I nodded.
“I think things also happen on a spiritual level,” Dubreuil said, “even if it’s more difficult to demonstrate anything in this area.”
“Okay, so what do I do with your beautiful magical formula? How do I apply it?”
“Embracing your neighbor’s world involves, first of all, ripening your own wish to enter into his world. That means becoming interested enough in him to want to experience what it is to be in his skin. It means taking pleasure in trying to think like him, to speak like him, to move like him, to believe what he believes. When you manage that, you’ll be in a position to feel quite accurately what the other is feeling and to really understand that person. You will seem to be in sync with each other, on the same wavelength. You can, of course, return to your own position. But you will still preserve a quality of communication that is beneficial to you both. And you will notice that the other will try to understand you. He’ll start to take an interest in your world, moved in particular by a desire to make such a quality relationship last.”
“This is all a bit weird. Don’t forget I trained as an accountant. It’s not by chance, you know, that I’m very rational.”
“I’m going to try and make you feel this for yourself. We’re going to try an experiment that relates to one of the aspects I’ve just listed. I need to prepare a few things,” he said, getting up. “I need to go and get two chairs. We can’t do anything in these armchairs; we’re too cramped.”
He left the office, followed by Catherine. I heard them walking down the corridor. I felt divided: Part of me, drawn to these rather mysterious things about human relationships, was hopeful. Another part of me, more down to earth, was rather dubious.
My eyes suddenly alighted on the notebook. The notebook … It was so tempting to grab hold of it and glance inside. The noise of their footsteps died away. They must have gone into another room. It was now or never. I jumped up. The floor creaked under my feet. I froze. Silence. I went around the desk and stretched out my hand. Voices, footsteps. They were coming back! Damn! I went back to my chair, but the floor creaked so loudly that they must have heard. Don’t sit down, I thought. Pretend to be looking at the bookcase, the books.
They came in. I remained focused on the bookshelves.
“We’ll put them there,” Dubreuil said.
I turned around. They were placing the chairs facing each other, less than a yard apart.
“Sit down here,” he said, pointing to one of them.
I sat down. He waited a second, and then sat down on the other chair.
“I want you,” he said, “to tell me how you feel when I’m opposite you like this.”
“How I feel? Well, nothing special. I feel good.”
“Right. Then close your eyes.”
I did as he asked, wondering what he was going to do to me.
“When you open them again in a few moments, I want you to be aware of what you feel and to tell me how that has changed. Go on, open your eyes.”
He was still sitting on the chair, but he had changed position. Now both his hands were on his knees, which wasn’t the case before. What did I feel? Slightly strange, but difficult to say exactly.
“I would say I feel strange.”
“Do you feel better or not as good as before?”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“When you get on the elevator with someone you barely know, you generally feel less comfortable about talking with them than if you met them on the street, agreed? That’s what I’m talking about. I want you to evaluate your communicational comfort in relation to my position.”
“Right. That’s clearer.”
“So, I’ll ask the question again: If you had to hold a conversation with me, would you feel more or less comfortable since I’ve changed my position?”
“Less.”
“Okay. Close your eyes again. There you are. Now open them.”
He had changed position again. His chin was resting in the palm of his hand, his elbow resting on his thigh.
“I feel … how shall I say? … observed. Not very pleasant.”
“Right. Close your eyes again … Okay, you can look. How do you feel now?”
“Much better!” This time he was slumped down in the chair with both his forearms resting on his thighs.
“Let’s start again.”
He took up a dozen or so positions in succession. With two or three of them I felt decidedly better than with the others.
“Catherine?” he said, turning toward her.
“It’s quite definitive,” she said to me. “Each time Yves adopts the same position as you, you say you feel better. As soon as he assumes a different position from yours, you feel less at ease.”
I became aware of how I was sitting. “You mean that each time I felt good, it was because he sat like me?”
“Yes,” she said.
“This is crazy! Is it like this for everyone?”
“Yes. To be precise,” added Catherine, “it’s like that for the great majority of people but there are a few exceptions.”
“Stop quibbling, Catherine! It makes no difference.”
“But how can it be explained?” I asked.
“It’s a natural phenomenon that was discovered by some American researchers,” Dubreuil explained. “I think they began by showing that when two people are communicating well, when they’re getting along, they unconsciously synchronize with each other and end up adopting similar postures. We all notice it. For example, when you see two lovers in a restaurant, it’s not unusual for them to be in the same position, whether it’s with their elbows on the table, or their heads in their hands, or leaning backward or forward, or fiddling with the cutlery.”
“That’s astonishing.”
“And then these researchers showed that you could re-create that feeling of resonance by reversing the process. If you consciously synchronize yourself with someone, it will help both of you feel good with each other, which increases the quality of communication. But for this to work, it’s not enough just to use it as a technique. You have to sincerely want to embrace the other’s world.”
