...more

The following days, Monsieur spent the best part of his mornings putting the office in order. He emptied the cupboards, one after another, dumped the contents of the drawers onto the carpet. Then, working methodically through the mess, he filled plastic bags with old newspapers and whole stacks of magazines, which he started to store in the hall, behind his door. He put his predecessor’s books into boxes and replaced them on the shelves with his own files.

Little by little, he settled in. The next day he brought in an electric coffee-maker, which he plugged into the sole outlet in the room tucked away behind the coat rack, and which, for the time being, he left on a crate of old books. It made excellent coffee, his coffee-maker, and kept it nice and warm. Each morning he drank a cup or two, never failing to offer some to his guests.

Very quickly, Monsieur became rather well liked within the firm. Although remaining distant with his colleagues, he didn’t neglect, on occasion, to join in some hallway conversation where, eyes lowered, he listened to this or that question being discussed. Then, taking leave, he turned and made his way nonchalantly back to his office, running one hand along the corridor walls.

In the course of the morning it was not unusual for Monsieur to go down to the ground floor and spend a few moments in the large glass-enclosed hall. Coming round the information desk, he would head for the cafeteria, where he bought a packet of chips, paprika chips, for example, why not, which he opened while resuming his leisurely walk. He would linger before the union noticeboard and, well enough acquainted with the history of the labour movement, he read the notices thoughtfully, eating a chip from time to time. Then, turning round, he would go back across the hall, picking up a few brochures intended for the general public on the way. He would quickly browse through some and leave others on a bench, waiting for the elevator.

Twice a week, a pile of newspapers and specialized economic and financial journals awaited Monsieur at the bottom of his in-tray. He took them into his office and read them over, leafing through them all, annotating certain articles with the fine point of his Rotring, cutting out others, which he kept in plastic folders.

Indeed, in the middle of the afternoon Monsieur would go back down to the cafeteria. He hitched up his trousers, sat down comfortably and ordered a small beer. These were calm hours, the lobby often deserted. From his table he could see the large aquarium, where tranquil creatures went hither and thither in the clear water. There weren’t a lot of people in the cafeteria at that time. A couple of receptionists from the information desk would eat cassatas and talk over coffee at a neighbouring table.

When, returning to his office, Monsieur found himself in the elevator with the Chief Executive, he would ask him which floor he wanted and push the appropriate button. On the way up they would look at the walls of the elevator, each at a different spot. Monsieur kept his eyes lowered. The Chief Executive, for his part, played with his key ring. Sometimes they exchanged a few select words. The Chief executive listened attentively to Monsieur, arms crossed, all the while seeming to ask himself who on earth he could possibly be.

Each Thursday, Monsieur attended a meeting with the Chief Executive that brought together a large number of company executives. A notice tacked up in the main hall of his floor gave the time of the meeting, which was always in the same place, a large rectangular office in which an oval lacquered table took up all the space. A blotting pad and an ash-tray were set before each chair. Monsieur sat at the seventeenth seat on the left where, he knew from experience, his presence went the most unnoticed, beside Madame Dubois-Lacour who, as supervisor to a large part of his activities, responded to most of the questions asked of him and, throughout the meeting, calmly smoked his cigarette. Monsieur was scrupulously attentive to remain in line with her body, drawing back when she moved backwards, leaning forward when she moved forward, so as to be never too directly exposed. Whenever the Chief Executive said his name out loud, Monsieur leaned forward, as if surprised and, inclining his head respectfully, responded straight away in dry, precise, technical, professional terms. Hip, hop. After which, fingers trembling slightly, he retreated into his neighbour’s shadow. The meetings, in general, lasted a little less than an hour. When the Chief Executive finally adjourned, everyone got up in turn and put on their coats; small groups formed (you haven’t seen my Havanitos, said Madame Dubois-Lacour, a red and gold pack).

Dubois-Lacour sometimes brought files to his office. Monsieur asked her to sit down; she handed him the documents and crossing her legs, thank you, summarized some of them, drew his attention to others, going over their major points. Then, adding a final clarification, she left him alone. Dubois-Lacour never, and for this he was grateful, doubted the seriousness with which Monsieur approached his work. You always seem to be bone idle, she said to him amiably on occasion, adding, not without finesse, that this was the sign of a truly great worker.

