The Translator's Booth – Part 1: The Mute Button

"Anchovy," said Noémie.

"Sprat," said Kasper.

"It's an anchovy."

"It's a sprat. The delegate said Sprotte."

"The delegate said Sardelle."

"Mute," said Kasper, and slapped the button on their desk.

They sat in the glass interpreters' booth at the back of the Brussels conference hall, headsets on, a microphone between them, translating from German into French and English in a continuous stream. Below them, a panel of delegates argued about fishing quotas. Noémie, thirty-one, had been an interpreter for six years, quick, precise, with a dry wit and a ponytail. Kasper, thirty-six, tall, careful, tidy, wore a blue shirt with the cuffs rolled to exactly two turns.

They worked in alternating twenty-minute shifts, the way interpreters do. When one spoke, the other listened, ready to take over, scribbling terms on a pad. They had been paired three weeks ago. They had disagreed on everything.

"The Danish delegate used 'plaice,'" said Noémie.

"He used 'flounder.'"

"It's a plaice."

"It's a flounder with ambition."

She laughed, helplessly, her hand over her mouth. Kasper's mouth twitched. Their mute button glowed red.

At three, the session adjourned. They sat in the booth with a thermos of bad tea, listening to the hall empty below.

"Can I ask you something?" said Noémie.

"Yes."

"Why do you correct me?"

"Because I like the sound of you being right," said Kasper, "and I'd like to hear it more."

She stared at him. "That's the most romantic thing a person has ever said about fish."

"I have been practising."

"Green?" she said, a light on the console.

"Green," said Kasper, going pink. "Very green. Tea?"

Continue the story: Part 2 – Live Feed.