The Man Who Risked It All

by Laurent Gounelle

  No more stage fright. I feel good, light. It’s wonderful.

  I continued for ten or so minutes, managing to free myself almost completely from my notes. The audience looked really interested in the topic, which wasn’t that easy to achieve, believe me. Apparently, I was succeeding in capturing their attention, arousing their interest. I felt astonishingly good, more and more at ease. I even allowed myself to move around the platform as I spoke, still looking at the audience.

  I finished amidst particularly loud applause, mingled with cheers. Some members stood up, soon followed by others, then the whole room. A standing ovation! I couldn’t get over it. They were chanting my name. I was deliriously happy.

  Éric joined me on the stage, continuing to applaud. Then he asked everyone to take a few minutes to write down their comments.

  A few moments later, Éric gave me a large envelope containing pieces of paper folded in four. I went and sat down in a corner of the room and started impatiently unfolding the messages, curious to know what little defects and points for improvement the audience had picked out. My surprise increased as I went through the comments and saw that 100 percent of them were positive! It was incredible, unimaginable. I couldn’t get over it. It seemed that behind the fear that had paralyzed me lay a hidden talent, a natural gift that was just asking to express itself.

  Éric came to say that after a very first session, he advised going home at once rather than sitting through the other talks, so I could remember my performance better while quietly rereading the comments. I waved good-bye to the assembled associates and left.

  I climbed the dark staircase as if I was climbing the steps to a palace, carried by my success. Nourished by the new strength I had gained, I felt ready to set out, if the day came, to meet my destiny.

  48

  “WE HAVE A traitor in our midst!”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?” said Andrew, appearing in the doorway.

  Dunker gestured to the two newspapers lying open on his desk. Then he dropped back in his chair, with the annoyed look he wore on bad days.

  Andrew came up to the desk to look. The headline on La Tribune read, “Dunker Consulting: After the Bogus Vacancies, the Bogus Clients?”

  Le Figaro: “After the Job Vacancies without Jobs, the Clients Without Money.”

  “That’s not good for our company!” remarked Andrew.

  Dunker looked daggers at him. “Any more clever analyses where that one came from, Andrew?”

  The Englishman blushed slightly but didn’t reply. He should have kept quiet. When the boss was in this mood, he would take it out on you by using the slightest thing you said against you.

  “Yes, a traitor on the team, it’s obvious!” repeated Dunker. “The share price is going to go down more.”

  He turned to his computer and nervously tapped on the keyboard.

  “There we are! All it takes is some idiotic news making the rounds for these wimps to panic and sell! The share price is down two percent! And the market has only just opened!”

  “Oh yes, definitely! That’s perfect!”

  “You said smiling; I’ve done him smiling.”

  “Well, smiling he certainly is! But anyhow, it’s fine. It’s really good.”

  I paid the price we’d agreed on the day before and left, extracting myself with difficulty from the group of onlookers who were leaning forward to try and see the painting.

  There was a crowd on this fine, sunny, late afternoon on the Place du Tertre. The tourists came to have their portrait done by one of the numerous painters gathered around the square, each with a wooden easel and a color palette in one hand, a brush in the other. It was fascinating to watch the artists’ eyes as they examined the faces they were sketching, looking past the smiles to unearth the expressions that would best characterize their subjects.

  I took the painting back to my apartment to wrap it. I had been on cloud nine since the end of trading that day. The Dunker share had lost nearly 5 percent, and I was feeling generous.

  Ten minutes later, I knocked on Madame Blanchard’s door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Monsieur Greenmor, your neighbor.”

  She opened the door.

  “Here, this is for you,” I said, holding out the parcel.

  “For me?” she said, not hiding her surprise. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “To nothing. I was very touched that you gave me a cake the other day. So I wanted to give you a little present as well.”

  She unwrapped it, and then admired the painting for a few seconds.

  “It’s very pretty. Very well painted. Thank you very much, Monsieur Greenmor.”

