“But that seems quite natural to me! Besides, if everyone made efforts for others, everyone’s lives would be improved.”
“Yes, except that in your case, it’s not a choice. You don’t say, in a detached way, ‘Okay, today I’m going to do what people expect of me.’ No. Unconsciously you force yourself to do it. You think that otherwise you won’t be liked, you won’t be wanted. So, without even realizing it, you impose lots of restrictions on yourself. Your life becomes very restricted, and as a result, you don’t feel free. And you hold it against other people.”
I was bewildered. A real smack on the head. I was expecting anything but this. Ideas, emotions, everything was rushing around in my head. I felt dizzy. I would have liked to violently reject Dubreuil’s analysis, but part of me felt it contained some truth. A disturbing truth. Having spent my life feeling pain at the slightest attack on my freedom, at being dominated by other people, I was now being told I was the architect of my own suffering.
“And do you see, Alan, that when you force yourself not to disappoint others, in order to fulfill their expectations of you or to respect their way of doing things, then, believe it or not, it encourages certain people to become very demanding of you, as if they feel it is your duty to submit to their desires. It seems quite natural to them. If you feel guilty about leaving the office early, your boss will make you feel even guiltier. And no doubt it’s unconscious. He senses that to you, it’s not acceptable to leave early, so he decides it isn’t. You induce his reaction. Do you understand?”
I said nothing. I remained silent, absorbed by the subtle movement of his hand that for some time had been making circles in the air with his glass, the ice cubes swirling in the bourbon, knocking on the walls of their crystal prison.
“Alan,” he went on, “freedom is inside us. It must come from us. Don’t expect it to come from the exterior.”
His words resonated in my mind.
“It’s possible,” I finally admitted.
“You know, there are stacks of studies that have been carried out on survivors of the concentration camps in the Second World War. One of the studies shows that what nearly all of them had in common was the desire to remain free in their heads. For example, if they only had a little piece of bread to eat for the day, they said to themselves, ‘I am free to eat this bread when I want. I am free to choose the moment to swallow it.’ With the help of choices that can seem as pathetic as that, they kept a feeling of freedom inside themselves. And it would appear this feeling of freedom helped them stay alive.”
I listened to him carefully and couldn’t help telling myself that had I been in that situation, I would have so violently resented the domination and the abuse of power by my jailers that I would never have been capable of developing such a frame of mind.
“How can I become … freer in myself?”
“There is no ready-made recipe, no single way of getting there. One good way, however, is to choose to do for a certain time what you would usually carefully avoid.”
“I feel as if everything you’ve advised me to do since the beginning consists of doing what I don’t like doing. Is that how you move on in life?”
He burst out laughing. The old lady with the heady perfume turned around to look.
“It’s more complex than that. But when in life we arrange things in order to keep whatever frightens us at arm’s length, we prevent ourselves from discovering that most of our fears are inventions of our mind. The only way to know whether what we believe is false or not is to go out and verify it in the field! So it’s sometimes useful to take ourselves by the hand, even if it means doing violence to ourselves, in order to experiment with what is worrying us and give ourselves a chance to realize that we’ve perhaps been making a mistake.”
“So, what are you going to ask of me this time to solve my problem?”
“Right. Let’s see,” he said, settling into his armchair, visibly pleased to be in a position to pronounce his sentence. “Since you believe—mistakenly—that people won’t like you if you don’t behave according to their criteria, since you feel the need to correspond to the image they expect of you, you’re going to practice disorienting yourself.”
I swallowed hard.
“Disorienting myself?”
“Yes, you’re going to train yourself to do the opposite of what you feel you absolutely must do. For example, you’re going to start by taking to the office every day that magazine that interests you so much, until we’re sure everyone has seen you with it.”
To my dismay, he grabbed the Closer that I had turned facedown when he came in.
“If I do that, I’m done for.”
“Ah! Your image, your image! See how you’re not free?”
“But it would have consequences for my credibility at work. I can’t do that!”
“You forget that you’ve told me over and over that in your company, people don’t matter, all that matters are their results. So they won’t give a damn about what you’re reading.”
“But I can’t. I’d be ashamed!”
“There’s no reason to be ashamed of things that interest you.”
“It doesn’t interest me. I never read this magazine!”
“Yes, I know, nobody reads it. And yet it sells hundreds of thousands of copies every week. But it interests you, since you had it in your hands when I arrived!”
“It was just out of curiosity.”
“Precisely. You’re allowed to be curious. It’s a positive quality, and you don’t have to be ashamed.”
I could already imagine the faces of my colleagues and my managers when they saw me with it.
“Alan, you will be free the day you can’t even be bothered to wonder what the people who see you with a copy of Closer under your arm are thinking.”
That day was a long, long way away, I couldn’t help thinking.
“It won’t be easy,” I protested.
