“All right,” she said without embellishment. She turned and slipped into her room.
The next morning they drove back to Paris, often with long stretches of silence, both mulling over their past lives and their lives to come.
ON SUNDAY, ANTHONY PACKED HIS bag and left his lavish apartment to Penelope. In the old days, he would have moved into a suite at the Hotel de Crillon, overlooking the Place de la Concorde. Now, his choice was much less pretentious: a small two-room apartment above a bakery near the office.
Anthony had good reason to leave: He wanted to be away from Penelope, to allow his mind freedom to reason. There was much to think about. He walked for hours, mostly along the Left Bank, trying to put all the pieces together.
On one of those walks, he stopped midway across his favorite bridge, the Pont Neuf that spanned the western tip of the Île de la Cité, the island that was the medieval center of Paris. He leaned over the west railing, staring into the Seine and the dark water that escaped under the arches of the bridge like time dissolving into eternity. The moment reminded him of Diego and how the two of them hunched over his balcony and talked about philosophy and the revelations of life. He took out the olive amulet from his pocket and felt its smooth surface. And in that instant, Diego appeared.
“Buenos días, my son,” Diego said.
Antonio was not troubled that Diego was suddenly there at his side; he was simply delighted to be in his company—even the spirit of his company. “Buenos días, Diego,” he said with a sad grin.
“You seem troubled, Antonio. Have you lost your way?”
“It is easier in Spain.”
“Easy will not make a righteous man of you.”
Antonio smiled. “If that is true, I should be a saint when I am through with this.”
“You do not need to be a saint, my son—only a man of truth. Speak what is honorable, do what is right. Take care of those you have injured. All the rest will fall into place.”
“And if I am not able?”
“You are able. You are my son.”
“If that is true, then you are my father.”
“Did you ever doubt it?” Diego asked with a smile. “Hasta luego, Antonio.”
Antonio turned and reached out to Diego, his hand passing freely through space. “Must you go?”
“There are olive trees to tend to,” he said with a smile and a wink, “but do not worry, my son: I am always with you.”
On Monday morning, Anthony telephoned Lucy.
“Mr. Duncan told me you were back,” she said.
“Then that means everyone knows.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Rossi?”
“Were you able to postpone the board meeting?”
“I was.”
“That’s great. Here’s what I’d like you to do. I know it’s short notice, but I’d like you to set up a meeting with the board members and executive staff for five o’clock tomorrow evening.”
“Done.”
“Do you know if Harry Tubbs is in Paris?”
“I’m not sure, but I can find out.”
“If he is, I would like him at the meeting as well.”
“I can do that.”
“Also, could you have the contract for the Águilas job on my desk by noon tomorrow?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Is there anything else that I should know about?”
“Yes, there is one thing. We have a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“You remember the seven-story parking-lot project.”
“The one Jean-Pierre Badeau was heading up?”
“Yes.”
“What about it?”
“This is not good news, Mr. Rossi. Last Wednesday, one of the columns on the ground floor buckled.”
“My God. Was anyone hurt?”
“No. But it was close. There were three electricians working in the area, and they just barely escaped. Naturally, the job has been shut down. The whole thing is a mess.”
“Okay. We’ll figure it out.”
Lucy took in a breath. “Mr. Rossi, there is something else.”
“Yes. What is it?”
“It’s Jean-Pierre.”
The face of the nervous manager flashed before his eyes. “What about him, Lucy?”
“You know he’s a very good friend of mine.”
“I believe I knew that.”
“He’s not doing well.”
“What do you mean?”
“He did not take the accident well. He blames himself. And he’s behaving very strangely.”
“In what way?” Anthony asked, genuinely concerned.
“When you talk to him, he acts like he doesn’t hear you. It’s as if he’s in another world. It’s very scary, Mr. Rossi; I’m very worried about him.”
“Okay. Make sure he is at the Tuesday meeting. I want to talk to him.”
“All right. I’ll try, but I can’t guarantee that he’ll be there. He’s been missing a lot of work, and he is not answering phone calls, not even mine.”
“Do the best you can. That’s all I can ask.”
Anthony called Monique Ducros on her cellular phone. She was shocked to hear his voice, and when he asked if they could meet, she hesitated.
“I am not sure,” she said. “Á quoi bon? What good would it do?”
“Maybe nothing. I just feel like I need to talk with you.”
They agreed to meet for coffee at a favorite bistro on rue Saint Dominique, Le Café Thoumieux.
Anthony arrived first and found their usual table at the back of the cafe. When Monique walked in, he stood up and took her coat. She was dressed simply in jeans and a V-neck pullover. But despite her casual attire, she could not disguise her natural beauty. She was still ravishing, even without makeup.
“Thank you for coming, Monique. I wasn’t sure that you would make it.”
“I almost did not.”
“What changed your mind?”
She pondered a moment. “Je ne sais pas. I do not know.”
“That’s okay,” he said, letting it go.
“J’ai changé d’avis—I changed my mind. I do know why I came. It was pity.”
Anthony held his breath, as if not breathing could stop her words from breaking his heart. “Yeah,” he said softly, recognizing the truth.
