| |
John pored over profit and loss statements and balance sheets generated by the accounting nerds in New York City. Anjali had printed them out. He couldn’t stand all that online, shared document baloney.
The numbers were agonizing. He had decided not to declare bankruptcy because of all the ramifications of that move. His father had done it. John would not.
So, to get free of financial obligations, he had to make decisions. Faster. The company was bleeding payroll. If he were honest with himself about the situation, he would lay off everyone but Anjali. He simply had to wield an ax. Sharp. Soon. Today.
He typed what he wanted to say into a document. He revised it. He envisioned his employees’ children, with big sad eyes at an empty dinner table, like a multitude of thin, ragged Oliver Twists. He hoped his employees had been good financial managers and had set something aside. He hoped they’d already started circulating their resumes.
He told the little children, “Sorry,” and called the heads of office in New York, Amsterdam, and Hong Kong. Forcing himself to keep his voice firm, he tore down the temple he had built to money and fired his priests.
Thinking of Dieter in Amsterdam, who had a sick mother to take care of, and Chen in Hong Kong, who had just taken out a huge mortgage, he let the guillotine fall. He told each person to lay off their staff immediately, to send him the office rental and equipment leases, and to submit the bills they were each responsible for. To head off procrastination on their part, he said they’d have a bonus if they finished those tasks by tomorrow noon. They all asked how much. Typical. But of course they asked.
When he hung up, he thought of all the paperwork these men would be sending him and felt like he would suffocate. Then he reassured himself: Anjali would help.
Last, he called Pierre on the trading desk in La Defense on the west edge of Paris.
“You have to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em,” John said after saying hello.
“What’s zat? ‘Old ‘em?”
John thought, of course Pierre didn’t recognize an expression from a country and western song. This was France, stupid.
“Um, I’m retreating from Moscow,” John said. Pierre didn’t laugh. The French didn’t laugh about Napoleon. The two hundredth anniversary of him crowning himself Emperor of the French in Notre Dame was coming up, and there wasn’t a word about it online or anywhere.
John explained his situation in plain language.
“Sir, maybe you ‘ave anuzzer chance to build a business. I ‘ope so. Sink of me.”
“If I can help you find another job,” John offered.
There was silence. John realized with pain that these days, using his name in this industry would probably only hurt Pierre.
“Well, if you need anything,” John said.
“I call. Defeeneetly. Bye-bye.”
John replaced the receiver, aching all over. His name used to open doors; now it closed them. To avoid thinking about that, he stared at a spreadsheet that diagrammed how to save money. He and Anjali would move to the shop space in Le Marais next week. He’d meet potential clients only in the top restaurants. Pay with a credit card. A few Saudi princes and he’d be rolling in dough again. It was getting a first meeting that was difficult. They’d want references. Who didn’t hate him? He couldn’t think of anyone.
He sat back in his huge chair, the leather creaking forlornly.
Just then Carol’s email arrived, requesting a chance to talk about some issues at her job. He emailed her back.
“I can meet you tonight,” he offered. Thinking about someone else’s crisis would be a relief from thinking about his own.
