Book Excerpt: The Seven-Day Weekend

Excerpted with permission from The Seven-Day Weekend, Portfolio, May 3, 2004.

Chapter One: ANY DAY

* Ask why?
* Give up control.
* Change the way work works.

I'm a catalyst, and that's why I was on a ten-hour Varig flight from Sao Paulo to New York, fastening my seat belt and making sure the tray table was in an upright and locked position for landing.

You read that correctly the first time--catalyst. By definition a catalyst, usually an enzyme, initiates a reaction. The way I handle the role is by broaching weird ideas and asking dumb questions. Strictly speaking, I'm a highly evolved CEO, as in "Chief Enzyme Officer."

As such, I was fated to make the trip the moment I casually said to my Semco colleagues, "I bet we can get the phone number of the Rockefeller Group by calling information. It must be listed, don't you think?" It was. Like a good enzyme, I even offered to dial the number, too, since I was perched on the front edge of my desk, a favorite spot that allows me to get to my feet quickly to end meetings that start to drag.

"Oh, Mr. Mirante, you mean," the company operator said when I blandly asked the name of Cushman & Wakefield's president, pretending that I had just suffered a slight memory lapse.

"Yes, Mr. Mirante. Would you ring his office please?" Cushman & Wakefield is the commercial real estate arm of the Rockefeller Group. When Arthur Mirante's secretary picked up the phone, I told her that I was calling from Brazil. For some reason that worked magic--maybe she had a secret fantasy about attending Carnival in Rio--the next thing I knew President Mirante himself was on the line.

It took about three minutes; record time, considering he didn't have a clue about me or my agenda. I explained who I was--leaving out the bit about being a catalyst--and suggested that we get together face-to-face to discuss a business proposition. My new friend, Arthur, agreed without pressing for details.

Now, standing in the cab rank at JFK Airport, having been stranded by a no-show limo driver, I experienced my latest pang of misgivings: "Cushman & Wakefield is going to agree to partner with an obscure Brazilian company? Get serious, Ricardo. This is one weird idea that's about to fizzle."

A cacophony of Indian sitar music provided the soundtrack for my trip through Queens to midtown Manhattan. I asked the cabbie to turn it down, but he couldn't hear me over the noise. Ears ringing, I got out on Fifth Avenue, wended my way past the famous ice-skating rink (in springtime hibernation), noted the façade of Radio City Music Hall with its flashy neon marquee, and entered the high-rise domain of one of the world's largest real estate management firms.

I whisked through the revolving door and sailed straight past the security desk without stopping, affecting the bearing of a Rockefeller scion (Rocky Ricardo?), a little game I used to play prior to 9/11. I was pretty good at looking like I knew where I was going; guards rarely stopped me for ID or destination checks. (Alas, those days are over in the United States.) The elevator ride to the thirty-sixth floor gave me just enough time to review my predicament without triggering full-fledged qualms. Surrounded by hundreds of engineers, brokers, and high-end property managers, I was about to propose that Semco, a company with zero experience in real estate, join forces with the Rockefeller family to handle the nitty-gritty business of facility management in Brazil and the rest of Latin America.

I introduced myself to the receptionist and moments later was sitting on an opulent silk-covered sofa wondering if I had been wise to wear jeans and a blazer. The doubts about my attire were almost instantly reinforced when into the office suite strode Arthur Mirante II, tall and stylishly draped in an elegant, Italian-designer suit that reeked of many fittings by cadres of attentive artisans.

His firm handshake and warm, open smile put me at ease. I reminded myself that I was supposed to be having fun and so, presumably, was he. I noticed that he gave my jeans a quick sideways glance of appraisal. We bantered a few moments about not usually setting up meetings based on a three-minute phone call, or flying ten hours on the same flimsy pretext, and then quickly got down to business. I summarized my proposal, emphasizing Semco's background in manufacturing and maintenance, but Mirante looked disappointed. "I'm sorry you came all the way for this, then," he said.

"The problem is we don't make much money in that business. It mainly supports our other real estate interests."

I countered that I was confident we could make a business out of it in Brazil. Mirante asked if I really wouldn't be more interested in the brokerage business. I confessed that my knowledge of real estate started and ended with buying my home.

With that the executive shrugged and took me to see his facility management people. Afterward, I suggested that each of us put up $2,000 to cover the legal expenses of establishing the venture. We'd be fifty-fifty partners. Arthur agreed, we shook hands, and off I went in a hurry to pick up tickets to the New York Philharmonic, have lunch with the writer Peter Carey, and hit the legendary Strand bookstore for three hours of browsing their stock of used and remaindered books.

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