The Angel and the Knight

Opposite him stood a large, contemporary desk made of dark wood, as deep as black water, set before a grey veined marble fireplace. Above it, an unadorned mirror reflected the light streaming in from the side window and cast it back into the room with almost clinical discretion. On the immaculate desk lay a few perfectly aligned files, a slim laptop, open with its screen still lit, a black notebook left half-open on the same page since that morning, and a pen resting parallel to its edge, as if even chance had been given its instructions. No picture frames. No photographs. Nothing to disturb the professional crispness of the whole scene. Nothing to suggest any other loyalty. Nothing to remind one that a man might live here in any way other than by what he achieved.

To the right, the seating area for clients comprised a low sofa, two contemporary armchairs and a smoked-glass table. On top, a round, varnished wooden tray from Vietnam held a carafe of water and four heavy-bottomed glasses. Further along, a bean-to-cup coffee machine gave off a full-bodied aroma that mingled with that of polished wood. A low shelf held a few limited-edition hardback books, an abstract black metal sculpture on a brass plinth, a block of frosted glass, and a cylindrical vase made of matt white porcelain. Nothing was ostentatious. Nor was anything shabby. Everywhere one sensed good taste, wealth, discernment, and the habit of choosing the very best without needing to comment on it.

Louis knew this room by heart. He had wanted it this way. He worked well there. He felt strong there. For the past few months, however, something had changed. The office remained impeccable, but its perfection no longer brought him peace. It closed in on him. On certain evenings, he would find himself perceiving it not as a sign of his standing, but as a sign of a creeping malaise that had become too restrictive for what he did not yet dare to name. Not a rebellion. Not a clear desire. Just a sense of unease. A feeling of inhabiting a success rather than a life.

At four o’clock, he’d opened a new file with the intention of at least skimming through the first few documents before the weekend. A dense, technical file, riddled with vague clauses, missing documents and deliberately obscure wording. Exactly the sort of material at which he excelled. He’d read quickly, made few notes, raised an eyebrow, then started again from the beginning. Outside, the day had slowly drawn to a close. The grey had deepened. Then, almost without warning, the room had grown darker. A faint click had been heard: the home automation system had switched on the wall lights and the floor lamp near the sofa.

This shift in light had a disproportionate effect on him. He did not move straight away. His eyes remained fixed on the page, but his attention had just slipped a notch. It was still the same desk, the same file, the same Friday. Yet something was shifting. The day was drawing to a close. So was the work. And in this infinitesimal shift in what was visible, a murkier weariness welled up within him. Not the outright exhaustion of a man who’s had enough. Something more insidious, almost more humiliating: the feeling of still possessing all his faculties, whilst, when it came to using them, no longer finding the same inner quality as before. He could still get things done. He was doing them. But more and more often without fully engaging with them.