The new office chair gleamed with chrome armrests. Leather, adjustable height, headrest — twenty-five thousand rubles at least. Oleg Ivanovich had bought it for Kostya, the sales manager. And for the fifth month in a row, I was sitting on a stool from the conference room.
My name is Diana. Twenty-three years old, an honors degree in Oriental Studies, five years of Korean — spoken and written. And for the past five months, I had been working as an intern at a company called KomplektElectro, which supplied components for electronics.
“Working” was a generous word. I carried documents to the tax office, ran out to get lunch for Oleg Ivanovich, wiped down his desk before meetings, and sorted incoming mail. Three times a week, I worked as a courier around the city: delivery notes, reconciliation statements, contracts. Twice a week, I washed mugs in the kitchen after planning meetings because “well, someone has to do it.”
In five months, I had not received a single assignment related to my field. Not one kopeck in salary.
In February, I approached Oleg Ivanovich.
“Oleg Ivanovich, when will I be officially registered? I’ve already been working for two months.”
He looked up from his monitor and peered at me over his glasses.
“Registered for what?”
“A labor contract. Or at least a paid internship agreement.”
“Diana, you’re an intern. An internship is an internship. Your department gives you credit, and I write you a reference. That’s all. Any questions?”
“But I’m doing courier work. A courier earns thirty thousand.”
“A courier is a staff position. You are not. Any more questions?”
I left. I stopped asking questions. But there was a notebook in my bag, and every day, I wrote everything down.
On my application form, I had written: Korean language, level — fluent. Oleg Ivanovich glanced over it, snorted, and tossed the folder into a drawer.
“Korean? Right now I need someone to wash dishes in the kitchen, not conquer Korea.”
I said nothing. I wrote in my notebook: “January 14, first day, four hours — delivering documents, cleaning the director’s office.”
I had started that notebook for my internship report. Every hour, every task — in columns, by date.
Svetlana, the accountant, looked at me from behind the partition with an expression as if she wanted to say something but didn’t dare.
“At least have some tea,” she whispered on the first day. “And don’t take it too much to heart. He’s like that with everyone.”
I drank tea. I didn’t take it to heart. I recorded the hours.
In April, everything changed. The company started working with Korean suppliers — Sungjin Electronics. A contract worth twelve million rubles. Components for three factories. The negotiations were scheduled for the fifteenth.
The interpreter — a full-time specialist from an agency — did not show up. He called forty minutes before the meeting: tonsillitis, lost his voice.
Oleg Ivanovich stood in the middle of the office, red as his leather planner.
“There’s no interpreter! The deal is on the verge of falling through!” his voice boomed across the entire floor. “Twelve million! Does anyone here understand anything?”
Kostya was silent. Svetlana was silent. Everyone was silent.
The Korean delegation was already coming up in the elevator. Three people: Mr. Pak, an engineer, and an assistant. I heard the elevator chime on our floor.
My heart beat exactly once — and I stood up.
“Oleg Ivanovich, I can do it. My Korean is fluent. Five years at university, two years of speaking practice with native speakers.”
He stared at me as if the stool had started talking.
“You? The intern?”
“Yes.”
The negotiations lasted two and a half hours. I interpreted orally: Oleg Ivanovich to the Koreans, the Koreans to Oleg Ivanovich. Technical terms, specifications, tolerances, logistics. Resistors, capacitors, tolerance plus or minus five percent — I knew those words in Korean because at university I had translated technical documentation for two semesters.
Mr. Pak nodded approvingly at me twice. During the coffee break, he came up to me, handed me his business card, and said in Korean:
“You work well. Clearly and without anything unnecessary.”
The assistant wrote everything down without looking up. The engineer asked questions about standards — I interpreted those too.
When the Koreans left, Oleg Ivanovich loosened his tie. Kostya, who had spent the entire two and a half hours sitting silently, finally exhaled.
“Well, you did your part,” he said without looking at me. “Go on, there’s still mail to sort.”
No “thank you.” No “well done.” No “you saved us.”
I stood by the office door. My fingers tightened around my notebook. I wrote: “April 15, two and a half hours — oral interpretation, negotiations with Sungjin Electronics, 12-million-ruble contract.”
Then I approached Oleg Ivanovich.
“I saved your contract. I want that reflected in my reference.”