  I could feel she didn’t dare ask the question.

  “Do you like it?” I asked.

  “Yes, very much. And who is it, exactly?”

  “Madame Blanchard, come on! It’s Jesus Christ!”

  “Ah.”

  She looked at it wide-eyed. I wanted to put her at ease.

  “Of course, we’re not used to seeing him like that.”

  She was speechless.

  “You must admit,” I went on, “that men have played a dirty trick on him, showing him on the cross, his face disfigured by suffering. Would you want to be photographed on your deathbed, in your final agony, and then have the image be circulated forever?”

  49

  I HAD PLANNED to call Fisherman at the end of the day, to leave him relatively little time before his deadline. I wanted him to react instantly, without having a chance to revise his position later. But I hadn’t foreseen that my last appointment would drag on forever. The candidate had come a long way, so I couldn’t cut short the interview and see him another day. It was 7:35 P.M. when he left. Fisherman’s paper went to press at 8:00 P.M. I grabbed the phone, afraid I was too late.

  “Hello, Les Echos!”

  “Monsieur Fisherman in the editorial office, please. It’s urgent!”

  “Please hold.”

  The Four Seasons played ad nauseam. A version to make Vivaldi turn in his grave.

  For crying out loud, pick up!

  7:41 P.M.

  “Hello …”

  “Mister Fisherman?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  I replied, and this time my ears had to put up with endless bars of “Summertime.”

  7:43 P.M. Pick up, pick up. Fisherman would never have time to write anything before the 8:00 P.M. deadline.

  “Good evening.”

  His cavernous voice, at last.

  “This is Alan Greenmor. I have another scoop for you.”

  Silence, which he finally broke. “I’m listening.”

  “In my last call, I forecast a drop in the Dunker Consulting share of three percent, and it happened.”

  “Almost,” he corrected.

  “The second time, I predicted more than four percent. It was four point eight percent.”

  “Yes.”

  I concentrated. My voice had to sound both confident and relaxed. I wasn’t used to bluffing, and this was bluffing on a grand scale. There was absolutely nothing to back it up; I had no more scandals to reveal to the press.

  I followed my gut. “Tomorrow, the share will experience the most breathtaking fall in its history. It will lose at least twenty percent in a single day.”

  “Twenty percent in a single day? That’s impossible.”

  Don’t back off, or you’re screwed.

  “In fact, I’m convinced the fall will be greater than that. Far greater. Perhaps trading will even be suspended to stop the price from falling to zero.”

  Silence.

  “We’ll see,” he said finally.

  His ambiguous reply annoyed me. What did it mean? That he was going to print a notice, then see how far the share dropped? Or stay on the sidelines, as on the previous occasions, and just watch the action? If he played the spectator again, I was done for.

  We hung up.

  The die was cast.

  A long wait began. I
tortured myself trying to predict the course of events. Would Fisherman write something? Had my earlier forecasts, which had turned out to be true, been enough to build my credibility? All evening, these questions went around and around in my mind. I was first anxious, then confident, then doubtful again. I wanted to believe, but I was so afraid of being wrong. Fisherman’s market advice was so highly regarded, so closely watched in financial circles, that just a word from him was enough for the share to collapse. For good.

  I had enormous trouble going to sleep, then slept fitfully. Several times, I woke and looked at the time. Finally, at 6 A.M. I got up and got dressed, making myself listen to the radio in order not to think of anything else. At 6:55 I went down to the street. The café was already open, so I ordered a coffee and asked for Les Echos.

  “It’ll be here soon. Wait a bit,” said the waiter in his usual unfriendly tone.

  Wait. I couldn’t bear any more waiting.

  My coffee was too strong. The first mouthful was bitter. I ordered a croissant to get rid of the aftertaste. I ate it without noticing, lost in thought.

