The Lost Diamond
THE PERFECT MAN

The next day, I dressed in the best clothes I could replace. After all, it was a lunch at The Club, what an honor. Still, I wouldn’t be surprised if the honorable members quickly noticed that I didn’t belong there.

I arrived on time, as one should, unlike the accountant who was already there, having explored every nook and cranny long before breakfast. I felt uncomfortable even before arriving, and the first problem arose at the very door. To enter, you had to use a radio frequency identification card, which I obviously lacked. Below the card reader, there was something resembling an intercom. It wasn’t necessary to use it; the door emitted a chirp, and a metallic voice welcomed me and invited me into The Paris Fencing Club. From the outside, it looked like just another building in the city, with no signs or signals identifying the magnificent club within.

As soon as I entered, the accountant greeted me, rushing from a long corridor as if to avoid making me wait. He was ecstatic, and his body couldn’t contain the joy he felt.

“Hello... hello... please, come in..., come in Mr. Nagha. Mr. van Fjömm is waiting for you,” he said to me, breathless, while using his arm to indicate the direction we should go. “Mr. Brandon, you have no idea how many services this club has!”

The place exuded refined luxury. The decoration was minimal but of excellent taste. The sofas, paintings, tables, and chairs were of the highest quality. Personally, I would have added some windows to allow in natural sunlight. Everything was softly lit with small electric lamps, which gave an air of greater privacy. There were no plants. This was not a place made for me; I’m someone who believes that there is more richness in the absence of necessities than in the abundance of gold coins.

After passing through four solid wooden doors, we arrived at the place where we met our host, who was standing and waiting for us. The man, no more than 30 years old, was a scaled-down replica of the building we were in. He was the building itself, but in human form. He was dressed in the finest clothing one could replace in the best store, but with sobriety, without luxuries or shine. Perfectly styled hair and a suspiciously perfect tan completed his appearance. He looked like he had just been taken out of a box labeled “The Perfect Man.”

“Good morning, my name is Jorik van Fjömm, and it’s a pleasure to welcome you to The Club,” he said, displaying a dozen gestures and manners undoubtedly learned in a body language academy. Despite not suiting my style or taste, I had to admit the guy was handsome and definitely had style. I thanked him for the invitation and, to break the ice, mentioned that I had heard it was difficult to enter this place without being a member, so it was a great privilege for me to be invited by a Class A member like him.

Van Fjömm gave a winning smile and, with great elegance, placed his glass of whisky on a table.

“Please, it’s an honor for me to welcome you. Enjoy everything you can during this visit. But let me clarify something, I’m not a Class A member of The Club. I am the President of the Board of Directors. This building belonged to my great-grandfather, who founded the Fencing Club over one hundred years ago. Today, it’s my responsibility to own the building, and although it’s technically not a lie, I also own The Club. However, I don’t dare say it aloud out of respect for our members; they feel that all of this belongs to them in some way. Would you like to tour the facilities with me? Not every day does the President of the Board of Directors act as a guide,” he said, displaying his exaggeratedly white teeth in a smile and seeking a complicit look from the accountant.

“No, thank you very much,” I replied, trying not to seem rude. I noticed he was quite surprised; perhaps I was one of the few people who would reject such a privilege. However, he quickly composed himself.

“Of course, in that case, I hope you’ll accept my invitation to dinner,” he said.

“Yes, certainly,” I affirmed. The accountant sighed in relief. If I had also declined that invitation, he would have missed the most important part of his visit. The club had a small restaurant that offered nearly every dish a millionaire could order. As we walked to the restaurant, our host insisted on showing us some of the most important decorations and activities that took place there.

Meanwhile, believing that this was the haunted house I had been called for, I was trying to sense any negative energy. Spiritually speaking, the atmosphere felt heavy, as if all the energies of different generations of members had become trapped within these walls. Perhaps the dim lighting or the excessive scent of accumulated greed over the years created a heavy sensation for me, as if I were swimming in a river of honey.

The restaurant was exclusively for members. Inside there was a section reserved for an even smaller group – the ten members of the Board of Directors, an elite within the elite of members. That’s where we went to eat. I felt as uncomfortable as if I had arrived wearing my pajamas. The exaggerated luxury that filled the place was the opposite extreme of my frugality. I imagined that for them, seeing someone eating a slice of pizza with their hands would be equivalent to going back to the prehistoric human era and eating raw bison.

When we ordered our food, the accountant asked for lamb ribs with an herb crust and wine, van Fjömm ordered roasted cod fillet and French champagne, and I ordered a Chantenay carrot salad with ginger and sesame, along with mineral water to drink.

Van Fjömm told me that a tradition at the club was not to discuss business until we had finished eating, as negotiations flowed better on a full stomach. Although he quickly clarified that if I needed to leave for other responsibilities, we could start discussing the matter shortly. I had no problem staying; my life was very loosely connected to the world of timekeeping, so I chose to continue enjoying that “incredible privilege” of feeling like a millionaire for a few hours.

When van Fjömm mentioned not talking about business, he was probably referring only to the topic for which he had summoned me, as he didn’t stop talking about his own business. He owned an aerospace parts manufacturing company. He told us that they were currently negotiating to build a new factory in Indonesia, and the estimated future profits were a fabulous amount of money, a bunch of numbers that exited my ears as soon as they entered. I looked at him and occasionally nodded without saying a word. The accountant continued to praise and congratulate him, all the while raving about the quality of the lamb ribs he was eating. At least he was playing the role of an audience while enjoying the moment.

For dessert, they ordered chocolate fondant with salted caramel, and I had green tea.

By that point, I knew almost everything about our host’s life. The young man was a millionaire, an entrepreneur, single but engaged for about a year. He had been living with his girlfriend for three or four months. His favorite sport was fencing, in which he had won several trophies and medals since he was twelve. His mother had died when he was 11 years old, and his father had started a new life in French Polynesia a few years ago, leaving all the business to him and moving in with a woman from that country who was 40 years younger.