When Monsieur was expecting visitors in his office, a secretary would telephone him to inform him of their arrival. He waited at his desk, or better still, stood pensively before the large bay window, fixing his tie. They came in, Monsieur offered them coffee. Slowly turning his spoon in his cup, he asked them to be seated and heard them out while looking at his fingers, trying at all times to remain friendly. To the most persistent, those who didn’t hesitate to make him sweat slightly, who insisted adamantly this time on obtaining precise facts, figures, something more concrete, he promised charts and even graphics. And, once they’d left, he seriously considered their requests.

People, really.

One evening a week, Monsieur played indoor football on the cheap in a local gym. He kept apart from the team in the locker room. He took his time getting changed. He had a very smart outfit, red T-shirt, cotton Bermudas and doubled-soled tennis shoes. He arrived the last on the pitch and started warming up with the others, under the eyes of ten or so girls in track suits who looked on and commented from the sidelines. During the match, each time there was a corner kick Monsieur, who played defence, came forward and, placing himself in front of the opposing goal, got ready to head the ball into the net. All right, big fellow, back you go, said the coach, a former ace. Monsieur shrugging his shoulders, trotted back to his place, keeping one eye on the pitch.

Monsieur was not at all fond of anything that resembled him. No. The night he sprained his wrist, for example, he was reading the newspaper while waiting for the bus, his sports bag at his feet. A man beside him attempted to ask him something. As Monsieur didn’t answer, finishing his article, the man, smiling carefully, thought it appropriate to repeat his question. Monsieur lowered his paper and looked him up and down absently, top to bottom. The man got nearer and gave him an abrupt shove. Losing his balance, Monsieur stumbled into the metal edge of the bus shelter with his full weight.

At the time Monsieur was engaged.

Yes. It must have been rather distressing for his fiancée to see him arrive that evening, slightly hurt. She got some ice cubes from the kitchen and, stroking his head to soothe him, told him to put his hand in the ice bucket. Then, while Monsieur took off his watch, she sat cross-legged on the carpet and, in an attempt to relax the atmosphere he did nothing to lighten, going from the description he had given her of the man’s appearance, sketched a quick portrait, which she tacked up on the wall in the entrance hall.

That night, Monsieur’s fiancée showed herself capable of a great deal of understanding, putting up a makeshift cot in her room, supporting him when he had to give, with all possible delicacy, an explanation to her parents. The latter, the Parrains, whom Monsieur had found rather easy-going when he first met them, were now standing in the doorway, leaning towards him. Sitting on the bed, Monsieur, who didn’t want a fuss, tried to justify his presence in their apartment, speaking slowly, persuasively, in an attempt to get them on his side. But they hardly listened. What they wanted to know, because it had intrigued them, was why their daughter had put up a picture of their friend Caradec in the hall.

The next day, in the early hours of the morning, coming soundlessly across the hall, Monsieur bumped into his fiancée’s mother, dressed in a nightie and sleepy-eyed, who seemed almost surprised to find herself at home. Monsieur, to help her orientate herself, briefly reminded her of his name and greeted her politely with his eyes lowered, looking at her stomach, at the bottom of which there appeared through the thin material a fine early morning display of pubic hair. Did you sleep well? She asked him, right hand on her left shoulder, co-ordinating her movements so as to be seen in profile. Monsieur shook his head and showed his wrist which had ballooned alarmingly during the night. She looked at it from a distance and, speaking vaguely of hospitals and X-rays, added while shuffling off sideways that he should be careful with the flush in the bathroom (right, said Monsieur).

After wandering round the apartment, the layout of which gave him some trouble, Monsieur entered the kitchen, clean and tidy, dressed in a midnight-blue suit and a dark tie. He pulled on the creases of his trousers and sat down. Monsieur Parrain was sitting at the table in his undershirt and observed Monsieur out of the corner of his eye while smoking a cigarette. Monsieur’s fiancée was still asleep according to the latest news. That shouldn’t stop them, her mother and he decided, from starting breakfast without her. Eager to make a good impression, Monsieur did not hesitate despite the state of his wrist, to get up and pour himself more coffee.