His Own Man Read Free Page B

hair, without being long, extended beyond his jacket collar, and his shirt was of a relatively striking color. Max sailed past the reception area staff, who regarded him in silence. Ignoring the swans in the pond, he made a right upon reaching the stately row of palm trees on the Itamaraty Palace grounds and headed toward the Personnel Department.
    The head of Personnel, informed of the transfer by a phone call from the minister’s office, was waiting for him. An unhurried older fellow, short and stout, with a thin mustache, he had witnessed similar — and even swifter — maneuvers in his time, but rarely involving someone so young, who hadn’t yet officially joined the ministry. This point, in particular, intrigued him: that the first act of a play could occur before the curtainwent up, in a kind of secret prologue to which the public hadn’t had access.
    Max hesitated in front of the man. Should he settle into one of the two armchairs? His superior, who was seated, had asked for the official transfer papers, which he was rereading now in silence, as though looking for some error or inaccuracy. Like a new recruit, Max waited, standing between two empty seats. He had put his briefcase down but was unsure what to do with his arms; not wanting to cross them, he simply let them hang at his sides. He wanted to smoke but didn’t dare, despite noticing the used ashtray on the desk.
    In less than an hour he would be ensconced at the minister’s office, but right now he found himself paralyzed before this simple public servant. Three whole minutes had already elapsed, an inordinate amount of time for Max on that chilly winter morning. The hand on the wall clock kept marching forward. Max was undergoing the defining moment of his career. Like many a colleague before him, however, he was unaware of the fact. In that modest setting, a far cry from the more sumptuous ones that awaited him, he was relinquishing a substantive job that could have brought him great professional satisfaction in favor of the choreographed roles he’d surely be offered in the minister’s office, where he’d probably do nothing but open doors and receive files destined for more capable hands.
    The head of Personnel, who kept Max waiting, was well aware of this. His experience told him just what kind of path Max would follow from then on, and where it generally ended up.
    “Good luck,” he mumbled as they parted ways. But his farewell went unheard, since Max was already disappearing down the hall, his heels echoing on the marble floor.
    The career Max had just embarked on was extremely competitive, with strict criteria for advancement, contingent on a sequence of promotions. It took thirty years, on average, to move from bottom to top. The faster the ascent, however, thebrighter the panoramic view from above, not to mention the associated perks, among which was the most coveted one of all: the exercise of power. Very few ever made it to the highest offices, let alone gained access to the major posts abroad. Thus the frantic competition. For contacts, invitations, and prestigious positions, as well as for smiles and pats on the back from those in power.
    This was the environment in which Max was to navigate. Difficult under normal circumstances and unpredictable in a context of randomness and ambiguity, as would become clear over the subsequent twenty years. But it was still a few months before this more disturbing scenario began to take hold. For the moment, the military was still champing at the bit in their barracks, while Max did the same in the solitude of his room in Humaitá, the neighborhood where he lived with his mother. It would be two years before he relocated to the more upscale Urca. In the meantime, he earned his place in the minister’s office — but not in the man’s heart.
    The minister hardly knew him, given the complex internal system that, like everything around them, followed protocol. Even when Max first shook the minister’s