The fact is that we spend most of the time at our cubicle desks, talking on the phone. Privacy is only for the bosses, sitting in their glass aquariums, with curtains that can be occasionally closed. When they draw them, they still know what’s going on outside, but we can no longer see their fish mouths moving.
Being a journalist in Geneva, with its 195,000 inhabitants, is the most boring job in the world. I glance through today’s issue even though I already know what it contains—endless reports on foreign dignitary meetings at the United Nations, the usual complaints about the end to banking secrecy, and a few more things that have made it to the front page: “Morbidly Obese Man Banned from Plane,” “Wolf Decimates Sheep on Outskirts of City,” “Pre-Columbian Fossils Found in Saint-Georges,” and, finally, in banner headlines, “Newly Restored Genève Returns to the Lake Looking More Beautiful Than Ever.”
My boss summons me to his office and asks if I managed to get an exclusive out of my lunch with that politician. Needless to say, someone saw us together.
No, I didn’t. Nothing that isn’t in his official biography. The lunch was intended to get me closer to a source. (The more sources a journalist has, the more respected he or she is.)
My boss says that another reliable source has told him that, even though Jacob K?nig is married, he’s having an affair with the wife of another politician. I feel a pang in that dark corner of my soul where depression keeps knocking but I refuse to answer.
My boss asks if I can get closer. They’re not particularly interested in his sex life, but his source suggests that K?nig might be being blackmailed. A foreign metallurgical company wants to airbrush out certain tax problems in its own country, but has no way of getting in touch with the minister of finance. They need a little help.
My boss explains that Jacob K?nig isn’t our target; what we want is to denounce the people who are trying to corrupt our political system.
“And that shouldn’t be difficult. We just have to say we’re on his side.”
Switzerland is one of the few countries in the world where a man’s word is still his bond. In most other places you need lawyers, witnesses, signed documents, and the threat of legal process if the secret were leaked.
“We just need confirmation and photos.”
So I’ll need to get closer to him.
“That shouldn’t be difficult, either. Our sources tell us that you’ve already arranged another meeting. It’s in his diary.”
And this is the land of banking secrecy! Everyone knows everything.
“Use the usual tactics.”
The “usual tactics” consist of four points: One, ask about something that the interviewee would like to discuss in public. Two, let him talk for as long as possible to make him think that the newspaper is going to give him lots of space. Three, at the end of the interview, when he’s convinced he has us nicely under control, ask the one question that really interests us. That way, he’ll feel that if he doesn’t answer it, we won’t give him the space he’s hoping for and he will have wasted his time. And four, if he responds evasively, reformulate the question and ask it again. He’ll say it’s of no interest, but you must get some answer, at least one statement. In ninety-nine percent of the cases, the interviewee falls into the trap.
That’s all you need. You can throw the rest of the interview away and use that one statement in an article that isn’t about the interviewee, but instead about an important subject featuring journalistic research, official facts, unofficial facts, anonymous sources, et cetera.
“If he proves reluctant, tell him we’re on his side. You know how journalism works. And it will be to your advantage, too …”
Yes, I know how it works. The career of a journalist is as short as an athlete’s. We achieve power and glory early, then step aside for the next generation. Very few continue and progress. Most see their standard of living drop and become critics of the press, writing blogs, giving talks, and spending more time than necessary trying to impress their friends. There is no intermediate stage.
I’m still in the category of “promising professional.” If I can get those statements, it’s likely that next year I won’t have to hear someone say “We’ve got to cut costs” and “With your talent and your name, you won’t have any trouble finding another job.”
And if I’m promoted? I’ll be able to decide what goes on the front page: Should it be the problem of the sheep-eating wolf, the exodus of foreign bankers to Dubai and Singapore, or the ridiculous lack of properties for rent? What a thrilling way to spend the next five years …
I go back to my desk, make a few unimportant phone calls, and read everything of interest on various websites. My colleagues are doing the same thing, desperate to find some bit of news that will stop our plummeting sales figures. Someone says that wild boar have been found on the railway line linking Geneva and Zurich. Can I get an article out of that?
Of course. Just as I can out of the phone call I receive from an eighty-year-old woman protesting about the law banning smoking in bars. She says that in summer it’s no problem, but in winter we’ll have more people dying of pneumonia than of lung cancer because smokers will all be obliged to smoke outside.
What am I doing working at this newspaper?
I know: we love our work and we want to save the world.
SITTING in the lotus position, with incense burning and elevator music playing, I begin my “meditation.” People have been advising me to try it for ages. That was when they thought I was just “stressed.” (I was stressed, but at least that was better than feeling completely indifferent about life.)
“Thoughts will come into your mind. Don’t worry. Accept those thoughts, don’t try to get rid of them.”
Perfect, that’s what I’m doing. I drive away toxic emotions like pride, disillusion, jealousy, ingratitude, futility. I fill that space with humility, gratitude, understanding, consciousness, and grace.
I think I’ve been eating too much sugar, which is bad for your health and for the spiritual body.
I leave aside darkness and despair and invoke the forces of good and of light.
I remember every detail of my lunch with Jacob.
I chant a mantra along with the other pupils.
I wonder if my boss is right. Is Jacob being unfaithful to his wife? Is he being blackmailed?
The teacher asks us to imagine ourselves surrounded by an armor made of light.
“We should live each and every day with the certainty that this armor will protect us from danger, and then we will no longer be bound to the duality of existence. We have to find a middle path, where there is neither joy nor suffering, only profound peace.”
I’m beginning to understand why I keep skipping my yoga classes. Duality of existence? A middle path? That sounds as unnatural as keeping my cholesterol level at seventy like my doctor is always telling me I should.
The image of the armor lasts only a few seconds before it’s shattered into a thousand pieces and replaced by the absolute certainty that Jacob likes any pretty woman who comes anywhere near him. So why am I bothering with him at all?
The exercises continue. We change posture, and the teacher insists, as she does during every class, that we should try, at least for a few seconds, to “empty our minds.”
Emptiness is precisely the thing I fear most and the thing that troubles me most. If she knew what she was asking … But then who am I to judge a technique that has lasted for centuries?
What am I doing here?
I know: “De-stressing.”
I WAKE up again in the middle of the night. I go to the children’s bedrooms to see if everything is all right—it’s a bit obsessive, but surely something all parents do now and then.
I go back to bed and lie staring up at the ceiling.