“Each day, you’re to commit, let’s say, three mistakes—mistakes over common things. Specifically, I want you to behave in an inappropriate manner three times a day. It can be about anything, even small things. What I want is for you to become imperfect for a while, until you realize that you’re still alive, that it doesn’t change anything, and that your relationships with others haven’t gotten worse. Finally, you’re going to refuse at least twice a day to do what others ask of you, or else contradict their point of view. It’s up to you.”
I looked at him in silence. My lack of enthusiasm didn’t affect his. He seemed delighted by his ideas.
“When do I start?”
“Right away! You must never put off till later things that can make you grow!”
“Fine. So, in that case, I think I’ll leave without saying good-bye and without even offering to pay my share of the bill.”
“Perfect! That’s a good start!”
He was visibly pleased, but the mischievous look in his eye didn’t bode well.
I got up and left the table.
I had gotten all the way across the bar and was at the door to the gallery when he called out to me. His loud voice broke the muffled silence of the place, and everyone turned around to see what he was waving at arm’s length.
“Alan! Come back! You’ve forgotten your magazine!”
9
I HATE MONDAY mornings. That must be the most trite and widespread feeling in the world. But I had a special reason to feel that way: It was the day of our weekly business meeting. Every Monday, my colleagues and I were told that the targets hadn’t been met and were asked what we were going to do about it. What decisions were we taking? What actions were we going to implement?
My weekend had been rich in emotions, as had the week following my meeting with Dubreuil. The first few days, I had forced myself to come up with the assigned number of inappropriate behaviors and refusals to do what others asked. After that, however, I had bravely grasped all the opportunities that came up.
Thus it was that I had driven two miles an
hour down a narrow street with cars behind me, devoured by the desire to pull over and let them pass or speed up in order not to look like an old man. I had made noise in my apartment and been called to task twice by Madame Blanchard. I had hung up on a telemarketer trying to sell me windows. I had gone to the office wearing two different colored socks. I had taken my coffee break each day at the café across the street during the peak period when everyone at the bar is complaining about the country’s economic problems and proffering obvious solutions—why didn’t the government do something about it? And I, of course, had disagreed with everyone about nearly everything. Behaving like this had been very trying, even if a part of me was beginning to feel a certain pleasure at overcoming my fears.
As soon as my first interview with a candidate had finished that Monday, I ran to the accursed staff meeting. It was 11:05 A.M., so I was late. I went into the room with a notepad in my hand and Closer under my arm. All the consultants were already sitting at the tables, which were arranged in a circle. They were all waiting for me.
Luc Fausteri threw me an icy look. On his left, Grégoire Larcher maintained his unchanging toothpaste smile. I sat down in the empty seat. Faces turned toward me. I placed the magazine on the table, face up with the title showing, and then avoided meeting anyone’s eyes. I was too ashamed.
On my left, Thomas was pretending to read the Financial Times. Mickaël was joking with the woman next to him, who was trying to scan La Tribune while chuckling from time to time at Mickaël’s idiotic remarks.
“The week’s figures are …” Larcher liked to speak, then leave the end of the sentence suspended in the air, assuring himself of our complete attention. He got up, as if to ensure his domination over those present, and went on, still smiling: “The week’s figures are encouraging. We’re up four percent on the number of recruitment assignments compared to the previous week, and up seven percent over the same week last year. With regard to this indicator, I remind you that our objective is to be up eleven percent. Of course, individual results are uneven, and I must again congratulate Thomas who remains at the top of the group.”
Thomas adopted a relaxed and absentmindedly satisfied look. He loved appearing to be the victor who’s too cool to care. In fact, I knew that compliments had the effect of cocaine on him.
“But I have an excellent piece of news for the others,” Larcher informed us, and then paused. As his seductive gaze swept over the group, he allowed the silence to make what he was about to reveal seem more dramatic.
“First of all, I must say Luc Fausteri has worked hard for you. For nearly a month, he has been analyzing all our data to understand in a rational way why some of you have better results than the others, despite all of us using the same working methods. He has cross-checked in every direction, done the stats, studied the graphs. And the results are pure genius. We’ve got the solution, and each of you will be able to profit from it on a daily basis. However, I’ll leave it to you, Luc, to present your conclusions yourself!”
Our section head, more serious than ever, began speaking in his usual monotone. “Going through all your time sheets, I saw an inverse correlation between the average length of interviews per consultant over the past twelve months and the average monthly sales of that consultant, corrected for any vacation he took.”
The room remained silent for a few moments, everyone looking questioningly at Fausteri.
“Can you translate that into French?” said Mickaël, bursting into laughter.
“It’s very simple!” said Larcher, immediately taking over. “It’s the ones who spend the most time on their recruitment interviews who get the fewest recruitment contracts from businesses. It’s quite logical, if you think about it. You can’t be in two places at once. If you spend too much time interviewing candidates, you have less time to canvass companies and sell our services, and so your results won’t be as good. Irrefutable.”
The team remained silent as the information sank in.
