The Rome Affair. Laura Caldwell

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СКАЧАТЬ that I could order wine with the best of them and eavesdrop on snotty saleswomen, I didn’t think I could give an entire pitch in Italian, certainly not to describe complex architectural concepts. My company, Randall Design, had sent me, knowing I was the only one in our sales team with any Italian skills, but I’d been given the impression that I would mostly rely on English, stepping in here and there with a few Italian phrases.

      Still, I would give it my best shot. I launched into my pitch in my schoolgirl Italian. The first few sentences came out okay. Then I started to stumble. I had to halt frequently to think of the proper words, the proper tenses, how to form a sentence. Pitying glances came from around the table.

      I shuffled along until I heard “Scusi!” in a high, cultured voice.

      The speaker was a woman with white hair pulled back in a low knot. She had raised a delicate hand. A braided gold bracelet adorned her slender wrist.

      “Si?” I said eagerly. Questions during a pitch gave me motivation; they revealed that the client might be interested.

      But the white-haired woman rattled off a lengthy question at such a rapid speed I only picked up every fifth word or so.

      I took a breath and tried to respond to what I thought she might be asking—a question about our 3D capability. I mangled a few words; I forgot others. A man to my right wore a look of complete confusion and leaned closer, as if I onlyneeded to talk more loudly. The woman with the white hair shook her head dismissively.

      Bruno offered to translate, and the question-and-answer session, which should have taken ten minutes, took about forty. My pitch limped.

      After two hours, Bruno stood from his chair. “Grazie, Rachel,” he said, looking at his watch. “If we might take a break.”

      I nearly kissed him with gratitude.

      But then he continued, “Two of our members will take you for a meal. We will finish this afternoon.” He spoke in Italian to the team members, all of whom nodded.

      “Oh…” I said. I thought of Kit at the hotel, waiting for me. I’d promised we’d have the afternoon together, that I’d show her some of my favorite Rome sites, aside from the Gucci store. I thought of how badly I wanted a shower and a glass of wine and a nice long chat with my girlfriend.

      But Bruno was giving me another chance, one I needed and appreciated.

      “Thank you so much. That would be lovely,” I said. “Could I please use your phone?”

      I called Kit from Bruno’s office and apologized. She was silent for a moment. “It’s okay, Rachel,” she said then. “I’ll just go wander. Good luck.”

      “Thanks. I’ll need it.”

      My hatchet job of the language continued its shamble at the ristorante, where they took me to lunch. There was no reprieve, only more questions about the software—questions that took me decades to decipher and centuries to answer. This sorry situation continued during my afternoon presentation of the product itself. I noticed every sigh from the team members who couldn’t understand me. I saw them glancing at their watches.

      When the meeting ended—finally—I buttoned my jacket and shook Bruno’s hand. They’d consider the software and let me know, he said. Yet when I met his eyes, I could see the decision was already made, and the answer was no.

      I walked through the office, tapped of all strength, mental, physical or otherwise. How wonderful it had sounded back at the office—oh, I’m going to Rome for a meeting! But the reality had been as fun as the middle seat on an overnight flight.

      3

      Slumped in the back of the cab, I began to think of how I’d tell my boss, Laurence, the news. He wouldn’t be pleased.

      I paid the cabdriver and tried to cheer myself up by thinking about a night out with Kit. Professional disaster or no, there were bottles of wine around the city, just waiting for us to open them.

      But when I got back to the room, there was a note.

      Rach,

      Met the most amazing guy! He works for the French embassy. He’s taking me to some place called Ketumbar. I figured you’d be exhausted and would want to sleep. See you later tonight. (Maybe!)

      Kit

      P.S. I hope your pitch went great. I’m sure it did. Thanks again for bringing me to Rome. I’m in love with this city!

      I tried not to be disappointed. I’d left her alone all day, after all, and she was right, I was exhausted.

      I took off my clothes and slipped on the heavy, silk hotel robe. Then I made the dreaded phone call to Laurence and told him about the pitch. “The owner told me before I left that his team spoke English, but they couldn’t understand the whole pitch.”

      “I thought you spoke Italian.”

      “Not well enough to get through a whole pitch.”

      Silence on the other end.

      “This is not good timing, Blakely,” he said, his voice as prim and severe as a schoolmarm’s. “We lost the Ricewell account today.”

      “What?” Ricewell was a huge architectural firm, and one of our biggest clients. Their purchases of our software, and its yearly updates, accounted for a large portion of our profits. “What happened?”

      “I can’t go into it now. Randall wants to talk to me.” Terry Randall was the company’s not-so-pleasant owner. He made Laurence seem like an easygoing beach bum. “You’re sure Cavalli isn’t going to buy?” Laurence asked.

      The afternoon flashed before me—the disdainful glances from the white-haired woman, sympathetic ones from Bruno. “I’m pretty sure.”

      “Jesus, Blakely, I didn’t need this. I’ll see you when you get back. And have a great time over there.” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “I’m glad somebody’s getting a vacation.” He hung up.

      I lay back on the bed and dialed Nick’s work number. It was late morning in Chicago, and it was his day to see patients at the office, but I wanted to hear his voice.

      Tina, the receptionist, answered. “Hi, Rachel!” she said cheerily. “How’s Rome?”

      I turned my head on the pillow and looked around the room. The windows were open, the breeze making the curtains sway and billow. “Beautiful. Thanks for asking. Hey, is Nick busy?”

      “He’s not in today.”

      “What do you mean?”

      “He took today off. It’s super warm here, like almost eighty degrees. He said something about golf.”

      “Oh, all right.”

      But Nick didn’t golf anymore, at least not unless he had to. He had played on his high school team in Philadelphia, an intense experience that diminished his love for the game, and so now he played with the other doctors at his office only when he felt forced to do so for appearance’ sake.

      “Did СКАЧАТЬ