“Obviously, it’s unsettling,” I said, “and you’re going to think I’m putting up resistance again. But if you have to study the gestures of the person you’re talking to and adapt yourself accordingly, you’ll lose all sense of naturalness!”
He gave a little amused smile.
“Can I tell you something?”
“What?”
“You do it already—naturally.”
“Not at all!” I insisted.
“I can assure you, you do.”
“Come off it! I knew nothing about all this five minutes ago!”
His smile broadened. “What do you do when you want to relate to a young child of two or three?”
“It doesn’t happen every day.”
“Remember the last time.”
“Well, I talked to the super’s son, perhaps a couple of weeks ago. I asked him to tell me what he had done during the day at nursery school.”
As I replied to Dubreuil, I became aware of a truth that was all the more astounding for being fresh in my memory: In order to talk to little Marco, I had crouched down, bringing myself down to his height, and I had naturally adopted a soft voice and chosen the simplest words possible, the closest to his vocabulary. I had done all this naturally. I had made no special effort. I had just had a sincere desire to get him to tell me what a French nursery school was like.
“And do you know what the most incredible thing is?” Dubreuil continued. “When you manage to create that quality of communication and maintain it for a period of time, it’s such a precious experience that each person unconsciously does everything to make it last. Just consider the gestures, for example. If one person changes position even slightly, the other follows suit without realizing it.”
“You mean that if I mirror someone’s posture for a while and then change position, the other person will change t
o match mine?”
“Yes. But remember, the main thing is to be sincere in your intention to relate to the other person.”
“This is absolutely staggering!” I was so excited by this revelation. I felt as if until now I had been deaf and blind to aspects of my exchanges with others. It was amazing to discover that beyond our words there are heaps of things going on that we aren’t even aware of, messages exchanged by our bodies. And Dubreuil had hinted at even more levels of communication.
I begged him to tell me more, but he said I had seen enough for today. He and Catherine accompanied me to the door. I was still having difficulty figuring out Catherine’s personality and the role she played for Dubreuil. She was one of those people who says little, wrapping themselves in a cloak of mystery.
I had already left the château and walked a few steps across the garden toward the gate, watching Stalin out of the corner of my eye, when Dubreuil called me back.
“Alan!”
I turned around.
“Come back! I almost forgot to give you your mission.”
I froze. No, there was no escape.
I went inside and followed him across the hall, our steps ringing out on the cold marble. We went into a room I didn’t know. It had the atmosphere of an old London club. Bookcases entirely covered the walls up to the ceiling, which had ornate mouldings. Two chandeliers, each with a dozen lights covered by brandy-colored shades, gave off a warm, intimate glow. Mahogany stepladders leaned against the shelves. Persian rugs covered a large part of the parquet floor. There were deep armchairs upholstered in dark leather, along with a pair of padded club chairs and an immense chesterfield sofa.
Dubreuil picked up a big book. Catherine remained at the door, watching us attentively.
“Give me a number between zero and a thousand.”
“A number? Why?”
“Just give me a number!”
“Three hundred twenty-eight.”
“Three hundred twenty-eight. Let’s see, let’s see …”
He had opened the book and was turning the pages, obviously looking for the one with the number 328 on it.
“Here we are. Good. Now, give me another, let’s say between zero and twenty.”
“What is this?”
“Come on!”
“Twelve.”
I looked more closely at the book. It was a dictionary, and his finger was going down the words on the page.
“… Ten, eleven, twelve. Marionette. That’s quite good. You could have been less lucky. It could have been an adverb, for example.”
“Okay, are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“It’s very simple. You told me you had two bosses at work, yes?”
“Yes. That’s to say, I have one manager I report to and then his boss, who often intervenes.”
“Good. You’re going to go and see them both, in turn. Find a pretext to get them talking, and your mission consists of getting each of them to say the word marionette once.”
“What?”
“And there is one rule: You absolutely must not say the word yourself, or point to a photo or any object representing a marionette.
“What’s the point of all this?”
“Best of luck!”
I took my time leaving the château, lingering on the steps to look up at the stars. It is rare to be able to see them in Paris. The sky usually seems opaque in the glow of the City of Light.
I was a little annoyed not to see the point of the task Dubreuil was giving me. In the past, I had certainly balked at following his directives because they required considerable effort from me, but I had always understood their usefulness. This time, I couldn’t see it. And I hated the way he tended not to answer my questions, simply ignoring them! It was as if, having already gotten my promise to do what he said, he wasn’t going to tire himself convincing me. And when would this little game come to an end? Granted, he seemed sincere in his desire to pass on certain information, to get me to move on in life, but despite this, it was getting harder and harder to feel myself being managed in this way, even if it was by someone whose intentions were good. And were they really? He must have a good reason for taking care of me; he must be getting something back. But what?