“For example,” Larcher went on, “Thomas, the best of you, spends on average one hour and twelve minutes on an interview, while you, Alan, at the bottom of the group—sorry, Alan—spend on average one hour and fifty-seven minutes. That’s almost twice as much!”
I sunk into my chair, while continuing to look at the table in front of me with what I hoped was a relaxed air. But there was nothing on the table but my Closer. I felt the weight of their eyes.
“No doubt we can reduce the length of our interviews,” said Alice, a young consultant. “But we’re going to bring down the success rate for our recruits. I always think of the guarantee we give businesses. If the recruit isn’t suitable or resigns within six months of being taken on, we must provide a replacement candidate. Excuse me, Thomas,” she said, turning toward her colleague, “but I recall that it’s your clients who have made the greatest call on that guarantee. For me, it happens very rarely.”
“I don’t want to leap to Thomas’s defense; he has no need of it,” said Larcher. “But the cost of renewing his defective candidates is tiny compared to the gain in turnover he contributes.”
“But that’s not in our clients’ interests!” said Alice angrily. “And therefore, in the long term, it’s not in ours either. It damages our image.”
“Clients don’t hold it against us, I can assure you,” Larcher countered. “They know we can’t control human nature. Ours is an inexact science. Nobody can be sure of choosing the right candidate all the time.”
We were careful not to reply, as Larcher’s smiling face swept the room.
After a moment, David, the longest-serving member of the team, dared to remark, “What’s not so obvious is that our interview process is long, and we can’t help it if our candidates don’t always get to the point in the shortest possible time. We can scarcely cut them off, can we?”
“That’s where I’ve got good news for you,” said Larcher, triumphantly. “Luc, tell us your second conclusion.”
Luc Fausteri spoke without looking at us, his eyes fixed on his papers. “I’ve said that the average length of Thomas’s interviews is noticeably less than that of the less commercially successful consultants. Analyzed more precisely, the figures reveal something else: The duration of the face-to-face interview is especially short for the candidates who don’t go through to the final phase.”
“In other words,” Larcher interrupted, “if you spend less time with the dead losses, you’ll have more time to spend canvassing. Shorten the interviews as soon as you realize that the person doesn’t fit the vacancy. There’s no point in going on.”
An embarrassed silence around the table.
“In any case, you won’t be giving them the job, so there’s no need to have scruples,” Larcher said.
Embarrassment gave way to general unease.
“I don’t quite agree.”
All eyes turned toward me. I didn’t often speak in meetings, and never to express my disapproval. I decided on a soft approach. “I think what you suggest is not in the interest of our firm. A candidate who doesn’t suit a post that’s to be filled today will perhaps fit one we have tomorrow. We have everything to gain, in the long run, from developing a pool of candidates who value our interviews and have confidence in us.”
Larcher moved to regain the upper hand. “As far as that’s concerned, no need to worry, my friends. I can reassure you that in this climate—and it’s not about to change—there are far more candidates than vacancies to be filled, and we don’t need to run after them. Rattle a dustbin and ten fall out. You only have to bend down and pick them up.”
A wave of sniggering went around the room.
Summoning all my courage, I said, “As far as I’m concerned, I’m attached to certain ethics. We’re not a company that recruits for its own benefit. Our job is to fill others’ needs. Therefore, our mission goes beyond the simple selection of a candidate, and I think it’s our role to advise those who don’t fit the profile of the moment. It’s our social responsibility, you mig
ht say. In any event, it’s what makes my job one I like.”
Larcher listened, still smiling, but as happened every time his interests were threatened, his expression changed imperceptibly; his smile became a little carnivorous.
“I think, my friends, that Alan has forgotten he works for Dunker Consulting and not for Mother Teresa.”
He started to laugh, quickly joined by Thomas, then Mickaël. “If you’re in any doubt,” he went on, “look at the little box at the bottom of your pay slip, and you’ll realize that a charity wouldn’t pay you like that.”
A few people chuckled.
Larcher’s eyes narrowed as he zeroed in on me. “Now, Alan, you’re going to have to keep your nose to the grindstone to earn that salary. And it’s not by playing at being a social worker that you’re going to do it.”
“I earn the firm money,” I countered. “My salary is highly cost-effective, and therefore it’s deserved.”
Deathly silence in the room. All my colleagues were looking at their feet. The atmosphere was oppressive. Larcher was obviously very surprised by my reaction; that’s probably what disconcerted him the most.
“It’s not for you to judge,” he said finally, in an aggressive tone, no doubt convinced that it was vital to maintain his authority by having the last word. “It’s for us to fix your targets, not you. And so far, you haven’t met them.”
The meeting finished quickly. It was clear that Larcher was very annoyed by the direction it had taken, which had lessened the impact of his message. The one time I’d had the courage to disagree, I might have been better advised to keep quiet. And yet, I was happy to have expressed my convictions and not let my values be trampled on.
The Man Who Risked It All Page 8