“Here,” I pointed. “Everyday, A-D-J. Adjective. It cannot be one word when it’s used as a noun.”
He huffed. Oh my God, he still doesn’t get it.
Then he went on.
“Here,” he said, pointing.
I looked again. “Provision of Service Agreement. OK, what’s your question?”
“You said it’s wrong.”
“OK, what’s your question?” I repeated.
“It’s not wrong.”
“OK.” I paused again. “It may be technically correct, but have you ever seen the title ‘Provision of Service Agreement’ in an English contract?”
He was silent.
“Have you?” I pressed.
He was uncertain.
“I don’t know,” he finally said.
“The correct translation is ‘Service Contract’ or maybe ‘Service Agreement.’ That’s what this is, a service agreement. ‘Provision of Service Agreement’ is too wordy and unclear. This is a contract for services. You can’t translate these terms literally. You have to think about how to render this in English, keeping the meaning in the source text but writing it in a way in which it is normally expressed in English. Here, your use of ‘provision’ is superfluous.”
“But it’s correct then?”
“No, it’s not correct.”
“I don’t agree.”
Again, you’re not listening. I refused to repeat myself.
“Well, what did Martin say?” I asked. Martin was our boss.
“He agreed with you, but I don’t agree with him.”
OK, so Tim was pissed off.
“Well, I’m sorry, then. But take this as a learning exercise. Before you turn a project in, read it several times in the target text and ask yourself whether it is meaningful in English and whether it is expressed naturally in English.”
Then we talked about several other phrases that he had not translated in accurate U.S. legal jargon. He had used “responsible” instead of “liable,” for example. And he had used “conserves the right” instead of “reserves the right” because, again, he had translated literally.
By the end of our conversation, he wasn’t happy with me.
“OK, well, I’m not in law school like you are. I would not have known that.”
“I understand, but you don’t have to be in law school to be a good legal translator. Look, legal translators take classes and get certifications in how to translate legal documents.” I know, since I had done such classes right after starting this job. “You can do that to improve.”
“I don’t need that,” he said then. “And I didn’t do my undergrad at UVA just to have to do this menial work.”
“Then find another job.” I was seething but I wasn’t going to waste my energy on him.
He continued. “And if you make all these corrections to my work every time, then I won’t be able to get my raise.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but I have a job to do.” So that was what this was about. He wanted me to be lenient, but I couldn’t do that.
“Can’t you give me a break, Isabel?”
“What?” I was incredulous. “Like I said, I have to do my job. Now, if Martin doesn’t agree with me, that’s one thing.”
But Martin almost always agreed with me; that was apparently Tim’s problem. Martin was an excellent translator and a decent manager. He liked me because I paid attention to the details. Everyone also knew that I was his go-to translator for Spanish and French. Consequently, I was usually busier than other people.
Martin had also hinted at a possible promotion and/or raise when I finished law school. I knew he couldn’t promise anything at this point, but it would be nice in case I ended up staying at the company. But I wasn’t going to bet on a raise, not in this economy.
“I knew you’d say that,” Tim said then. He rose from the chair.
I was starting to get angry. I rose as well.
“You know, Tim,” I said as he turned to leave, “You want to get ahead? Learn from your mistakes and work hard, accept constructive feedback and be the best at what you do. Mediocrity gets you nowhere.”
I sat back down. We were done. He left in a huff.
Later that day I stopped by Peter’s cube and we chatted for a few minutes while I drank my coffee. We were discreet and there was no one around. Peter knew about what had happened with Tim earlier because, apparently, Tim had gossiped to everyone. Not professional.
Peter agreed with me that most of the younger translators had that same attitude. We both speculated that Tim wouldn’t last that long at the company. It didn’t seem fair that there were other people who would probably work harder and be more appreciative of the job.
One of the reasons that I liked Peter was that he was an eternal optimist. I was a pessimist through and through. I always expected the worst; that way, I wasn’t easily disappointed.
Sometimes Peter asked me why I wore black so often.
“I’m in mourning for my country,” I had told him. For the lack of civility, for the men and their lack of backbone, for the women who are becoming more superficial and insecure.
Peter would smile and say that everything would work out.
“Peter is like your work husband,” Ariel had told me.
“My what?” I had asked. “I don’t have those feelings for him.”
“No, I mean, there doesn’t have to be any sexual tension to have a work spouse,” Ariel had explained. “It’s like someone who supports you at work, someone you can talk to, who’s a good friend.”
I guess Peter and I were work spouses.
When I got back to my desk, I took a deep breath. Yes, this is my life. This and law school and the occasional hookup.
Of the three, law school gave me the most satisfaction. But I only had two more years. After that, I didn’t know what I was going to do.
I left work at 5:15 and rushed to the metro. I had changed my heels for flats before I left the office. I scarfed down a handful of almonds on the way, hoping I didn’t choke in the process.
I only had a few stops on the metro. Luckily, I got a seat. By the next stop, which was Pentagon City, it was standing-room only.
