The elite adviser who can't make ends meet

The elite adviser who can't make ends meet

Imagine a man who claims to advise one of the families that sit above NATO and their countries' governments. Who says he sits at the tables of four business conglomerates. Who dines on braised beef cheeks with saffron risotto in Davos while, according to his account, passing on to the advisers of several European presidents the orders they must carry out. That man, by his own testimony, cannot afford the rent in the areas where he moves or the information his job demands.

The paradox is not new, but the story has a detail that makes it interesting: real power, the kind that doesn't appear in family photos, also suffers from housing prices. Or at least that's what the man who presents himself as an active member of the backrooms of power claims. The conversation his testimony sparked soon turned to skepticism: some see in that résumé a forum fantasy, while others simply advise him to ask for a raise or to marry into the family.

A résumé that doesn't match the paycheck

The alleged adviser's story includes a Ferrari, a mistress he told they would have to move to a trailer on the outskirts of Moscow, and a 2003 Opel Corsa as plan B. Also a confession about his past: I worked for the CIA. And a rhetorical question that sums up his work philosophy: who can show up to work without snorting a couple of lines of coke.

The detail about substances is no small matter. The conversation turned to spending: some chide him for confusing inflation with the cost of his vices. The irony of the powerful adviser complaining about rent while mentioning cocaine and an Italian sports car is the core of the general disbelief.

Davos, the menu and the orders to presidents

The testimony lingers on the scene of power: a meeting in Davos with advisers to several presidents of European Union governments who, according to his account, are given the orders they must pass on to their bosses. The menu includes beef cheeks with saffron risotto served in a Scandinavian-style dining room, fine truffle pasta, premium lamb chops and Graubünden capuns with cream reduction.

The description of the menu takes up more space than any verifiable fact. It's the kind of detail that, in a story like this, works like medals: it serves to demonstrate belonging, not to prove it. Nobody in the conversation asked for the names of the presidents or the date of the meeting.

The crowd's response: skepticism and some mockery

The prevailing reaction was doubt. He was told to ask his powerful clients for more money or to marry into the family. He was advised to camp in Sol square to position himself as oppressed, and there were jokes about sending him money via instant payment. A political label also appeared: he's definitely pro-Russian, a way of dismissing the matter without engaging with it.

The thread also veered into a rural anecdote about a priest and his habits with the village animals, which has nothing to do with global power but illustrates the general tone: the conversation never took the story seriously.

The puzzling detail

The elite adviser who can't make ends meet is probably the best unwitting metaphor of our time: a man who describes the Davos menu in exhaustive detail and, at the same time, claims that rent is drowning him. If real power sits at those tables, the paycheck doesn't seem to match. And if it doesn't, the story falls apart on its own. In both cases, the question that remains is the same: who is really paying for the party?