Читать книгу The President's Hat - Antoine Laurain - Страница 13

‘I don’t share your point of view at all, Monsieur Maltard,’ said Daniel, shaking his head. He touched the hat that he’d placed in front of him on the big conference-room table.

Jean Maltard and the ten other members of the finance department summoned to the eleven o’clock meeting stared at him dumbfounded. Daniel allowed a few moments of silence to pass, a sphinx-like smile playing on his lips, then heard himself refute, point for point, the arguments put forward by the new departmental director.

With unprecedented confidence, he watched himself negotiate the complex layers of diplomacy with the ease of a dolphin leaping through the waves. When he had finished stating his case, a great silence fell upon the room. Bernard Falgou stared at him open-mouthed. Michèle Carnavan ventured a small cough, then, despairing of her spineless male colleagues, spoke out.

‘I think Daniel has summarised our concerns perfectly.’

‘Brilliantly,’ added Bernard Falgou quickly, as if prodded by a tiny electric shock.

Maltard gazed impassively at Daniel. ‘Nice work, Monsieur Mercier,’ he announced icily.

Jean-Bernard Desmoine, head of Finance, had travelled up specially to attend the meeting, called to put the finishing touches to SOGETEC’s new objectives for the Paris-Nord section. He kept his eyes fixed on Daniel as he made his case, scribbling a few brief notes when he explained with perfect clarity, and the figures to back him up, that they couldn’t sensibly split the department into three divisions, but two at the very most.

‘Thank you for coming, everyone,’ said Jean-Bernard Desmoine. ‘I’ll let you get back to your desks. I’d like a word, Monsieur Maltard.’

Maltard agreed with a meek, insincere smile, then glared at Daniel. Only Bernard Falgou caught the look of cold hatred directed at his subordinate by the new departmental director. As soon as they had left the conference room, Falgou took Daniel by the arm.

‘You slaughtered him, you slaughtered Maltard!’ he said.

‘Not really,’ protested Daniel, blinking.

‘But you did!’ insisted Françoise. ‘He’s out on his ear, no doubt about it. That’s what Desmoine’s telling him right now. You demolished every one of his arguments.’

They gathered round him, excited to discover in their colleague a man of quiet strength, capable of defending their interests better than the most radical union representative, the best, most articulate lawyer. They praised his calm demeanour, his air of assurance, the extraordinary way he had of saying the unpalatable with the utmost tact.

‘True class,’ said Michèle Carnavan.

*

Back in his office, Daniel settled into his swivel chair, stroked his hat, which he had placed on the desk in front of him, and savoured the quiet of the room. He closed his eyes. He had got through the meeting without being assailed by one of the waves of anxiety that had plagued him since early childhood. On the contrary, he had experienced a sense of serene calm. Just a few days ago, the very idea of a confrontation with Jean Maltard would have raised his blood pressure and brought on an attack of heartburn with the last bite of lunch. Tense as a bowstring, he would have played back their exchange over and over again in his mind, castigating himself all afternoon for some clumsy phrase, some word or point that had, unquestionably, caused him to hand the argument to Maltard. Daniel would have emerged ashen and drained at the end of the day.

Not so now. He felt fine, as one might at the seaside, walking in the sand, late on a summer’s afternoon. This new state of affairs came as no great surprise. It was as if the real Daniel Mercier had finally stepped out into the light of day. The earlier model was just some unfinished prototype, a work in progress. He raised the Venetian blind on his office window, letting the winter sunshine stream in, and immersed himself in his SOGETEC files once more.

It was well past seven o’clock when Jean Maltard pushed open his deputy’s glass door, without knocking.

‘Staying the night?’ he asked drily. ‘There’s no overtime for deputy departmental managers …’

Daniel looked at him, unruffled. ‘I’m just finishing the SOFREM file, then I’m going home.’

‘Finish it tomorrow,’ Maltard cut him off. ‘Close of play. Department’s all cleared off home. You do the same.’

Without a word, Daniel put the top back on his Parker pen, engraved with his initials, a present from Véronique on their fifth wedding anniversary. He got to his feet, switched off his computer and his Minitel terminal, and put on his felt Homburg. Wearing a hat gives you a feeling of authority over someone who isn’t, he thought to himself.

Sure enough, Jean Maltard suddenly looked a great deal smaller. He seemed to be shrinking before Daniel’s very eyes. A bug shrinking down into the pile of the carpet, buzzing furiously. Daniel had only to tread it underfoot …

‘You’re not going to get away with this!’ said Maltard suddenly. ‘You’re waiting for a call from Desmoine, aren’t you?’ he added, with a venomous smile.

‘He’s already called actually.’

That was a shock to Maltard, who stared at Daniel dumbfounded. ‘He’s already called you?’ He pronounced each word slowly and carefully.

‘Yes,’ replied Daniel evenly, putting on his coat.

‘What did he want?’ demanded Maltard.

‘Breakfast. On Friday.’

‘Breakfast with you,’ said Maltard under his breath, as if muttering a spell that must not be spoken aloud for fear of the consequences.

‘Yes, that’s what he said.’ Daniel bent down to slip a folder into his briefcase. There was a long silence, then he shut the clasps, the metallic snap signalling that it was time to leave.

The two men rode down in the lift without speaking, and parted in front of the entrance without shaking hands. Maltard watched as Daniel walked away, then went into the nearest café and ordered a double rum. The departing figure of his deputy in his coat and black hat haunted him for a good part of the night.