial that may well result in me spending the rest of my life in prison, as well as a vast sum of money in a secret account that I am increasingly unlikely to be able to transfer to my daughters because the people who want to recover it are a lot nastier and a lot more powerful than I could ever have imagined.” Maybe not.
What about telling her that I’d never really thought about any of that?
Shit, I’m not some gangster . . . I’m just trying to survive!
How is Lucie going to defend me if she discovers that I freaked out and tried to make off with an oil company’s slush fund? Plus I’m not about to tell her the tax haven I chose (it’s St. Lucia, in the Caribbean); she’d fucking string me up.
If I manage to keep a small portion of this money, I’ll give it to the girls the day I get sentenced. That’s my only goal. I’m not going to escape a heavy punishment. I will die in here. But at least they’ll have some money, provided I’m able to leave it to them. They can do whatever they please with it—I’ll be dead by then anyway.
Living dead, but still dead.
Nicole hasn’t visited for almost a month. With all the reports in the papers and on the TV, she already has enough on her plate. But mainly I think it’s because she’s furious with me.
My own cell: protection and television only when I want it—the dream.
I switch on Euronews: . . . Twenty-five hedge fund managers who have each pocketed 464 million dollars a year . . .
I flick to cable news: “. . . State welfare will allow companies to lay off more than 65,000 employees this year . . .”
I turn it off and relax for the first time in a long while. I feel as though I’ve been here for years, but it’s only been a few months.
Not even six, a mere sixtieth of what I might end up with.
Journalists are wily jerks. Yesterday an inmate came up to me in the library and discreetly handed me a note, offering cash for an exclusive interview. This morning I saw him again and asked him about it. He didn’t know anything: he
received a hundred euros to give me the piece of paper from another guy who doesn’t have a clue about it either. This note must have cost someone a thousand euros to reach me, which means I’m hot property in the eyes of the media. Other extracts from my story have appeared in the press, but the jackpot will be an exclusive interview. My response was to wait and hear their best price. In truth, I’ll agree to it whatever the price, but I don’t want to do anything until I’ve seen Lucie again.
I call her, leave messages, plead for her forgiveness. I say that I’ll explain everything to her. I ask her not to leave me, telling her it’s not how it looks, and that I love her. It’s all true.
As I wait for her arrival, I try to hone my reasoning. I would so love to tell her that I’m fighting for her, for both of them, that I’m no longer fighting for myself. But love is no different from blackmail.
My story is being scrutinized in the business section of Le Monde. The labor minister giving his two cents. Marianne news magazine goes for the headline The desperate victims of the crisis. I’ve negotiated an exclusive interview for fifteen thousand euros, paid in advance to Nicole. They’ve forwarded me some questions and I’m agonizing over getting the answers just right. We agreed it would be published within a week. A second coat of paint for my budding notoriety. Now that I’m set on this path, I need to push on, to stay in the news and keep hitting the headlines. As far as the public is concerned, I’m just another human-interest story. I need to become a real person, real flesh and blood, with a face, a name, a wife, children—an everyday tragedy that could have happened to any old reader. I must become universal.
I’m told I have a visitor.
Fontana.
I stay calm as I make my way along the corridors. I’ve been sheltered from the other inmates, which means my strategy has worked. And if it worked on the administration, then it worked on Exxyal, too.
But it’s not Fontana, it’s Mathilde.
Inhuman Resources Page 24