List of the times I’ve moved:
From Viale Bruno Buozzi to Via Giotto (Rome)
From Via Giotto to Via di Monserrato (Rome)
From Via di Monserrato (Rome) to Piazza G. Miani (Milan)
From Piazza G. Miani to Via R. Bonghi (Milan)
From Via R. Bonghi to Via A. Catalani (Milan)
From Via A. Catalani to Piazza G. Amendola (Milan)
From Piazza G. Amendola to Via Buonarroti (Milan)
From Via Buonarroti to Via Durini (Milan)
—What are you writing?
Enoch is one of those people who should never go jogging. It should be compulsory for him to wear a jacket and tie, no matter how sloppily he always seems to wear them; in his soaking-wet sweatshirt he’s almost monstrous, so exhausted, blue in the face, huffing and puffing, his glasses fogged up.
—Are you off today?
—I took one of my vacation days.
—Good idea. But you’re going to kill yourself doing this.
He snorts.
—Forty minutes in the hot sun without stopping.
—Exactly. Sit down.
Enoch sits down. He gasps for air. He takes off his glasses, and in the time it takes him to fog them up again he turns into that other guy—the cross-eyed, evil one; then he puts them on again and becomes himself again, but his glasses start fogging up immediately.
—This weather sure is unbelievable,—he says.—What do you think it’s about?
—You mean in the sense of greenhouse gases and stuff like that?
—Yes. Or divine punishment.
—Well, as punishments go, I’d have to say it’s my favorite.
—Wait. Maybe it’s just the beginning. Maybe we’re going to be roasted on a slow flame.
He takes his glasses off again, wipes them, puts them back on.
—God is very patient,—he adds.
Right, and while we’re on the subject: who knows what ended up happening with that swearword and whether he ever got over it—from all appearances he didn’t, seeing as he’s talking about divine punishment.
—I came to tell you three things,—he says, suddenly changing tone.—First thing, Piquet is badmouthing you.
—Piquet?
—Let me rephrase it: he’s been talking about you all the time, for weeks now, every chance he gets, even at meetings, even when you’re unrelated to the business at hand, he talks about you, you, you. It’s as if he were obsessed with you, and he’s ending up contaminating the others, like Tardioli and Basler: seriously, you’re far and away the thing they talk about most in there, that’s how much Piquet talks about you…Except a few days ago he started badmouthing you, too.
—Really? What is he saying?
I asked because I figured I was supposed to, but it’s amazing how little it matters to me. I didn’t realize.
—He says you’re sneaky. Or rather, what is it he says you are? A smartass, that’s it: he says that you’re a big smartass. He says that with this business of you being in front of the school, you’re going to get the better of everyone, each and every one of us. He says it’s all a plot.
—You’re kidding. And what is it I hope to achieve?
—To get Jean-Claude’s job, he says. It’s sheer paranoia, I know, and I wouldn’t have even brought it up if it weren’t for the fact that he’s always coming here to see you and you might just happen to confide in him, I don’t know, tell him something he could use against you. And then I feel a little responsible for this, you know, because he started to obsess over a plot when I told him Thierry came here the same day I was here. I didn’t think it was a big secret, and I didn’t think I was causing any harm: I was just talking about you because, as I was saying, you’re the only thing people talk about at the office, and Piquet was wondering how Thierry would take it when he found out you were hanging out in front of the school, so I told him Thierry already knew about it because I had seen him coming to you, with my own eyes. But like that, I swear, I told him like it was the most normal thing in the world, precisely because I thought it was the most normal thing in the world. You’re friends. Well, from then on Piquet started saying that you’re a smartass, that you’re angling for Jean-Claude’s job, that you play like you’re a zombie but instead deep down you’re working on Thierry to become president. This is why I told you: to warn you not to trust him, that’s all.
Enoch’s eyes look dead tired, and not just because of the jogging. He keeps floundering about at a lower level of the video game, where players are beset by distorted, false, and incomplete reports, but now he’s also giving me the impression that he realizes it, finally, and he’s sick of it. The first thing he had to tell me, including the pinch of guilt he wanted to unburden himself of, doesn’t interest either of us in the end. The reason why I won’t offer him any comments, to explain, for example, that Piquet doesn’t always come here, that he came only once, or to remind him that he had already manifested this hostility when he was jealous of my being appointed director and spread the rumor I was about to be fired—the bit about my being a dead man walking dates back to then—and more than anything else I won’t start telling him that deep down, guided by his flaming paranoia, Piquet didn’t stray too far from the truth—seeing as Jean-Claude’s desk was actually offered to me. These are all things that don’t matter to me, here and now, much less to Enoch.