At Pentagon City a bunch of people got on the train, including a young women with a toddler. The toddler was huge and the woman was about my height but really skinny. She was trying to hold on to the toddler and a big bag that probably carried her son’s stuff in it. She put her son on the ground but he cried and fussed, wanting to be picked up. So she picked him up again. He looked tired. She had a hard time holding on to him and balancing while standing on a moving train.
I looked around. Again, nobody offered her a seat. Again, I lamented the current state of society.
I caught her eye, guarding my seat so that no one else would take it. I motioned to her. “Why don’t you sit here?” I said.
“Oh, thank you so much!”
“It’s no problem.”
“Thank you!” she said again. She sat and put the toddler on her lap, where he was content.
We were arriving at Rosslyn, where a bunch of people got off. The stop for the university was the next one. I stood by the door.
One of my favorite Reggaeton dance songs started playing in my ears then.
I started to dance a little. It was impossible not to.
The song continued, the heavy bass beat in tune with my heartbeat. I was at about 45 percent capacity now, moving my feet and mouthing the words.
Then I had the hand motions going.
As the train started to slow down at the metro station, I had the urge to look up for some reason. I looked to my left, and I saw the Arab guy from class last night, standing further down the train in front of another door. He was looking right at me, and he was smiling.
Jesus. I had had enough of Arab guys for today.
When our eyes met, he didn’t look away. Oh, so he thought it was freaking amusing that I was dancing?!
I continued to look at him with a hard
stare. Then I looked right into his eyes.
God, his eyes were beautiful. And he had such long lashes. I could see them from all the way over here.
Wait, what am I thinking?!
The train stopped and the doors opened. I was paralyzed for a second, then I exited, running up the escalator so I wouldn’t have to run into him.
I swiped my metro card to exit the station. I hurried to the upper escalator, the one leading outside. I ran up that one too, which was a workout with my backpack.
The air was still humid but it felt good to be outside. I shoved my sunglasses on my face and hurried across the street, hoping that the Arab guy wouldn’t catch up with me.
Then I realized that I was a little turned on.
I was already in my seat in Crim Pro when the Arab guy showed up. I had my face buried in my book to the right side of my laptop so I couldn’t see him. I didn’t even acknowledge his presence, but I felt him. I felt electrified, like all systems were go.
Oh, this is not good.
I was being a jackass at not even saying hi, but I was afraid that my face would give me away. It felt hot, as if I were blushing furiously.
I heard Eric behind me.
“What’s with the silent treatment, Isabel?” he asked.
“What?” I pretended that I had just noticed him when he said that.
I turned around to the right to look at Eric, so that the Arab guy wouldn’t see my face. If Eric saw that my face was red, he didn’t say anything.
“I was wondering why you’re being so quiet. It’s so—”
“Uncharacteristic. I know. I was reading the cases again.”
“You know it’s annoying when you do that, you know?”
“What? When I reread cases?”
“No, when you finish people’s sentences.”
“Dude, I always know what people are going to say. They’re so predictable.”
“But it’s annoying,” Eric said. “And, by the way, I resent the fact that you think I’m predictable.”
“Well, Eric, you know I don’t give a shit what people think about me.”
Josh and Dinesh were there by now. Right after they sat down, class started, thank goodness.
When I got home that night, I was way too wired to sleep. I took a cold shower and read Property to fall asleep.
I did fall asleep, but I’d be damned if I didn’t have a sexy dream starring that Arab dude in my Crim Pro class.
I woke up thinking, oh this is so not good.
FIRST WEEK: WEDNESDAY
Wednesdays and Thursdays were a pain because I had two classes. I had International Law from 3:50 p.m. until 5:50 p.m. and then I had Property right after that, and didn’t leave campus until 8 p.m. That also meant that I had to lug my backpack with my laptop, my International Law book and my Property book. My backpack was heavy, so I carried my Property book in my arms, along with my purse. Inside my backpack I also had plenty of snacks. It was going to be a long afternoon/evening.
None of my friends were in my International Law class. This was both good and bad. It was good because I didn’t have to worry about Eric embarrassing me. It was good because I wouldn’t be interrupted constantly by them asking me, “What page are we on?” or “What did the professor say about X case?”
But it was also bad because my friends kind of reeled me in so that I wouldn’t make any outbursts in class. I had no patience for Millennials, and even less for lameness. Invariably, there were always at least one or two lame students who made comments in class that were either completely inane, completely irrelevant, or both. When Eric, Josh, Dinesh or Melanie were around, I would somehow be less likely to speak out when someone was making a meaningless point. They tempered me a little bit. My sisters did, too. But when I was by myself, sometimes all hell broke loose.
I took a deep breath. Tonight would be okay because it was the first day of class. We wouldn’t talk about anything of substance.
I lugged all my stuff up the stairs of the law school’s main entrance. As I reached the door, a couple of young guys were walking inside. I was pretty sure that they saw me with my backpack and my purse and my Property book. But they let the doors fall closed on me.
Nice, I lamented, rolling my eyes.