“What are you wanting, Anthony?”
“I’m not going to ask you to forgive me, Monique. That’s too much to ask. But I do want you to know that I am deeply, deeply sorry. What I did to you was unconscionable.”
A waiter came to their table, and they ordered espressos.
After a long silence, Monique said quietly, “What you did was méprisable—how do you say?—despicable. I hated you for a long time. I cannot decide if I still hate you. I am trying to forget all that.”
“I understand. How are you doing now?”
“Ça va. I am managing.”
“Have you met someone?”
She smiled faintly. “Oui.”
“I hope he appreciates you. You have such a good heart; you deserve the best.”
“He is a good man.”
“Is he French?”
“Yes. He is not as rich as you, but he knows how to treat a woman.”
“I’m very glad to hear that.”
“And he is not married,” she added.
Anthony nodded and, lightly placing his fingers on her forearm, asked, “Is there anything that I can do to help you? Anything at all.”
She cringed away from him. “Nothing. There is nothing you can do.”
There was a moment of silence, while Monique sat transfixed, hardly blinking.
Anthony could hear the big clock on the wall tick away a minute.
“I think I will be going now,” Monique said.
Anthony started to stand.
“Non. Ne bouge pas. Do not get up,” Monique said, throwing
her coat over her arm. She stood and started to turn for the door and then faced Anthony. “I have decided that I do not hate you, Anthony. I feel sorry for you. You are vide—a hollow man. I am hoping you find your way.”
Monique turned and was gone.
Anthony sat quietly. Then the waiter appeared and set two espressos on the table.
“Merci,” Anthony said, without looking up.
“Will there be anything else?”
Anthony finally looked at the waiter. “Non, merci—merci beaucoup.”
The man scribbled a number and left the bill at the table. “De rien, monsieur.”
Anthony lingered a moment longer. He raised the cup of coffee to his mouth and paused, his mind lost in silence. Finally, he took a slow sip, but tasted nothing. He paid the bill and left.
ANTHONY WENT TO THE OFFICE on Tuesday, arriving at 2:00 p.m. For the first time in their long business association, he gave Lucy an exuberant hug, which rattled her, a deep blush sweeping across her face and down her neck.
“Thank you, Lucy. You’re the best. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Lucy nervously tugged at the hem of her grey pin-striped suit jacket. “You’re welcome, Mr. Rossi.”
Anthony asked not to be disturbed until the board meeting. He wanted to study the Águilas contract. Then, at precisely five o’clock, with contract in hand, he walked to Lucy’s desk.
“Well, what do you think, Lucy? Ready to face the lions?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, collecting her pencil and steno pad.
The two walked to the conference room, where everyone had been waiting for at least ten minutes. When Anthony entered, the men stood and applauded.
Acknowledging the greeting, Anthony took his chair at the head of the table, placed the Águilas contract in front of him, and asked everyone to be seated. The board members, twelve in all, surrounded the conference table. The executive staff was seated along the side walls behind the board. Hennessy was in his traditional position at the end of the table opposite Anthony.
“I’m not sure if you are applauding my return or my near demise.”
There was a ripple of nervous laughter.
“I realize that there’s a lot a mystery surrounding my absence. Some thought I was dead. Some thought I was just having a good time on a beach somewhere in Southern Spain.”
More polite laughter.
“It’s a long story that we’ll save for another time. The important thing is that I am back, and I want to take care of business.”
That statement was answered with deafening silence.
Anthony stood up and stepped to one side of his chair. “We haven’t spoken much about values in this company. And I think that has been a critical lacking. I don’t think we know who we are.” Anthony looked at Jack Benson, the chairman of the board. “Jack, do you know who we are?”
“We are a construction management company,” Jack said without hesitation.
“And what is our purpose?”
“To make our shareholders obscenely wealthy.”
One of the French board members chuckled and, seeing he was alone, quickly swallowed his laugh.
“That’s where you’re wrong, Jack. That’s not our purpose; that’s our bottom line. Our purpose is to serve humanity; and if we do that well, we will be amply compensated. For too long, we have been in the business of making a fast buck. That’s fine; we all have families to feed and mortgages to pay. But it loses sight of our real mission.”
“And that is?” asked Jack.
“Our real mission is to build bridges—to help people get from one place to another with ease. Our mission is to construct offices that are so safe and so pleasing that people will be eager to go to work on Monday morning. Our mission is to make a positive difference in the lives of the people we serve.
“Let me give you an example of what I mean. You all know Harry Tubbs. Harry, how are you doing?”
“Damn fine. Good to see ya, old man.”
“Harry has been trying to tie up a contract for a prime piece of land in Águilas, Spain. This is the contract.” Anthony picked up the document and tossed it onto the center of the table. “It’s designed to swindle an old Spanish fisherman out of millions of dollars.”
“Hold on there, buckaroo. You helped me write that contract.”
“I know I did, Harry, but I was wrong. That contract is a disgrace. And as long as I am president of this company, we will never do business that way. That is my promise to the company.”
There was a pause.
