Wei considered that, then laughed quietly. "You make everything sound simple."
"It wasn't."
"I know."
They stood together near the ballroom entrance. Then Wei asked, "Do you still speak eight languages?"
Darius smiled. "Yes."
"Any plans for a ninth?"
"Maybe."
"Which one?"
Darius thought. "Whatever my next student needs."
Wei laughed. "I should have known you'd say that."
That evening, Darius drove home through the city. Chicago was wet from an earlier rain; streetlights reflected across the pavement. He parked outside his apartment. Before going inside, he sat in the car for a minute. He opened his father's notebook. The pages had become fragile; the handwriting was fading.
Darius read the sentence one more time. Then he turned to the final blank page. For years, he had never written anything there. Tonight, he did.
He wrote: "Listen first, answer second. And leave the door open for the person you almost misunderstood."
He closed the notebook, then went upstairs.
The next morning, Darius arrived early at the community center. A nervous young woman was waiting outside. She couldn't have been more than 19. She held a folder against her chest.
"You're Darius?"
"Yes."
"I heard you help people with language interviews."
"I do."
She hesitated. "I have an interview today."