The Germans exchanged glances with an expression of polite bewilderment, which in business circles means “we are wasting our time,” and in those glances one could read what people of her former profession called “the syndrome of an impending catastrophe.” The premonition of a failure that could not be averted.
Arthur, oblivious to everything, smiled broadly, gestured energetically, and said something, occasionally patting the nearest German on the shoulder with a familiarity that Europeans cannot stand. Karina translated, stumbling over every third word and mixing up cases, and it was clear how Schmidt’s face was becoming more and more stony with each of her phrases.
Veronica took a sip of water and leaned back in her chair, feeling for the first time in many years not fear, not shame, not the usual melancholy, but a thrill. The same thrill that used to grip her in the simultaneous interpretation booth, when milliseconds counted, when million-dollar contracts and people’s fates depended on the precision of a single word, when she was balancing on the edge of the possible and the impossible. And it was the best feeling in the world.
The catastrophe was approaching inexorably. She saw it as clearly as an experienced doctor sees the symptoms of a disease long before the patient feels anything. An incompetent translator. The growing irritation of the Germans. Arthur’s blind self-confidence, who didn’t even realize that everything was going wrong. It all added up to a picture of inevitable failure, and for the first time in 10 years, Veronica found herself not fearing this failure. She was waiting for it. She was ready for it.
The disaster began with something small, with a single wrong word thrown into the silence of the banquet hall. Arthur, flushed with champagne and his own importance, was waving his arms in front of the German delegation, talking about mutually beneficial cooperation and the joint use of licenses. The young translator tried to keep up with the stream of words, stumbling over every other phrase. From her spot behind the column, Veronica could see the beads of sweat on his forehead, how he frantically flipped through his notepad in search of the right term, and she knew: something was about to happen.
“We propose the joint use of manufacturing licenses,” Arthur smiled broadly, patting the nearest German on the shoulder. “Translate for them that it’s beneficial for everyone.”
The translator swallowed and squeezed out a sentence in which, instead of “licensing,” the words “full transfer of ownership rights” were heard. In a legal context, this meant that the host party was laying claim to the intellectual property of the German concern.
Chairman Schmidt’s face, which had previously maintained an expression of polite boredom, turned crimson so rapidly that for a second Veronica feared he might have a stroke right there, in the middle of the New Year’s banquet. He slammed his palm on the table—sharply, briefly—and a champagne glass overturned, spilling its golden liquid onto the pristine white tablecloth.
The music stopped. One hundred and fifty guests froze, turning their heads towards the epicenter of the storm.
“This is an outrage!” Schmidt hissed in German, addressing his colleagues. “We’re packing up. We’re leaving. Immediately.”
He turned to the French consultant sitting on his right and switched to French, loudly, without hiding, confident that no one in this room would understand him:
“These locals take us for idiots. I should have trusted my intuition and not gotten involved.”
Arthur turned so pale that the freckles on his nose, usually unnoticeable, stood out like ginger specks on a gray background. He didn’t understand a word, but he could see: the Germans were gathering their documents, buttoning their jackets, rising from the table. The twenty-five-million-dollar contract, the biggest deal of his life, for which he had been courting these arrogant Europeans for half a year, was crumbling before his eyes.
“Karina!” he grabbed his assistant’s elbow. “Do something! Tell them!”
Karina began to rattle off in her English, mixing up tenses and articles. But the Germans didn’t even turn their heads. They were already walking towards the exit, with Schmidt leading the procession with the air of a man deeply offended.
Veronica placed her glass of water on the table. The sound was not loud, but it seemed to her that the whole room heard this clink, like the bang of a judge’s gavel before a verdict is announced. She adjusted the collar of her beige dress—the same modest dress her husband had chosen for her—squared her shoulders, and stood up. Her feet carried her through the parting crowd of guests before she had time to consider the consequences.
Her walk changed on its own. These were no longer the timid steps of a housewife accustomed to looking at her feet and hugging the walls. This was the confident stride of a woman who knows her worth and is not going to apologize for her existence.
“Where are you going?!” Arthur lunged at her, grabbing her shoulder. “Sit down! Don’t you dare embarrass me! Veronica, are you out of your mind?!”
Karina clung to her elbow, and the Cartier bracelet scratched her skin. Veronica didn’t turn around. She calmly freed her arm, not with a jerk, but in a way that Karina’s grip loosened on its own, and continued walking straight towards Schmidt, who had almost reached the banquet hall doors.
“Chairman Schmidt!” she spoke in German, and her voice sounded clear, with a flawless Hanoverian accent that Germans consider a sign of true education. “Please, one moment of your patience. There has been an unfortunate misunderstanding in the translation…”
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