“Don't make yourself smaller to protect somebody else's opinion,” Celia would tell her.
Her father offered different advice.
“Know your numbers. If they won't listen to your introduction, make them listen to your evidence.”
Elena tried to remember both.
Milan died when she was twenty.
His death came after a short illness, leaving the family with grief and financial responsibilities they hadn't expected.
Celia continued working, but her health deteriorated the following year.
Elena took additional jobs.
Tutored students.
Translated documents.
Worked event service.
And eventually moved to Paris after securing partial funding for graduate study in international economic policy.
The scholarship was prestigious.
It was also insufficient to cover every expense.
Paris was expensive.
Tuition wasn't the only cost.
There was rent, transportation, books, and the money Elena regularly sent home to help her mother.
So she worked at La Verrière.
The restaurant occupied the upper floor of a historic building overlooking the Seine. Its private dining room was famous among visiting executives, diplomats, wealthy tourists, and people who considered dinner an opportunity to demonstrate their social importance.
Elena had worked there for eleven months.
She understood formal service.
Could recommend wines.
Memorized complicated menus.
And learned which guests preferred conversation and which expected the staff to remain almost invisible.
She liked some parts of the work.
The precision.
The coordination.
The way a well-run dining room depended upon people cooperating without constantly giving instructions.
But she disliked the way certain guests treated service workers as though the uniform erased their intelligence.
A woman once asked whether Elena knew how to spell her own name.
A businessman requested that someone “more educated” explain a French menu item even after Elena answered correctly.
And a private guest complained that she spoke English too clearly, saying it made her accent difficult to place.
Elena had developed a method of surviving.
She remained polite.
Recorded what needed recording.
Finished her shift.
And returned to the apartment where her notebooks reminded her who she was outside the restaurant.
That morning, her research supervisor called at eight-fifteen.
Professor Camila Ibarra was a respected economist in her late forties, originally from Spain, with years of experience evaluating cross-border investment projects.
She was demanding.
Direct.
And impatient with careless reasoning.
Elena admired her enormously.
“Have you finished the revised note?” Camila asked in Spanish.
“Yes, Professor.”
“And the distinction between binding contracts and preliminary expressions of interest?”