“Wait a minute,” Jack said. “I’m not sure how I feel about all this. It sounds awfully soft to me. That’s not the kind of language our stockholders like to hear. They want a leader with a killer instinct—someone like the old Anthony.”
“The old Anthony is dead. He was buried in Spain. This is the new Anthony. Can you live with him?”
Jack was surveying the room. The board members were squirming in their seats. “Well, the Anthony that you buried in Spain knew how to make money. Now, the way you’re talking, I’m not sure you could pay for my suit. I’m sorry, Anthony, but I don’t think this company needs a frickin’ missionary.” He looked around the room. “Am I wrong here? Hennessy, what do you think?”
All heads turned toward the vice president who looked uncomfortable in the spotlight. “I think you’re right, Jack. I think our company needs someone who can swim with the sharks. In fact, I’d say they want the biggest, baddest shark in the pond.”
“Are you the man for that job, Hennie?” Anthony asked without any hint of sarcasm.
Hennessy was starting to sweat. He was way outside his element. “Yeah, I think I may be. I mean, yes, I am.”
“I see. Well, before you take over the helm, you might want to check the weather. The horizon looks very threatening.” Anthony looked around the room. “Lucy, were you able to reach Jean-Pierre Badeau?”
“No, sir. I could not locate him. He does not answer his home phone or his mobile.”
Anthony’s voice became even more deliberate. “Would you like to know why Jean-Pierre can’t be found? He’s in a world of hurt. He’s one of our own, and we’re not taking care of him. He has a job that is in deep trouble; we all know it, and we haven’t done anything to help him.
“That’s going to change right now. We will not leave Jean-Pierre in the cold. And we will not do shoddy work—not anymore. I don’t care if we have to tear the whole thing down and start from scratch. This company will not put our people or our clients at risk. Not on my watch.”
Jack took in the room again. There were a few nods. “Well, that’s fine and dandy, Anthony, but that costs money, and that is something we have not been making a lot of recently. And, if you don’t mind my saying, your . . . little diversion in Spain has not helped any.”
“I want to say something about that.”
“I’m not finished. We’re taking the company over, Anthony. We are buying out your stock options—and, believe me, we’ve got the lawyers to do it. If we do decide to keep you on—and, understand, that is a whopping ‘if’—you will be a puppet for the board of directors.”
There was a firm knock on the door, and the secretary who was covering for Lucy rushed into the conference room. “I am sorry. C’est une urgence absolue—an emergency. Monsieur Rossi, you need to take the call on line one.”
Anthony picked up the handset. “Je suis Anthony Rossi . . . . Oui . . . . C’est exact . . . . Où ça . . . ? Je peux être là dans quinze minutes.”
Anthony dropped the receiver. “I’ve got to go,” he said, rushing to the door.
“Stop right there,” Jack said. “We are not through here. You leave this room, and you will never run this company again. We will sue your butt for breach of contract. We’ll have you tied up in court so long, you’ll wish you never came back.”
Anthony paused only briefly. “Do what you must, Jack. If I do not leave, I could lose a good man, and right now that is more impor
tant to me than losing a company.”
With that, Anthony lurched out of the conference room and bolted for the elevators. He pounded on the down button. “Come on, come on, come on!”
Finally, the elevator doors opened and Anthony lunged in and pressed the button for basement parking. When the elevator doors eased open, he squeezed through the gap sideways and sprinted to his car. Seconds later, his Mercedes was screaming up the ramp toward the city street. He crashed the security barrier and squealed onto the Avenue du Maine, fishtailing as he made the corner.
At the first light, Anthony was behind traffic in all lanes. He laid on his horn and took the sidewalk—people scattering like cats. He crashed the red light and was clipped on the rear end by a delivery van. The collision spun his car ninety degrees to the right, but he jammed on the accelerator and was off again, careening across the Pont Neuf at breakneck speed. He took a hard right on the Right Bank and then a hard left on Rue Quincampoix, barreling past the Gare de l’Est.
The traffic came to an abrupt halt at a crosswalk, which was strange because Anthony had rarely seen a Parisian stop for a pedestrian. He glanced at the stalled car’s license plate; it was English; that explained everything. He skimmed past the Brit and, tires squealing, swerved around the pedestrian. The walker—an old veteran wearing a black beret—responded with a profane three-tier gesture: slapping first the wrist of his closed fist, then the bicep, then the shoulder, his quivering arm now high overhead, banging the sky.
Anthony spotted the police cars first, their blue and yellow lights flashing at the side of the street. He raced forward, weaving in and out of traffic. When he reached the construction site, he slammed on his brakes with such force that his car nosedived and then spun out of control, crashing into the side of a compact patrol car.
A police officer was in the lightweight car, talking on the radio at the moment of impact. Although the policeman was uninjured, it threw him to the opposite side of the car and contracted every muscle in his body. He exploded from the vehicle, drew his weapon, lay over the hood, and targeted Anthony, who was scrambling out of his car.
“Halt!” the officer shouted.
Anthony stopped dead and threw his hands into the air. “I’m Anthony Rossi!”
“I do not care if you are François Mitterrand. Put both hands on the car and spread your legs.”
The Awakening Page 28