He was certain now. She was deaf to him. Iris returned with the main course, pan-seared Wagyu medium-rare with roasted bone marrow and a red wine reduction. She set Nakamura's plate first, then Brooks's, then Kenji's, then Yuki's.
Nakamura didn't wait for her to finish. He leaned toward Kenji while Iris was still placing the last plate, close enough that she could smell the wine on his breath. Look at this one, black as the bottom of a burned pot. Those white little eyes rolling around.
And they let her serve at this table. He wasn't whispering anymore. In Tokyo, a restaurant like this would have girls with porcelain skin, graceful hands, education, breeding. This one, look at her arms.
Built for hauling bricks, not carrying plates. Kenji nodded, grinning behind his napkin. She does have thick wrists, sir. Thick everything, thick wrists, thick skull.
Her kind can't help it. You know what they say? You can put clothes on a monkey, but it's still a monkey. That's what she is.
A monkey in an apron. Iris set the last plate down. Her hand was 6 inches from Nakamura's elbow. She could feel the vibration of his voice through the table.
She straightened up, adjusted the position of the bread basket by half an inch, and said in English, "Would anyone like fresh pepper?" Brooks nodded. Nakamura ignored her. Kenji waited until she stepped toward the service station, then leaned in. Sir, do you think she what?
Understands us? Nakamura snorted. Look at her. A black waitress in Manhattan, she probably can't point to Japan on a map.
Her ancestors were running barefoot in Africa three generations ago. These people, they count to 10 and think they've accomplished something. He picked up his fork and cut into the Wagyu. Let her serve.
It's the most sophisticated thing she'll do all week. Kenji smirked. What about the one last month in Ginza, the hostess who different breed entirely. At least she had manners.
This one, he gestured toward Iris with his knife, sauce glistening on the blade. This one is livestock. You don't teach livestock table manners. You put it in a pen and let it do what it was made for.
He chewed, swallowed, took another sip of wine. Honestly, Kenji, I look at her and I feel physically ill. The smell. You can smell them, you know, that thick heavy smell.
Like wet earth and sweat. They carry it with them everywhere. No amount of soap fixes it. It's in the blood.
Yuki's fingers were frozen on her keyboard. She had stopped typing the meeting notes 5 minutes ago. Her face was blank, but a small vein pulsed at her temple. She stared at her screen at the cursor blinking on an empty line and said nothing.
Brooks looked up from his plate. Everything all right, Yuki? You look pale. Fine, Mr.