The Translator's Booth – Part 2: Live Feed

The microphone was live for eleven seconds, and the whole of the European Union heard it.

It was the closing session, on a long, dull afternoon. The panel was reciting numbers. Noémie, in the booth, was mid-sentence when Kasper whispered something in her ear, a joke, an absurd translation of the delegate's last phrase. She snorted. The red light on the console blinked on.

"...a very large haddock," came her whisper, into every headset in the hall.

A short silence. Then a wave of laughter swept the room.

"Mute!" hissed Kasper, slamming the button.

Noémie put her face in her hands. Her shoulders shook. In the hall below, the chairman cleared his throat, and the session resumed. But for the rest of the afternoon, delegates kept glancing up at the booth with delighted smiles.

At five, the hall emptied. The two of them sat in the booth, red-faced, staring at the dead microphone.

"We'll be sacked," said Noémie.

"We'll be famous."

"The haddock," she said, and began to laugh again, helplessly.

He laughed too. He had a deep, slow, rolling laugh, and it filled the little glass room. When it died away, they sat in a warm silence, their knees almost touching. The blue evening light slanted through the glass.

"Can I ask you something?" said Kasper.

"Yes."

"May I kiss you? With the microphone off?"

"Yes," she said. "And if you say stop, you must interpret the budget debate."

"That is cruel."

"It's eleven hours long."

He kissed her, tentative and sweet, a hand rising to cup her cheek. She kissed him back, quick and then slow, her fingers curling in his rolled cuff. The booth hummed with the faint buzz of its dead equipment. The mute button glowed steady red.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Noémie. "Very green."

Their booth has a new sign on the glass: Live microphone. Please be sure.

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