The hall fell silent. One hundred and fifty people stopped breathing, stopped whispering, stopped clinking their glasses, and in this sudden silence, Veronica’s words hung like notes in a concert hall after the final chord.
Schmidt stopped. His eyebrows shot up, and he slowly turned, examining the woman before him the way one examines an unexpected find in an antique shop: with surprise turning into professional interest.
“Who are you?” he finally asked in German.
“Veronica Polyakova,” she replied in German and gave a slight nod—not the subservient bow of a petitioner, but the polite greeting of an equal. “I am Mr. Polyakov’s wife, but today I am here as someone who understands the true value of this contract. Your interpreter made a grave error. Licensing and transfer of ownership are completely different concepts in German patent law. You are a lawyer, you understand the difference.”
Schmidt was silent for a few seconds, studying her face, and Veronica met his gaze calmly, without looking away, just as she had once met the gazes of ministers and ambassadors in negotiation rooms.
“You speak German beautifully,” he finally said, a hint of surprise in his voice.
“A Hanoverian accent, if I’m not mistaken? Heidelberg University, a DAAD scholarship,” she replied, the corner of her mouth twitching into a barely perceptible smile. “Many years ago. But one does not forget a language.”
Schmidt nodded to his delegation, and the Germans, after exchanging glances, returned to the table. He gestured for Veronica to take a seat next to him—the very seat that the hapless interpreter had occupied a minute ago.
The French consultant, Tailing, a tall, lean man with the thin lips of a skeptic, leaned back in his chair and spoke in French, clearly intending to put this upstart in her place:
“Let’s assume, madam, that you speak German. But how do you plan to deliver the equipment under the current circumstances? The traditional routes are closed.”
Veronica turned to him and answered in French—in that impeccable Parisian French taught to her by Professor Dupont at the university, who made her repeat every phrase until her accent was indistinguishable from a native Parisian’s:
“Monsieur Tailing, we propose an alternative route through Asia. The international transit corridor allows for customs clearance in 72 hours. If you wish, I have the exact figures and calculations.”
Tailing dropped his pen. It rolled across the table and fell to the floor, but he didn’t even notice.
The Japanese strategist, Tanaka, who had been silently observing the proceedings, leaned forward and spoke in Japanese—quietly, with the slight smile of a man who has decided to conduct one final test:
“And what are your thoughts on cultural adaptation? What are the complexities of implementing German technology in the local market?”
Veronica smiled and replied in Japanese, politely, with a slight Kansai accent she had picked up from her Tokyo professor:
“One doesn’t bring one’s own rules to another’s monastery, Tanaka-san. You have a similar proverb, correct? I propose creating joint engineering teams: local and German specialists working side by side.”
Tanaka leaned back and began to applaud slowly. The Italian consultant, Romano, couldn’t contain himself and threw his hands up:
“Madonna mia! I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.”
“Thank you, Signor Romano!” Veronica turned to him and replied in Italian. “I consider myself a builder of bridges. Connecting different worlds—that is my job.”
The applause started with Schmidt—slow and appraising at first, then growing louder—and spread through the hall like a wave, engulfing the tables, making people rise from their seats. Veronica sat in the center of this storm of recognition, feeling how the diamonds on her neck—the very ones that had felt like a collar an hour ago—now shone differently: not as a symbol of ownership, but as the adornment of a victor.
Schmidt stood up, and the hall fell silent…
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