Page 12 of My Boss

“The meeting is not necessary,” Jan says with perfect control of his voice. “An inspection from the OCCP is unwarranted. Your accountant should review the turnover for the year preceding the merger once more and correspond with the Authority accordingly. The result did not exceed fifty million euros.”

“Are you sure?” You can hear the surprise in the caller’s voice.

“I am sure.” Jan’s firm reply makes me feel butterflies in my stomach.

“Okay, we’ll check it out right away.”

Jan hangs up.

I look at his reserved expression and feel as damn appreciated as ever. I may have given him irrefutable proof that my mathematical calculation skills are above average, but after all, he didn’t have to blindly believe that I had calculated Spendimex’s turnover correctly. And yet, he believed.

Silence falls in the car. I have no idea what I should say now. I think I’m shocked that Jan canceled the meeting and…

“You are free to go.” The car stops.

I feel clobbered. Wait a minute. Is he firing me? Or was it a question about whether I’m free? I swallow my saliva as my mouth dries up.

“Excuse me?”

“You have finished your work for today.” Jan points with his head to the windshield. I follow his gaze and realize that we are in front of my apartment building.

Wow! How the hell does he know my address?

What do you mean from where, you smartie? From your file. You are, after all, his subordinate, prompts my logic.

Which I am, but that doesn’t explain the fact that Jan has brought me near the house itself; on top of that, he gives me the rest of the day off, when I usually leave work at six in the evening at the earliest.

I glance at him surprised. Did he get a fever or what? I observe his sharp profile: his skin tone is normal, he doesn’t sweat, he doesn’t seem ill. He looks as usual—aloof and perfect. He is typing something on his smartphone—focused, absent-minded.

“Thank you… That’s nice of you,” I say quietly, as my voice gets stuck in my throat.

Jan shifts his gaze to me. Our gazes meet.

“It is as you wished. The bonus will appear in your account tomorrow, I will take care of the matter with the air conditioner and I say I am sorry,” he announces briefly, matter-of-factly, concretely, and puts the phone down on the dashboard.

I say I am sorry?Oh, Mother of God, that’s the weakest apology I’ve ever heard. Nevertheless, I’m about to fall off my seat (even though I’m already sitting down). I freeze although I’m hot as hell. Is this seat heated? Jan apologized to me. In his stiff way, but I still have to pick myself up off the floor. And actually, from the floor mat under my feet, which, by the way, isso pristine that if I dropped my (non-existing) dentures on it, I wouldn’t even have to wash it to put back into my mouth.

But, well, after several months of working with Jan, a squeaky-clean car mat should not surprise me at all. Engler is undeniably a clean guy—always a snow-white shirt, impeccably pressed suit, neat tie, shoes shined, perfectly shaved face, combed hair, evenly trimmed nails. His office has all right angles: the binders on the shelves are lined up and a desk looks like a surgery table—totally spick-and-span. The Sarantis Poland company should put my boss’s picture on the packaging of microfiber cleaning cloths like a Jan Niezbedny. Oh yes, Engler is a pedant in the whole sense of the word, and so painfully economical with words that one wonders if speaking is something bad, superfluous and socially incorrect…

The silence between us becomes more acute with each passing second. It makes me uneasy. But apparently, I’m the only one who has a problem with it because my boss just sits there, looking me in the eye with that cool look of his, still the same reserved and unemotional Jan. I’m searching for some clever words, but my head is as empty as the parking lot of a shopping mall at night. I would gladly take the opportunity to be quizzed again on addition in the range of a trillion. How is it that I easily establish interpersonal relations with almost every person I meet, but I can’t for the hell of it exchange a few sentences with my own boss?

If you can’t, don’t talk, Maria.

“In that case, thank you for the ride. Eight o’clock tomorrow?” I ask, hoping against hope that maybe I have impressed Engler enough today to agree to flexible working hours? That would be just the thing.

“At eight,” he replies in the same breath.

Well. Maybe I worded the question wrong.

“Could we agree on nine? I stay after hours anyway.”

“At eight sharp, Maria.”

Hmmm. Well, yes. But at least I tried.

“That’s a shame. Nine is much better than eight. It’s my favorite number because it always stands up for itself.”

Jan frowns.

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