Practical. She set a slim laptop and a leather-bound notebook on the table in front of her. Tools of the trade. She sat between the two principals.
Her job was simple. Translate everything Nakamura said into English for Brooks, and everything Brooks said into Japanese for Nakamura. Nothing more, nothing less. Harrison Brooks was already seated.
52, square jaw, blue-gray eyes, brown hair going silver at the temples, 6 ft 1. He wore a navy two-button suit with no tie collar, open the casual luxury style of an American CEO who wanted to signal confidence without trying too hard. An Apple Watch Ultra on his wrist, titanium band, brown leather loafers, no socks. He stood when Nakamura approached, extended his hand, smiled.
Mr. Nakamura, a pleasure to finally meet in person. Yuki translated. Nakamura shook the hand, firm, brief, one pump, and sat without returning the smile.
This was the dinner that was supposed to seal everything. Brooks Capital acquiring Nakamura Industries semiconductor division, $30 million. Eight months of negotiation, 14-hour flights, 100 emails. Tonight was the handshake over steak and Bordeaux.
Nakamura scanned the dining room, crystal chandeliers, oil paintings, a string quartet in the corner playing something by Debussy. He leaned toward Kenji and murmured in Japanese. Typical Americans. All show, no substance.
Even the music is borrowed from the French. Kenji chuckled softly. Yes, sir. Iris arrived at the table.
Black apron, silver logo, hair pinned tight. She placed five leather-bound menus on the table, one at each setting. Good evening. Welcome to The Meridian.
My name is Iris, and I'll be taking care of your table tonight. Nakamura didn't look at her. Didn't acknowledge her. He kept his eyes on the wine list, said something to Kenji in Japanese, and waved his hand like he was brushing away a fly.
Iris stepped back, hands folded, waiting. The evening had begun. For the first 40 minutes, everything ran on rails. Nakamura spoke Japanese, Yuki translated into English, Brooks responded, Yuki translated back.
A rhythm built itself, sentence, pause, translation, response, like a tennis match played through a net made of words. They talked semiconductor yields, market share projections for Southeast Asia, integration timelines for merging the engineering teams, retention bonuses for Nakamura's top 12 engineers, the ones Brooks needed to stay or the acquisition was worthless. The language was dry, precise, corporate. Two men circling a $30 million number each, waiting for the other to blink first.
Yuki kept pace without breaking a sweat. Her English was polished, her Japanese formal. She softens Nakamura's blunt demands into diplomatic suggestions and sharpened Brooks's casual phrasing into respectful proposals. She was good at her job.
She had to be. Her work visa depended on it. Iris moved around the table like a ghost. She poured a 2016 Chateau Margaux into Nakamura's glass without spilling a drop.