“Ugh, what a stench!” Artem Boriszovitch wrinkled his nose the moment he stepped inside. “Do they ever have health inspections here, or are they too scared to enter?”
Beside him, Hans, the German, murmured something in German, pointing at the menu hanging above the counter.“You don’t eat here, Hans!” Artem Boriszovitch laughed, nudging a chair near the window with his foot.
“Sit down. Coffee, papers, signature, then we move on. We’re almost out of gas, and this station only has some yellow sludge in the tanks.”
A few minutes later, Tamara appeared, holding an old notebook with grease-stained edges.“I’m listening,” she said.Artem Boriszovitch didn’t even look up. He slammed a thick stack of documents onto the table, clipped with a golden clasp.
“So, darling,” he began, lifting his coffee. “Two coffees. Not that chicory nonsense, real beans. And wipe the table properly—my friend here is about to have a culture shock.
Look, Hans! This is the face of deep Russia. No teeth, no education, but smiling in that frilly apron.”Hans responded in a cool, formal tone. Artem Boriszovitch waved him off.
“Yes, yes, Hans, all good. Good. Now sign it. The plot goes to the factory for next to nothing. I’ve taken care of everything—nobody will notice this is a restricted area.”
Tamara quietly set down the cups. Her hand trembled, a few drops splashing onto the edge of the papers.“What are you doing, you cow?!” Artem Boriszovitch snapped, so suddenly that the chair slammed into the wall.
“Do you know this sheet is worth more than your entire café, kidneys included? You ruined it!”“I’m sorry, I’ll wipe it immediately,” Tamara muttered, eyes lowered.
“Wipe it… Look, Hans!” Artem Boriszovitch gestured at her. “A cleaner, a waitress, a mindless creature. She doesn’t even understand she just destroyed your deal.
Hans, look at the stupidity in her eyes! Slaves! They eat scraps, sleep in the barn, and still smile.”Hans suddenly interjected. He spoke a long sentence, first to Tamara, then pointing at Artem Boriszovitch. His face turned stone.
Artem Boriszovitch froze. He didn’t understand a word, but he felt something was wrong.“What’s he muttering? Hey, translator, at least you learned something in school! Translate—what is he saying?”
Tamara straightened slowly. She placed her scarf on the edge of the table. Her gaze was sharp, cold as a scalpel.“He said, ‘I don’t trust anyone who cannot control their anger toward the weak.
If you treat your staff like this, you will betray even behind closed doors.’”Artem Boriszovitch gasped for air.“What… what are you saying?”
“And one more thing,” Tamara switched to perfect German, addressing Hans directly.The foreigner froze, his eyes wide behind his glasses. He started asking questions quickly, pointing to the documents.
“What’s he saying?!” Artem Boriszovitch screamed.“He’s asking about point 42. The part where you ‘forgot’ to mention that there’s no entrance road to the plot.
What you called a formality, he sees as a legal trap. And now he sees that you’re not only rude, but a fraud as well.”“Where…?” Artem Boriszovitch tried to reach for his badge, but Tamara gripped his hand hard, bones straining.
“I graduated in foreign languages ten years ago,” she said calmly. “I work here because this is my home. I’ve been listening to every word since you stepped out of the car.
Hans wants to know how much ‘commission’ you planned to take from this deal.”Artem Boriszovitch went pale, sweat pouring down his forehead.
“Tamara… listen. I… overreacted. Tell him it was a misunderstanding. I’ll transfer a hundred thousand forints immediately. Just say everything’s fine.”
“She says there will be no deal,” Tamara cut in. “And she wants your passport. He’s taking a taxi into town, which I’ve already arranged. You, meanwhile, can continue admiring your shirt. It’s expensive, a shame there’s nothing under it anyway.”
Hans stood, packed his papers, then briefly bowed to Tamara. He left a banknote on the table—careless, as if tipping, but enough to cover Tamara’s mother’s medicine for two months.
When Artem Boriszovitch’s SUV roared out of the café, silence fell. Tamara walked to the window, watching the dust settle slowly.“Tamara,” said Ludmila, the heavyset, old cook, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Why did you do that? He almost hit you.”
“He wouldn’t have, Ludmila. They’re brave only with words.”“And the foreigner? Did he leave a business card?” Ludmila tapped the table.
“He did. He said their procurement department needs someone who can read between the lines.”Tamara slid the card into her pocket. She knew her life would change tomorrow.
Not because a “prince” arrived in an SUV, but because today, for the first time, she let herself speak with full force.Artem Boriszovitch sat in his empty car five kilometers away.
Out of gas. The deal evaporated. And in his head, that one sentence kept echoing—a sentence he would never be able to translate.