I thought of the notebook. A notebook entirely devoted to me, probably containing the answers to my questions. It was a glaring reminder that my situation wasn’t normal. I couldn’t continue closing my eyes to what might be motivating a stranger to take an interest in me and advise me, not to mention dictate to me—all the while keeping a firm hold on me through the rules of a promise he had extracted from me under dreadful circumstances. A shiver ran down my spine.
It was really a shame I hadn’t had the time to look at the notebook during the few minutes when Dubreuil was out of the room. How frustrating! I’d missed an opportunity that might not be repeated. I absolutely must find a way to get hold of that notebook. Suppose I came back one night? With this heat, the windows probably stayed open.
A metallic noise brought me back to my senses. Stalin was running toward me, dragging his heavy chain behind him. I leapt to one side, just as the chain tightened, amid a storm of barking. His eyes wild, his fangs wet with slaver, Stalin answered my question: No, I would not be coming back at night. The night was his. Once released, he reigned as master over the grounds.
Catherine sat down on the chesterfield. Dubreuil offered her a Monte Christo, which, as usual, she refused.
“So, how do you think he’s doing?” he asked, picking up a cigar cutter.
Catherine’s eyes turned slowly toward the nearest lamp, while she reflected. She took her time before answering. “Rather well, but I could feel he was a bit upset toward the end. To be frank, I myself didn’t understand the meaning of the last task you gave him.”
“Make his bosses say a word chosen at random?”
“Yes.”
Dubreuil struck a large match, which burst into flame. He brought it to his cigar, which he steadily revolved as he puffed at it. He leaned back in the deep armchair. The leather squeaked as he crossed his legs.
“The problem with Alan is that it’s not enough to show him how to communicate well. That’s not the way to get anywhere in his firm, and that’s what he’d like. There’s something that would hold him back, in any case.”
“What?”
“He’s too used to being dominated. He’s gradually learning to resist, to oppose. That’s fine. But it’s not enough. Far from it. Knowing how to resist and knowing how to obtain what you want are two different things. To get there, there’s a precondition.”
“A precondition?”
“Developing in yourself the conviction that you are capable of it.”
“You mean that if Alan isn’t convinced deep down that he is capable of getting something from his managers, he won’t get it, even if he conscientiously applies the best communication techniques in the world?”
“Exactly! When you are intimately convinced that you can influence other people’s decisions, you always succeed in the end, even if you’re slightly shaky at first. You find a way. On the other hand, if you don’t believe in your ability, you’re going to stop at the first obstacle, and you’ll interpret it as a proof of the pointlessness of what you’re doing.”
He lifted the cigar to his mouth.
“And so you asked him to amuse himself getting his bosses to say a specific word, just to get him to discover that he is capable of having an influence on them?”
“You’ve understood everything. I want him to believe in his ability to have an influence.”
“Interesting.”
Catherine suddenly looked up as an idea occurred to her. “You didn’t really select that word at random, did you? You chose marionette so that Alan would unconsciously project himself into the role of the person who holds the strings, isn’t that so?”
By way of an answer, Dubreuil just smiled.
“Very clever, Igor.”
He took a long pu
ff on his cigar.
12
MARC DUNKER, CEO of Dunker Consulting, was an imposing figure. Well over 6 feet tall and 210 pounds, he was a heavyweight in the recruitment world in France.
He came from a village in the provinces, in the heart of the Beaujolais region. Cattle dealers, the Dunkers were not well respected by the local inhabitants, who regarded their profession as a necessary evil. The family had more money than the farmers around them, many of whom felt that this money had been made at their expense, without the Dunkers having to suffer, like them, during the lean years when the price of beef fell.
Young Marc went to the local school. Proud to be the son of the richest man in the village, in other respects he felt excluded. He didn’t feel sorry for himself because of that; on the contrary, it fed his aggression. At the slightest remark from his schoolmates, he would pick a fight.
His mother suffered a lot more from being ostracized. While her husband enjoyed an envied position, she was merely subjected to its negative fallout, the subtly hostile looks and unspoken resentment of the women she passed in the village streets. After years of bitterness, she finally cracked, and breaking with the tradition established by generations of Dunkers, the family moved to Lyon, far from malicious village gossip. Marc’s father had to travel miles each day to return to the village. Marc viewed the move as a capitulation and despised his father for having given in to his wife’s unspoken demand.
Marc’s mother’s satisfaction with the move was only temporary. She became disillusioned the day she realized that she and her family were seen as inferior by their neighbors, who were largely white-collar workers. Preferring to be rejected out of jealousy rather than out of contempt, Marc, too, suffered from this new exclusion, and developed a desire for revenge.
He was an average student, earning a diploma from a technical school when he was 20. He worked for nearly ten years selling agricultural goods, using negotiating skills no doubt fixed in his genes. He changed companies three or four times, each time increasing his salary substantially. He used the same ploy every time—deceiving the recruitment consultant about the post he was leaving, claiming responsibilities that weren’t part of his job but that he had taken on himself.
The Man Who Risked It All Page 11