—Well, thanks,—I limit myself to saying.
—I thought you should be aware of all this. That way you’ll know how to act.
—Of course. I’ll be careful.
I suddenly lower my eyes to check my watch—three twenty-five—and Enoch notices. You should never look at your watch when you’re talking with someone.
—Do you have to go somewhere?—he asks.
—No, no. Claudia’s coming out in an hour. Please, continue.
Enoch lifts his head and looks upward, toward the foliage of these trees that still look alive and well, although the ground below is covered with a thick carpet of dead leaves, because it’s fall, fall. It’s been like this for a while, as if up there they couldn’t find an appointment or even an inspiration for us.
—The second thing I wanted to tell you is that this merger is really suicidal. A huge mistake. Not only for the reasons I tried to explain in that, er, document I showed you the other time. Apart from the reasons, which hold true for all mergers, I’m talking about this particular merger, which, because of the way it’s conceived, is a huge blunder. Want to know why?
—Yes.
—So listen to my reasoning. We have two large industrial groups, right? One European and one American, which have decided to merge. The European one is owned by a certain number of banks, companies, and single investors, and it’s controlled by Boesson; the American one is controlled and owned by a single family, at the top of which sits Isaac Steiner. Obviously this intention to merge presupposes the existence of a mutual benefit, which allows me to hypothesize that both groups, Boesson’s, which henceforth I shall call Us, and Steiner’s, which I shall call Them, stand to earn at the end of the process. The things I wrote a few days ago, and which you read, confute this same assumption, that is to say, they claim that the wealth generated by the merger, all things considered, will be inferior to that which was generated by the original groups; but at this point the merger is a done deal, so that’s not my point. My point is that when two colossi like Us and Them face off, even just to merge in the mirage of a mutual benefit, one of the two ends up prevailing over the other. Despite the fact that they come to a laborious agreement to prevent it, the Us and Them idea persists and will never be completely eliminated. It might disappear at our level, but it will definitely not disappear at the level of Steiner and Boesson: the two of them will never merge, they will always be Me and Him. Do you follow?
—Yes.
—Actually, this is how the meaningless expression, technically speaking, to win a merger originates: no matter how meaningless it is from a technical point of view, in fact, it’s justified, given that we are dealing with two human beings driven by boundless ambition, and at the end of the day, one of the two will control the other. No matter how little, even at sidereal heights, one will be on the bottom and one will be on top. Good. Now, everyone knows that in our case, to use the technically meaningless expression, We are the ones that will win the merger. True or false? Have you arrived at the same conclusion?
—Yes.
—Good. This means that, independently of what happens to the other 200,000 or so employees of the resulting group, in the end Boesson will be above Steiner. Effectively above, I mean. Well, we’re going to have to forget about that. I’ve had the chance to study the details of the merger, the documents that for months have been negotiated, discussed, fine-tuned, approved, rediscussed, renegotiated, reapproved, etc., to make way for what will be the final structure, and I can tell you that that’s not how it’s going to go down. The merger won’t be won by Us, it’ll be won by Them. Even if in the end the most important posts will go to Boesson, the winner will be Steiner, and do you know why? Because of the standard that was chosen, Pietro: the structural model.
Enoch must realize that his argument is getting complicated here, because he pauses. Then, noticing I’m not asking him any questions, he continues.
—Take the fact that both Boesson and Steiner are known to be religious. Boesson is a Catholic, Steiner is a Jew; Boesson, because of his extremely sober life, his strict everyday observance, mass every morning, fasts on Friday, etc.—the things that everyone knows, in other words; and Steiner, although he’s dissolute, because of the well-known, historical commitment he made to attain the restitution of assets taken from the Jews during the Nazi period. Each in his own way, therefore, the two big leaders are champions of their respective religions. Two different religions, am I making myself clear? Each with his own standard: the hierarchical and immutable Jewish model and the elastic and complex Catholic one. Well, which of the two do you think inspires the merger?
He stops, looks at me, but it’s clear that he doesn’t want my reply. He’s only teasing a little before moving in for the kill.
—The Jewish model, Pietro, not the Catholic one. When Boesson will be God on Earth, president and general director of the biggest telecommunications group in the world, he will be the god of his enemy. And then he will have lost. To seriously win this merger he should have structured it differently, he should have followed the Catholic standard.
—And what would that be?
Enoch lights up, visibly satisfied by the answer he is about to give me. Then he puts his index fingers together and moves them slowly in the air, drawing a triangle.
—The Trinity, Pietro: Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
With the tip of his right index finger he touches the three vertices of the triangle, and now it’s as if the triangle really were before us, hanging in midair from his touches.