I managed to open the front door without too much difficulty. My International Law class was on the fourth floor, so I decided to be easy on myself and take the elevator. I walked over and found it was open, with a bunch of people standing inside. As I moved deliberately toward the open doors, they began to close. I looked at the faces of the people in the elevator, some young students and a couple of more mature people, maybe older students or professors. They let the doors close, even though they clearly saw that I was obviously walking toward the elevator. As the doors closed in front of my face, I said sarcastically, “Thanks so much!”
I don’t know why I was surprised. Stuff like that happened all the time in this damn town. People were so rude.
I whirled around. Great. I haven’t even gotten to class yet and I’m already pissed off.
As I turned around, I came face-to-face with that Arab guy. I had no choice but to look right at him.
“That was rude,” he told me. “I’m sorry.” His brows were furrowed and he was half-frowning.
He really does think they were rude. He’s not just saying that. Years of semi-self-imposed solitude had led me to constantly observe people. I was fairly adept at reading expressions. His confused and unnerved expression was genuine.
“Not your fault,” I said neutrally. I didn’t care to talk to this guy, but the truth was that he didn’t have to apologize for other people’s lack of manners.
“Do you need any help?” he said. “I—I can help to carry your books if you want.”
The “to” isn’t grammatically correct, was my first thought. I couldn’t stand incorrect grammar. But I didn’t correct him. For some reason, it would have made me feel like a jerk, not that I cared what this guy thought about me.
Yes, I thought. I would really appreciate that. But I didn’t say that.
“No.” I shook my head. “No thank you.”
I walked past him gingerly.
I felt like I should say something. “I have to get to class,” I muttered.
I wondered why he offered to help me. No one ever did. That’s not true, I reconsidered. If Josh or Eric were here, they would help me with my books. They were very gentlemanly like that.
It’s because they’re Latin. Well, Eric is half Brazilian, and I guess that’s technically not “Latin,” but the cultures were similar enough.
Does this guy have ulterior motives? Did he hear that I was easy?
That wasn’t true. I wasn’t easy. Well, maybe I was kind of easy if you caught me at the right time. In any case, I decided that he could not have heard that because he was new here, and I hadn’t seen him hanging out with anyone, and so he probably would not have heard any gossip about me. Unless he had asked around.
I could imagine the conversation. Hey, you know that girl Isabel? The one who wears hip-hugging skirts and who has cut arms? The one who mouths off all the time and who hangs around guys? Yeah, her. Does she give it away? If not, what do I have to do to talk her into my bed?
The answer was simple. Wait until she is so horny she can’t stand it, then be in the right place at the right time. Oh, and she likes really dark men, so you’re in luck, whatever-your-name is.
I smiled to myself. That was about right.
Since I always thought the worst of people, I figured that he just wanted a hook-up. I was a Class A pessimist, as my sisters liked to say.
Instead of waiting for the notoriously slow elevator to work its way back down to the first floor, and have to stand there awkwardly with that Arab dude eyeing me, I hauled all my stuff up four flights of stairs.
I finally got to the classroom. As I approached, I saw a girl struggling to open the heavy door. She looked really young, and wore the traditional hijab. I had se
en her before, around the law school. I didn’t think that we had ever had any classes together. Maybe one of the larger classes. She had a gorgeous face and flawlessly smooth skin. I was so jealous. She was doing the same thing as me, lugging a heavy backpack and a big law school textbook in her hands. She was also carrying a water bottle.
I grabbed the door. “I’ll get it,” I told her. I held it open for her. Again, where are the guys to hold the door for her? No one saw that she was struggling?
“Thank you,” she said, smiling shyly. God, she can’t be older than twenty-five. I am officially old.
After she went inside I started to maneuver my book to my other hand to be able to hold the door open while I walked inside. I was again starting to lament the loss of civilization as we knew it. Poor grammar and men who were lame jocks. This is the future of our country. I shook my head.
“I’ll get it.” I heard a now-familiar voice.
The Arab guy held the door for me.
I was shocked. I don’t know why, the way this week had been going so far.
“Are you in this class?” I asked him. Then I wondered why I was talking to him.
“Yes,” he nodded
“Madre de Dios.” I felt my eyes go upward.
“Sorry?”
“Nothing.” I started to walk inside. Then I remembered my manners. “Thanks,” I said over my shoulder.
The classroom was one of the smaller rooms. It probably couldn’t seat more than thirty or forty people at the most. Long tables and chairs were divided into two sections. I sat in the section on the right, if you were looking from the front of the classroom, in the second row, in the leftmost seat at the end of the row. The Muslim girl I had held the door open for was sitting directly behind me.
As the Arab guy approached, I silently pleaded, don’t sit next to me. I don’t know why I cared.
But apparently he couldn’t hear my thoughts, or God had a sense of humor, because he sat right next to me (again).
As he walked past, he said, “Do you mind if I sit here?” At first I thought he was talking to someone else.
Then I came back to reality and looked up. He was looking at me. And, for the first time, I noticed his accent. He spoke with a faint, French-tinged lilt.
Raven's Flight Page 5