Chapter 1 — The Words at Table Twelve
“Get out.”
Naomi Carter was halfway through describing the evening’s wine pairing when Victor Hale decided he had heard enough. He spoke with the casual authority of a man asking someone to close a window, not the cruelty of a man sending a person away. That almost made it worse.
She lowered the bottle until its dark glass touched the white linen. Behind Victor, the private dining room of the Meridian glowed in shades of amber and copper. Beyond the glass, San Francisco’s waterfront dissolved into fog. The other tables continued eating, but the three guests at table twelve became still. A fork stopped halfway to a plate. One of the men lowered his eyes.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Naomi said. “Would you like me to send the sommelier?”
“I’d like someone qualified to serve this table.” Victor tapped a thick finger against his menu. “This is a serious meeting.”
“I understand that.”
“Do you?” He glanced at the executives beside him, hoping for an approving laugh. Nobody supplied one. “You’re very young. You seem pleasant enough, but pleasant isn’t the same as educated.”
Naomi had been working a double shift since noon. Her feet hurt; there was a tiny burn on her wrist from the espresso machine; the rent was due on Monday. She could have summoned Daniel Park, the floor manager, and exchanged the table without a word. She had done variations of that all her adult life. Instead, she looked directly at Victor.
“I graduated from Stanford,” she said.
The words surprised him. Then he smiled as if she had delivered the joke his guests had refused to make.
“Of course you did.”
“I did, Mr. Hale.”
“You expect me to believe someone with a Stanford degree is pouring wine here?”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything without evidence. I was explaining why I’m qualified to answer a question.”
The oldest guest, Henry Lin, placed his glass down with deliberate care. His silver hair was combed straight back; his dark suit had no visible logo. Beside him, Chen Wei watched Victor over the rim of a water glass, while Zhou Jian studied the wine label as if it contained an escape route.
Victor ignored them. “What I requested was someone who could speak Mandarin. This dinner concerns a partnership with Shanghai investors. My people made that clear when we booked.”
“Then I can help,” Naomi said. “I speak Mandarin.”
He laughed, louder this time. Two people at the neighboring table turned. “You?”
“Yes.”
“Fluently?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you learn that? A phone application?”
Naomi felt heat rise into her neck. She kept her hands open at her sides. Years earlier, when she was an interpreter, she had learned how quickly anger could ruin a negotiation. Anger could be justified and still make the wrong person victorious.
“Would you like me to speak to Mr. Lin?” she asked.
Victor leaned back. “No. I’d like you to stop pretending.”
Chen Wei said something quietly to Zhou in Mandarin. The words reached Naomi effortlessly: This is embarrassing. Does he hear himself? Zhou answered: Apparently not.
Naomi looked at the men. They looked back, startled by the flicker of recognition that crossed her face.
Victor caught it. “You don’t understand a word they’re saying, do you?”
“I understood them.”
“Then prove it.”
“Victor,” said Priya Nair, the young attorney seated at his right, “this is unnecessary.” She had spent the last hour discreetly rearranging documents whenever her boss made an unsupported promise. “We came here to discuss a waterfront development, not examine the staff.”
“Relax, Priya. A little entertainment might help everyone unwind.” He raised his voice. “Fifty thousand dollars. One complete sentence in Chinese, spoken correctly. If you do it, the money’s yours.”
The room narrowed around Naomi. Fifty thousand dollars would erase most of the remaining student loans that had followed her from Stanford. It would cover her younger brother Marcus’s first year of college with something left over for the apartment’s failing heating system. She had spent years translating other people’s enormous numbers without ever touching one herself.
Yet the offer was a trap. One rehearsed sentence proved nothing. If she succeeded, Victor could call it a trick. If she refused, he would call her a liar.
“Mr. Hale,” Naomi said, “who would decide whether the sentence was correct?”
“I would.”
“You don’t speak Mandarin.”
A smile appeared at the corner of Henry Lin’s mouth. Victor’s did not.
“Mr. Lin could judge,” Priya said quickly, sensing an exit.
Victor waved away the suggestion. “The point is simple.”
“It isn’t,” Naomi replied. “A language isn’t a line from a travel guide. A person can memorize a sentence without understanding another human being.”
“You’re refusing?” Victor asked.
“I’m asking for a fair test.”
He stared, suddenly aware that she was not pleading. He had expected either embarrassment or gratitude, not negotiation. Across the room, Daniel Park had approached the door and stopped, his expression balancing concern for his employee against the sort of bill that paid a restaurant’s bills for a week.
Naomi glanced at Henry. “Mr. Lin, I apologize that your dinner has been interrupted. If you would rather I leave, I will.”
“I would prefer,” Henry said in careful English, “that the person being challenged be allowed to establish the terms.”
Victor turned toward him. “You’re enjoying this, Henry?”
“I am waiting to see whether you are.”
A quiet laugh escaped Zhou Jian. Victor’s face darkened. He set his bourbon aside and leaned forward, both forearms on the linen.
“Fine,” he said. “Tell us your terms.”