Chapter 6 - THE FIRST THING HE SAID IN ENGLISH
Our first date lasted forty-three minutes.
Gabriel chose a small ramen restaurant.
No private room.
No armed men inside.
Elias sat in a car across the street because apparently compromise has limits.
Gabriel arrived in jeans.
That was somehow stranger than the suit.
We ordered.
Then neither of us knew what to say.
I finally laughed.
“The terrifying Gabriel Mercer has no conversation.”
“I had a plan.”
“What happened?”
“You looked at me.”
“Devastating.”
“Yes.”
We ate.
Normal people around us.
A college couple arguing over dumplings.
A child dropping noodles.
No one whispering.
Then I asked:
“Why did you really speak Japanese so often?”
“You already know.”
“Partly.”
He considered.
“Aiko.”
Yes.
But more.
“When my father remarried her, I hated Japan.”
“I was eight.”
“My mother had been dead eleven months.”
“I thought learning Japanese meant accepting Aiko.”
“So I refused.”
“For almost a year.”
“What changed?”
“One night I had a nightmare.”
“She came into my room.”
“She didn't speak English well enough yet to explain grief.”
“I didn't speak Japanese.”
“So she sat there.”
That image surprised me.
“Eventually I wanted to understand her.”
“I learned.”
“And?”
“Japanese became the language where nobody expected me to be my father’s son.”
There.
Identity.
Not secrecy.
“When I returned to America, English became business.”
“Japanese stayed…”
“Private?”
“Yes.”
“Then after Kenji was attacked, I turned privacy into protocol.”
“And protocol into a wall.”
He looked at me.
“You sound like your father.”
“That is either flattering or deeply alarming.”
“Both.”
He smiled.
Then asked:
“Why did you stop speaking it?”
“My father.”
“He died after a long illness.”
“I spent years translating doctors for him even though his English was perfect because sometimes fear made medical words stop making sense.”
“After he died, Japanese sounded like hospital hallways.”
“So I stopped.”
Gabriel nodded.
No fixing.
No poetic statement.
Good.
Then:
“What was the first thing you said in Japanese after three years?”
I looked at him.
“If your intention is to prevent a larger problem…”
He laughed.
“Very romantic.”
“Almost murder prevention.”
We finished dinner.
Outside, he walked me to the train station.
No car offered.
I appreciated that.
Then:
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“Can I see you again?”
I thought.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He leaned closer.
Then stopped.
“Can I kiss you?”
That mattered.
“Yes.”
Brief.
Careful.
No movie soundtrack.
Then I got on the train.
Gabriel did not follow.
My life remained mine.
Over the next year, we dated slowly.
I built Bennett Language & Risk, a consultancy specializing in bilingual contract review and cross-cultural due diligence.
Terrible name.
Useful service.
My first clients had nothing to do with Gabriel.
Important.
My father’s old academic colleagues referred companies.
The forensic firm referred law firms.
Eventually I hired two translators.
Then four.
I paid overtime correctly.
Douglas Crane had at least taught me something.
Gabriel occasionally sent potential clients.
I made him disclose the referral.
He complained.
I ignored him.
May you like
Then Simon Vale’s trial approached.
And prosecutors asked me to testify.
