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The Interpreter at Midnight
Arthur Pendelton dipped his fountain pen into the heavy glass inkwell and rubbed his aching temples, dreading the next sentence from across the mahogany table. It was three in the morning in the seaside villa, the coal stoves had long burned down to grey ash, and the two delegations had been arguing over a single territorial clause for five hours.
The foreign minister spoke with glacial deliberateness; the chief envoy, with barely concealed irritation. Between them sat Arthur, whose voice had grown hoarse from turning blunt ultimatums into polite diplomatic phrasing.
"Tell the minister that we cannot accept this phrasing," the envoy said, tapping a blunt pencil against the typed draft. "Nor will Parliament ratify any agreement containing such ambiguities."
Arthur translated the warning without embellishment. He knew he ought to soften the sharpest edges of the envoy's delivery, but professional duty forbade him to do so.