As he began to talk about what sounded in retrospect like a golden age, some colour returned to his face. At the start of his career, everything had seemed possible. As a salesman, he would travel almost every day to visit his clients. His life felt intense, frenetic, even if he was just going to talk to a dentist in some godforsaken suburb. He loved his job and he felt useful: selling insurance was not an attempt at extortion but a genuine effort to protect people from potential risk. With only the slightest hint of exaggeration, he saw himself as a sort of saviour in waiting. Whenever he signed a contract, he felt a shiver run down his spine. He was so successful that he ended up becoming a manager: a promotion he couldn’t refuse, but that left a bitter aftertaste. Was it possible for professional progress to be experienced as a personal setback? He missed his travelling days. When he used to be greeted with: ‘Ah, Monsieur Martin, would you like some coffee?’ Or, if it was the last meeting of the day: ‘I’m not going to let you leave without having a drink. I’ve got a very nice Juliénas, and you can tell me all your news …’ He yearned for those small moments of pleasure with clients. There was nothing exciting about the hours he spent analysing statistics. He had sometimes considered a change of direction, but where would he go? It was this that scared him most, the idea that there was no alternative. Of course, his work life was not completely devoid of pleasure. It was wonderful to have played a part in his company’s rise. And he felt satisfaction at doing his job well. To him, that was very important. Back in his school days, Patrick had always been a good student.¹¹

Since the 2008 financial crisis, a number of things had changed. The company had lost money, which had led to redundancies, and that in turn had led to increasingly onerous demands on the remaining employees. Patrick’s career had been upended by a succession of restructuring plans, in which less and less attention was paid to the needs of the people who worked for the company. And then a new managing director had arrived: Jean-Paul Desjoyaux. A tall, thin man who might have been sculpted by Giacometti, although he was obviously less pleasing to the eye than a work by the Swiss sculptor. As soon as he arrived, he gave his employees a strange order: they must never speak to him unless he spoke to them first. Some had thought this was just a rumour, but it turned out to be true. In any case, nobody dared to contradict this new diktat. So when you passed him in a corridor, you were forbidden to say hello unless he said hello to you. On days when he didn’t wish to be encumbered with polite conversation, he was able to walk through the entire office in complete silence. On the other hand, as soon as he did address someone, that person was expected to respond immediately. It was very much a one-way relationship. This situation quietly left the employees in a state of permanent anxiety; when they passed Desjoyaux, they never knew – until the last moment – if they would have to speak or remain silent. Some forms of torture can appear perfectly harmless.