  The waiter snapped me out of my reverie when he tossed the paper down on the bar. I grabbed Les Echos and quickly turned the pages, my stomach in a knot. Suddenly a headline leapt at me, and I stopped dead. For a moment I felt nothing, absolutely nothing, as if the shock had cut off all emotions and thoughts.

  “Dunker Consulting: Sell Before It’s Too Late.”

  I wanted to shout with joy. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was crazy, extraordinary, fabulous!

  I ordered another coffee and a second croissant, and plunged into the short article that followed. Fisherman, the powerful and respected Fisherman, was advising shareholders to sell! He explained that the recent evidence of malpractice, along with some toxic rumors and the strategic errors of recent months added up to a worrying picture. It was far too risky a share, and the best thing was to unload it as quickly as possible.

  If he had been sitting next to me, I would have thrown my arms around him.

  An hour later, I was at the office, unable to contain my impatience as I sat in front of my computer screen, waiting for trading to begin on the stock exchange. The figure I had waited for so long finally came up at 9:01 A.M.—a fall of 7.2 percent at the opening. I didn’t know what to think. Would it be enough?

  I spent the day with my eyes riveted to my screen.

  The price went up and down all morning, but overall the trend was down. At lunchtime, the share was down 9.8 percent. I ran to buy a sandwich from the machine. When I came back it had collapsed to 14.1 percent. My heart leapt. The only possible explanation for such a movement was a massive sell-off. In the space of a few minutes, someone had unloaded a large block of shares. One of the big shareholders must have called it a day. Hurrah! I was jubilant. The 10-percent drop must have been the trigger. These investment funds make their selling decisions on the basis of criteria fixed in advance.

  Just one more! If the second big shareholder sells, I will be free!

  What was the stop-loss threshold the second shareholder had fixed? Was it when the share price dropped 15 percent? I hardly dared hope. We were so close.

  Not much happened in the next hour. I could barely contain my impatience. I ran like a madman to get a coffee from the staff room and nearly spilled half of it as I ran back. No movement while I was gone.

  The Echos website printed just two lines, with no further comment, saying the INVERNIA fund had sold its Dunker Consulting shares. At 4:30 P.M., we passed the 15-percent mark. I waited with bated breath.

  Go on, go on, sell!

  The minutes went by without anything happening. A bad sign. I waited, champing at the bit. Then it dropped to 15.3 percent. The fall was continuing, but slowly, without the sudden spurt I was hoping for. It went to 15.7 percent.

  Trading ended on a historic fall of 16.8 percent. That was no doubt huge, unheard of even, but there was still one big shareholder in place, which complicated things. Together, he and Marc Dunker might hold the majority of voting rights on the day of the annual meeting. It was a tricky situation.

  I had spent the whole day in a state of intense excitement, intoxicated by results that were more than heartening, and now it was all ending on an unfinished note. The machine had jammed, blocked. The sky, so bright until then, suddenly went dark. I had the feeling of a half-victory tinged with failure. My adrenaline retreated like a courtier who feels the wind change direction, and I suddenly felt weary, emptied.

  What was the point of being persuasive in front of the shareholders at the annual meeting? Against the electoral weight of the biggest shareholders, what were the tens or even hundreds of votes the others brought me?

  50

  ANDREW TIPPED THE canvas bag onto his desk. The white envelopes piled up on the red leather, forming a heap as high as on the previous days. Andrew hurriedly picked up three envelopes that had fallen on the floor. He put the wastepaper basket to the right of the desk, pushed the pyramid of letters to the left, then armed with a letter opener in his right hand, he picked up the first envelope with his left hand, slit it open in a precise and rapid gesture, extracted the document inside, and placed it in front of him, throwing the envelope into the wastepaper basket before repeating this carefully choreographed sequence.

  Half an hour later, he heard his boss yell. Was Dunker on the phone? A glance at his screen informed Andrew that he wasn’t. He’d better go and see what was happening.

