Discontent: A Novel - Softcover

Serrano, Beatriz

 
9798217006762: Discontent: A Novel
Softcover
ISBN 13: 9798217006762
Verlag: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, 2025

Inhaltsangabe

THE NEW YORK TIMES BOOK REVIEW EDITORS' CHOICE • From a dazzling new international voice, an audacious, darkly funny novel about a young woman whose carefully crafted office persona threatens to crack when she’s forced to attend her company’s annual retreat

"A wry work of spectacular wit. . . . Beatriz Serrano writes with a caustic flare for detail, exploring the small humiliations of the everyday corporate office with charm and utter hilarity. Absolutely brilliant." —Danya Kukafka, author of Notes on an Execution

On the surface, Marisa's life looks enviable. She lives in a beautiful apartment in the center of Madrid, she has a hot neighbor who is always around to sleep with her, and she’s quickly risen through the ranks at a successful advertising agency. And yet she’s drowning in a dark hole of existential dread induced by the banality of corporate life. Marisa hates her job and everyone at it. She spends her working hours locked in her office hiding from her coworkers, bingeing YouTube videos, and getting high on tranquilizers. When she has the time, she escapes to her favorite museum where she contemplates the meaning of life while staring at Hieronymus Bosch paintings, or trying to get hit by a car so she can go on disability.

But Marisa's dubious success, which is largely built on lies and work she's stolen from other people, is in danger of being exposed when she's forced to go on her company’s team-building retreat. Isolated in the Segovia forests, haunted by the deeply buried memory of a former coworker, and surrounded by psychopathic bosses, overzealous coworkers, flirty retreat staff, and an excess of drugs, Marisa finds herself acting on her wildest impulses and is pushed to the brink of a complete spiral.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Beatriz Serrano

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

I

For a brief moment in 2016, the internet’s obsession was the physical and mental well-being of an English YouTuber named Marina Joyce. Joyce who was girlish and princesslike, with long blond ringlets and huge blue eyes, uploaded innocent videos where she tried on pastel-colored clothes, opened gifts sent to her by different brands, or ate sweets she thought were exotic because they came from Asia. And because the internet’s blurring of boundaries often means you can’t discern whether you are viewing erotic content or family content (or, perhaps, both at the same time), a widely disparate community followed her—from little girls who wanted to wear the same pink dresses to bald men in their fifties who probably masturbated to videos of her eating ice cream.

But after a while, her followers began detecting subtle changes in her behavior. In one of her videos, Marina Joyce was at a party, smiling at the camera and showing off her outfit, but something in the way she walked around (languid and listless) or the way she responded to questions (taking about three seconds too long to grasp them) set off all the alarms. This gave rise to a conspiracy theory, according to which Joyce had been kidnapped by her boyfriend or by a cult (it was unclear which) and was being abused and forced to upload videos against her will.

The evidence shown by these internet detectives consisted of short video edits where, if you paid attention, you could hear a subtle and whispered “help me” that, apparently, she would have added in the editing. There were also videos of Joyce seemingly looking at the back of the room, somewhere behind her camera, in order to get the approval of her captor while she answered questions from her followers. Fans also showed screenshots where her limbs appeared to have bruises, scratches, or small wounds. This was irrefutable evidence. Marina Joyce continued to act friendly and cheerful, but behind the smiles, she often looked sleepy, dazed, or drugged. Some screenshots, which ended up on forums or posted to Twitter accounts dedicated exclusively to the exciting case, showed subliminal messages she was supposedly using to draw people’s attention. These messages were hidden among the beautiful white lacquered shelves covered in brand gifts that were always in the background of her videos. Her followers, and those who had followed the trending hashtag #SaveMarinaJoyce, ended up calling the Metropolitan Police to rescue her. The Met went to her house but found nothing suspicious and left.

