If Diaz strikes a Dominican uppercut in the name of the under dog, it naturally takes a Frenchman to provide a counter-blow for la bourgeoisie. Gross Margin (Harvill/ Secker, £20) Laurent Quintreau’s scabrous, slim-line tale, translated by Polly McLean and more a novella than a novel, finds The Divine Comedy transposed to a Parisian boardroom. This is a corporate environment where executive gall comes with a bitter blast of gauloises. Inside, 11 executives battle it out. Their inner monologues rather than vocal arguments inform the story and the translation flows easily.
We’ve seen The Office deconstruct the workplace with aplomb and American Psycho examine post-modern machismo; well Gross Margin cunningly combines the laughs of the former with the acidity of the latter. Quintreau’s team proves to be a pretty unpleasant, not to mention hypocritical, lot. Insecure and arrogant, lustful and impotent, they’re engrossing in a rubber-necking way. All their twisted vanity, insane fantasies and coal-face humour hold the reader’s attention like a bloody pile up. You’ll look at your colleagues differently at that Monday morning meeting after this. It’s a guilty pleasure read, heavily shot through with misanthropy. Harry Lime would have loved it. ‘Nobody thinks in terms of human beings,’ said Harry. ‘Governments don’t, why should we? They talk about the people and the proletariat, I talk about the suckers and the mugs. It’s the same thing.’
It appears that a new generation of authors might just agree with him.
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