  Andrew gave the usual two knocks and opened the door. Dunker immediately shouted, “A bunch of sheep! All of them! A crummy journalist sticks his nose in where it doesn’t belong, and all the morons incapable of thinking for themselves follow his damn-fool advice and sell. As a result, the share price goes down a bit, and the others rush in without thinking! Without thinking!”

  Andrew knew from experience that when his boss exploded it was best to say nothing and let him get it off his chest.

  “And Poupon is a sheep like the others!” Dunker continued. “INVERNIA left us three days ago, and for three days I’ve been trying to seize the bull by the horns and call Poupon to convince the dummy to reinvest now that the price is low. Can’t be reached! Supposedly. Let’s say he just doesn’t have the balls! It wouldn’t cost him much, either. With all the press exaggerating our imaginary problems, the share price has been falling for three days. Falling? I should say crumbling, collapsing! Soon, it won’t be worth anything.”

  Andrew waited patiently and when he thought Dunker’s anger had run its course, he tried to change the subject.

  “At our next annual meeting, sir—”

  “Stop talking about the annual meeting! It’s the least of my worries! I’ve lost my biggest shareholder, and the price is nowhere near picking up. Nothing I say to the three people who turn up at the meeting because they’ve got sod-all else to do is going to change the situation! If it wasn’t a damn-fool legal obligation, I’d cancel the annual meeting.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. You’re legally obligated to bring the shareholders together once a year.”

  “The shareholders, the shareholders! That’s a grand title for the people with three cents’ worth of savings they dump on the stock exchange in the hope it’s going to bring a better return than the savings bank. But none of them come to the annual meeting anyway, apart from some morons who think they’re important just because they own a handful of shares.”

  “I’m afraid the shareholders who will be attending the annual meeting are rather more numerous than you think, sir. For a few days now, we’ve been receiving replies to our notification. That’s what I’ve been trying to talk to you about since yesterday: We’re going to have to change the venue, because the meeting room we hired at the Hotel Lutetia will be too small.”

  “Too small? What do you mean, too small? What the hell’s going on?”

  “I think they’re frightened by the drop in the share price, sir, and are deciding to take a closer look at the company whose shares t
hey hold. “

  “But they’ve hardly got any shares! Each one’s got five or six at the most. They’ve got a fucking nerve! I’m not going to talk development strategy with them. I’ve got nothing to say!”

  “The people who don’t closely follow the price of their shares, and then wake up when they’ve lost thirty percent, realize it’s too late to sell,” said Andrew. “They would lose too much. As a result, their only hope is for the situation to reverse itself. That’s why they’re suddenly interested in the way the business is managed, even though it was the least of their worries two days ago. We saw the same phenomenon when the Eurotunnel shares went down, sir. The small investors decided to come in droves to the annual meeting to defend their interests.

  “At any rate, sir,” Andrew continued, “we really will have to change the venue to be able to fit them all in.”

  “Change the venue, change the venue. You’re not expecting me to hire a goddamned convention center, are you?”

  “No, sir, a convention center would be too small. The way things are going, we’re going to have to think about the Omnisports Palace at Paris-Bercy.”

  51

  LIKE ALL THE shareholders, of which I was now one, I had received my notification of the annual meeting by registered mail two weeks before the meeting date.

  I had been writing my speech for a week, polishing it the way a sculptor puts the finishing touches on his marble statue, smoothing away the slightest roughness. I almost knew it by heart, as a result of reciting it over and over in front of the bathroom mirror, imagining myself before the small group of shareholders who would need to be convinced. I thought about the speech constantly—walking along the street, sitting in the Métro, waiting in a line. I even spouted certain passages in the shower, visualizing an audience captivated by my words. I constantly reminded myself of my triumph at Speech-Masters, and it gave me faith in my ability.

  I was rather proud of my speech, which I thought was persuasive. If I were in the small shareholders’ place—which, of course, I now was—I would no doubt vote for me.