Jean George
IT WAS THE second day of our company retreat in Spain. El Retiro, they called it. We had flown all the way across the ocean from the New World for it.
HR had chosen a sixteenth-century Carthusian monastery in Extremadura – empty Spain, la España vacía. The perfect place to show off on the firm’s social media page, the CPO had said. Perfect for our core value: “Community first.”
The coolness of the monastery, preserved by its stone walls, was a reprieve. The AC of the mini-bus had stopped functioning halfway through our five-hour journey from the airport. The region was under a heat advisory, the driver had told us; it had not rained in two months.
Hooded monks in white robes glided through the halls. The luxury of the monastery’s baroque church clashed with the austerity of the common areas. The firm had accustomed us to more comfortable conditions at previous corporate events. What shook us most of all was that we were expected to each share our quarters with two other colleagues. This was to immerse ourselves in monastic life.
Accordingly, the first day had been spent in the monastery’s gardens, weeding and pruning under the sun. We learned that Carthusians were nicknamed the capitalist monks due to their work ethic and their sense of business. The herbs they grew were used to make a famous liqueur sold all over the world.
The second day, Tuesday, after what seemed like an endless morning of brainstorming in the capitulary room, we went to lunch in the refectory. We sat around a long walnut table and waited to share our meal with the monks. Like all the common areas, the room was bare save for the table and a massive wardrobe against the far wall.
I was sitting in front of Quincy, our manager. Quixote, I had privately come to call him, because he would make any trivial task an epic team-building quest. His zeal had run out of steam, however, ever since the previous day of manual labor. Grace, who always complained it was too hot, even in our freezing air-conditioned office, was reenergized at the prospect of food.
Just as we were being served, what looked like a cameraman entered the room followed by a group of adolescents. They seemed like Canova statues come to life: graceful, universal, yet with a certain wistful air about them. Impervious to the decorum of the refectory, the cameraman spoke loudly in Spanish to the abbot who nodded.
“We kindly ask you to leave the table for a few moments, señores. You can sit up there on the mezzanine while you wait. And please take your belongings with you, por favor. A photoshoot is going to take place with these models for your firm’s publicity.” We obeyed and went up the stairs. We settled there, some of us at our laptops, others leaning over the balustrade, curious about the photo shoot.
The youths seemed to speak neither Spanish nor English but a strange language I could not identify. Their voices were hushed. After about half an hour, the cameraman left. The youths sat at the table and started eating from our plates, along with the monks, who had been allowed to stay. The unintelligible conversation continued while we continued gazing down at the scene. None of us had said a word yet.
The meal dragged on. After some time, a blond, thirty-something man in white robes and a beard entered the room. He smiled at the models. He embraced each one of them, chuckling, making humorous remarks. The man had a striking resemblance to Jesus, most of us thought. But what was he doing at El Retiro?
Quincy seemed like he had had enough. He stopped paying attention, took out his laptop and started typing. Jesus, or whoever he was, must have heard the clicking because suddenly, he looked up at us. His smile faded gradually. He stared at each of our plain, disagreeable faces, one by one. For a split second, I detected repulsion in his expression. Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned back to the table and the cryptic conversation resumed. But the mood had been disturbed and the congenial atmosphere had disappeared.
He beckoned one of the monks and whispered something in his ear. The monk turned around and headed up the stairs towards us. “El Señor has sent me to deliver you a message. You are no longer employed by the firm. The models will do your jobs perfectly well in your stead.” The outrage which ensued interrupted the conversation down at the table.
He stood up. “What are you still doing here?” His voice filled the refectory.
“I am sorry, sir,” Quincy said, “but what gives you the right? You appear nowhere in the org chart. As far as I’m concerned, you have no authority to terminate our employment.”
“Do you still not understand?” Jesus’ patience was wearing thin. The youths’ faces had turned red. Their heads were lowered. “Leave! Leave these premises.” He nodded at the monks. Ever the loyal soldiers, they rose, opened the large wardrobe, which contained long sticks, and grabbed one each. They swarmed up the stairs, coming at us.
We knew it was time to leave if we wanted to avoid a beating from the monks. So we ran. We ran in shame, not taking care to shut our laptops as we left. Thunder broke out and rain started falling as we ran through the grounds, fleeing, while nature welcomed the long-awaited rain.
In the end, we narrowly escaped from the monastery, unscathed and able to live to tell the tale. But I shall not forget El Retiro.
Jean George is a writer based in New York. El Retiro is their first published work.