I’m thinking about Marina Joyce in the cold meeting room I’ve reserved for a call with the accounts team to talk about the Christmas campaign. I’m also thinking that, if the police were alerted by a loved one and arrived here right now, they wouldn’t find anything suspicious either—just a woman in an office, like Marina was just a woman in a room. Only my true fans would notice unsettling changes in my behavior meeting after meeting, day after day, video after video. They would discuss it online in forums and post long explanatory threads on Twitter. Perhaps I’d even be a trending topic for a few hours. The same woman who used to have fun behind her camera now seems sleepy, dazed, and even drugged.

And none of their assumptions would be wrong. It’s the end of August, and I only come into the office to lower my air-conditioning bill. It’s Monday again and I haven’t made progress on any Christmas projects, but I know I’ve logged enough videocall time to convince the accounts team I’ve got several things underway. I set my laptop, a cup of water, and a notebook on a large table that I’ve strategically positioned so natural light illuminates my face. If I’ve learned anything from YouTubers, it’s how to direct the camera in a meeting. I like to reserve this room because it has a neutral background. After this meeting, I could record my reaction to videos of cats gagging when they smell broccoli or a tutorial on the perfect makeup for both a job interview and a first date. Before logging in, I try to imagine how I would greet my followers, but I can’t think of anything that doesn’t make me sound like an idiot.

The accounts team logs in right on time, and the stupid dance of platitudes that precedes every meeting at every company around the world begins. “How are you girls?” “Are you in Madrid or . . . ?” “Working from the beach isn’t really working.” “Super busy, can’t complain.” “Life is good.” “Tons of work, which is great.” “You can already see my tan.” “I’m available for you guys 24/7.” “Are your kids there? Tell them I say hi, they’re so cute!” I smile, I participate, I make up stuff. I talk about summer plans I don’t have with people who don’t exist. A few days in Marbella at my friend Pitu’s house. A quick trip to San Sebastián with my man. Although I don’t know if it’s too early to call him “my man,” I declare mysteriously. Yes, I tell them, he’s Basque, I’ve always liked guys who could be lumberjacks. And they all laugh. Simple jokes, clichés served up as a refreshing alcohol-free aperitif to prolong meetings without really getting to work.

Someone takes the lead—“OK, girls, let’s get started”—and the meeting officially begins. They talk about deadlines, brainstorming, giving this or that a try, WOW factor, making a story go viral, and some even mention the word “disruption.” They talk about what the client is expecting from us this year—always “a lot” but never anything specific—and how this Christmas campaign is more important than ever. In each of the four years I’ve been at this office, I’ve been told that this Christmas campaign is more important than ever. I nod with my brow furrowed and say, “Can you repeat that, Monica?” while I doodle a penis with little arms in my Moleskine. “Do we have any more briefings on the lipstick?” I ask, then let them fight among themselves for ten more minutes over who will call the client to ask for information I don’t really need.

We’ve been clowning around for forty minutes. The game is easy if you know how to do it. Work is just a role you play and I’ve mastered it perfectly. I know the jokes that always break the ice. I know what to ask to seem attentive and interested. And I know what to say to make the time flow faster, without actually doing anything, until it’s time to go home at six.

While they talk to each other, I open Twitter and watch a video of a pet raccoon eating a birthday cake. The cake has three candles, but the raccoon seems afraid of the flame, so a human helps blow them out for him; then the raccoon starts eating the cake with his tiny hands. I retweet it. I google if it’s possible to have a raccoon in an apartment in Madrid. Then I google how long raccoons live. When I read that a wild raccoon can live between two and three years, I feel unexpectedly disappointed.

“When do you think you could show us something, Marisa?” asks one of them.

I close the raccoon tab and look at the meeting again. Specifically, I look at myself in the little square on the right side of the screen and confirm that, indeed, this light would be great for recording a video on my beauty routine.

“In four weeks,” I say.

“Four weeks? In three weeks it’ll be late September already, and the client wants to see something now so they can close their budgets,” replies another.

I feel like answering that I couldn’t care less, as...

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Verlag
Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2025
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 13 
9798217006762
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
193
Kontakt zum Hersteller
preigu GmbH & Co. KG
mail@preigu.de

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