—For himself he shouldn’t have planned the highest seat of all, that of the ancient solitary god of the Jews. He should have planned three seats at the same level: one for the Holy Ghost, the neutral and powerless divinity, who doesn’t count; then one for the Father and one for the Son. And since we all know what happens to the Son,—at this point, Enoch slowly opens his arms and leans his head to one side, mimicking a languid crucifix,—rather than his own omnipotence Boesson should have anticipated the rivalry with Steiner for the role of the Father. A rivalry to be consumed slowly, every day, with patience, humility, discipline, leaving Steiner the conviction that he could prevail, without, however, giving him time to do so: because Steiner is seventy years old, has had three bypass surgeries, and is a drinker, womanizer, and cigar smoker, while Boesson is forty-five, a teetotaler, and in excellent health. It would have been enough to sit next to him, Pietro. Not above him: next to him. Wait for a while, and one fine day Steiner’s seat would be occupied by his son. The Son, as I was saying…
Again he opens his arms and mimics a crucifixion, but much more quickly than before. Then he drops his arms and smiles.
—Then he would have won.
Enoch is satisfied: satisfied and dazed, as if following this line of reasoning to the end had been a huge exertion. I remain sincerely struck by his words, and I feel on my face a dazed expression similar to his, mostly a kind of plastic amazement: I thought that the merger didn’t matter to me at all, and instead, putting it like this, I discover that in the end it does matter to me.
—That’s very interesting, Paolo,—I say,—it’s far and away the most sensible reasoning I’ve heard about this affair. Why don’t you try it out on one of the big bosses?
—I tried it out on you so that you could try it out on one of the big bosses. Like Thierry, for example, seeing as you’re friends.
—Come on, who am I? I could never have thought up something of the kind. No, you have to tell it to Thierry. Here it’s not about being friends or not. I don’t think Boesson has ever thought of framing the issue in those terms, and if someone were to make him notice what you have just—
—And then there’s a third thing,—he interrupts me, pulling out of the back pocket of his sweatpants a piece of paper folded in four, crumpled and soaked in sweat. He holds it out to me and I am forced to take it, even if I’d gladly forgo it: it’s sacrolumbar sweat, the most disgusting kind. I am forced to take it, unfold it, and read it because obviously the third thing Enoch has come to tell me is written there. And while I’m unfolding it I have to choke back laughter at the thought of finding myself before another huge swearword in Arial typeface.
I hereby present my resignation from my present position as Chief of Human Resources for this company. My resignation is irrevocable and will take effect immediately.
Sincerely,
Paolo Enoch
I lift my eyes from the sheet and look at him. He always manages to surprise me, Enoch does, with the things that he writes.
—Did you already send it?
—No, I’m going to tonight.
—If I tried to dissuade you I would be wasting my time, right?
—Yes. I’ve made up my mind.
—Okay. But then don’t do it like this.
—How do you mean?
—Not like this, not with this letter. Speak with them first.
—Okay, but with whom? I’m the person people speak with when they want to hand in their resignations. I see three or four people a day. Jean-Claude is gone, and the new president still hasn’t been appointed.
—Speak with Thierry. Go to Paris and speak with him. Explain your reasons, at least, and tell him that stuff about the merger. This is a critical moment, and if you leave like this, out of the blue, you risk creating a…
What am I saying? What am I trying to defend? Thierry is a traitor, the moment is exactly the way he and Boesson wanted it, and Enoch can’t hurt anyone. He doesn’t count. Like me, like everyone. We are all just monthly bank transfers issued automatically. As far as they’re concerned, the more people who quit the better.
Enoch smiles, enjoying the silence on which I’ve beached. Then he goes back to looking upward, the treetops, the sky, nodding imperceptibly.
—Friday morning at dawn I’m leaving for Zimbabwe,—he says.—If all goes well, on Monday evening I should be at my brother’s mission on the Zambezi River, on the border with Zambia. Imagine, it’s flooded six months out of twelve but they don’t have drinking water because the water they have is rotten with malaria. They have to bring it by truck from Victoria Falls, which are more than 125 miles away. Except the truck they had in the village has died on them and is beyond repair. So I sold some stocks I had and bought a new tanker truck for the Firefighters of Como, where I did my military service as a boy. In exchange they gave me their old tanker, and I shipped it to Harare, which is the capital of Zimbabwe. It should arrive today or tomorrow. Friday night I’ll be arriving in Harare, too, and Saturday morning I’m going to climb into the tanker and drive, accompanied by a young Portuguese priest named José, a friend of my brother. There’s almost 620 miles of roads to the village, dirt roads for the most part, but if we don’t run into any landslides or detours we should make it in three days and two nights.
All of a sudden, the image of Enoch in a khaki shirt, sandals, and Bermuda shorts, at the steering wheel of a tanker truck in the dusty heart of Africa, blows everything else away. Yes, I think, in those clothes he would shine—in those clothes he will shine. Much better than in a jacket and tie.
—I don’t know what to say, Paolo,—I mutter.—I imagine you’ve thought about this carefully.
—Yes, Pietro. I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. I’m not cut out for this life: I had to lie every day, I only did things I didn’t believe in, I made too much money. That swearword opened my eyes. For me it’ll be like being reborn.
—And your wife?
—She feels the same way I do. She’ll join me in a couple of weeks, after she’s taken care of things for the sale of the house, which is in her name. We won’t come back. Do you, by any chance, need a cell phone, or rather, a videophone?
He pulls a silver cell phone from his pocket, giggling, and shows it to me.
—You don’t, eh. So take a look at what I’m going to do. I could smash it, believe me, there’s nothing I’d like to do more, throw it on the ground and watch it fly into a thousand pieces, but I’ve got a better idea.
He stands up, crosses the park, and goes as far as the trash receptacle on the other side of the street. But rather than throw it inside, he rests it delicately on the lid and leaves it there glittering in the sun. Then he comes back and sits next to me.
—We’ll leave it there. I bet before your daughter gets out of school someone will see it, stop, take a look around pretending nothing’s up, and slip it in their pocket, convinced they’ve had a stroke of good luck. I would love to stay and enjoy the show with you, but unfortunately I’ve got an appointment in twenty minutes and have to run. I gave my car to the doorman of my building, and I have to go fill out the papers for handing over ownership.
He says this last sentence with a perky enthusiasm, the same that many men of his age use to confide in you that they’ve rented a studio apartment for their mistress. Home, stocks, car, cell phone: stripping Western man of his possessions. That’s what it was: Enoch had looked tired, exhausted, even at the end of his rope, and now he was simply free. I go back to reading the sheet of paper, those four throwaway lines written, it sounds, as if he were already in Zimbabwe, drawing on a collection of badly spoken primitive languages.
—Not that it matters,—I say,—but there’s a repetition: did you see it?
Enoch stretches his neck like a camel to look at the sheet.
—“Present my resignation from my present position”…
—You’re right. Do you have a pen?
I give him my pen and he crosses out the second present. Then he writes current above it, gives me back my pen, and folds the sheet in four.
—Thanks,—he says, and sticks the sheet in his pocket. Then he stands up, forcing me to do the same thing.
—Well, I’d better be off. Otherwise I’ll be late.
I look at him: it’s probably the last time I’ll see him, so I should give him a hug, but all that sweat and baggy flesh really turn me off, and I limit myself to holding out my hand. He barely shakes it.
—You’ve been a loyal colleague, Pietro.
—You, too,—I say.—Keep in touch.
—By letter. It’s the only way to communicate. What’s your address?
—Via Durini 3. Want me to write it down?
—No, I’ll remember.—He touches one of his temples.—I’ve freed up a lot of space on my hard drive.
A woman passes close to the cell phone resting on the trash bin. She sees it, hesitates, but then walks straight past, and we’ll never know how badly she wanted to take it.
—Safe,—I say.
But Enoch doesn’t seem to be so confident, and he follows her with his eyes until she disappears down the side road. Then he looks at me and smiles.
—Listen,—he says,—the decision I’ve made makes me suddenly feel wise, so let me give you a piece of advice, if you don’t mind.
I don’t know how it happened, but suddenly we’re too close—I smell his body, his breath, this isn’t good—and I have to take a step backward.
—Not at all.
—Just for the sake of it, even if you probably don’t need it.
—Good advice always comes in handy.
—Well, then, my advice is this,—he takes another step forward, and there we are again, too close—as soon as you feel like you can’t take it anymore, get out. No matter where, no matter when, just get out. Don’t fight it, ever.
Enoch, the man who was cast down to Africa by a curse. He stands there for a few moments staring at me, still too close, reeking, let me just come right out and say it, as if to sculpt his words through this proxemic assault—and perhaps to enjoy my embarrassment; then he withdraws, shrugs his shoulders, and leaves. He’s walking quickly, yes, but he gives no sign of breaking into a run. He passes by the cell phone without looking at it, crosses the street, becomes a gray hoodie gliding past the wall of parked cars, and in the end disappears down the side road, he, too, like the woman who a few minutes ago didn’t take his cell phone.
Forever, I would say.