He didn’t even turn around.
“What reference? You’re an intern. Be glad you’re getting experience. You’ll tell your department you interpreted at real negotiations. Sounds impressive, doesn’t it?”
I left. Svetlana’s eyes were wide.
“Diana,” she whispered, leaning over her desk. “They gave Kostya a bonus. Eighty thousand. For ‘successful negotiations with Korean partners.’”
Eighty thousand. To Kostya. The man who had not said a single word in Korean the entire time. The man who had sat beside me and nodded.
I returned to my stool. Opened my notebook. Underlined the line about the negotiations twice.
In my desk drawer lay a business card. White, with Korean characters and Latin letters: “Pak Sun-ho, Procurement Director, Sungjin Electronics.” Mr. Pak had handed it to me after the negotiations. Not to Oleg Ivanovich. Not to Kostya. To me. I hid it in my notebook between the pages.
After the April negotiations, the Koreans sent emails every week. Clarifications on specifications, delivery deadlines, certification questions. All in Korean.
Oleg Ivanovich called me in.
“Here’s how it’s going to be. You translate the emails and write the replies. Just sign them in Kostya’s name. He’s the lead manager on this project.”
“I’m an intern. Translation is not part of my duties,” I said.
“What is part of your duties?”
“Delivering documents, apparently.”
Oleg Ivanovich turned crimson. The ring on his little finger flashed as he slammed his palm on the desk.
“Listen carefully. You’re doing an internship. You’re being given real tasks. You’re learning. For that, you get experience and a reference. Don’t like it? The door is right there.”
I translated. I signed: “Konstantin Yermakov, International Supply Manager.” I recorded every email in my notebook: date, subject, time — from forty minutes to an hour and a half for complex specifications. In three weeks, there were twenty-two emails.
Kostya received thanks from the Koreans. They wrote to Oleg Ivanovich that Mr. Yermakov was handling the negotiations excellently.
On Friday, there was a company party — the firm’s anniversary. Oleg Ivanovich raised his glass.
“To Kostya! He handled the negotiations with the Koreans brilliantly! A twelve-million-ruble contract — and this is only the beginning!”
Everyone applauded. Kostya stood up, smiled, and nodded.
I stood by the wall with a plastic cup. Svetlana came over and touched my elbow.
“I know it was you,” she said quietly. “Everyone knows. But no one will say it.”
“Why?”
“Because of Oleg Ivanovich.”
On Monday, I stopped translating. I wrote Oleg Ivanovich a message through the internal mail system:
“Dear Oleg Ivanovich, I am an intern, and oral and written translation are not part of my internship program. Regarding correspondence with Sungjin Electronics, I recommend contacting Konstantin Yermakov, who, according to your own words, is managing this project. Respectfully, Diana.”
Two days later, the Koreans wrote directly to Oleg:
“Where is Diana? We need the previous contact. The quality of the correspondence has dropped sharply.”
Oleg Ivanovich summoned Kostya. Kostya could not answer a single technical email. Not because he was stupid — he did not know Korean. And the automatic translator confused the specifications so badly that the Koreans thought they were being offered completely different components.
Tuesday morning. I was sitting in the empty office, listening to Oleg Ivanovich speaking on the phone behind the wall. His voice carried through the thin partition — he didn’t even try to lower it.
“No, no, the situation is under control. The interpreter is temporarily unavailable. We’ll find a replacement.”
A replacement. Five months of unpaid work, one hundred and twenty hours of translation, twenty-two emails, one negotiation — and I was still a “replacement.”
Oleg Ivanovich called me into his office. He didn’t close the door — the whole department could hear.
“So, sabotage?” His voice was quiet, but every word landed like a blow. “I took you in, gave you an opportunity, and now you’re pulling tricks?”
“I’m not sabotaging anything. I’m an intern. Translation is not an internship.”
“An internship is whatever I say it is!” He stood up, and his chair rolled back toward the wall. “Do you even understand that without this contract, half the office will be out of work?”
“I understand. But an interpreter should be paid.”
“Paid?” He laughed. Briefly, without amusement. “You’re twenty-three. You don’t have a single day of real work experience. And you’re telling me, ‘paid.’ Interns are disposable material! Be grateful you’re getting experience instead of standing out on the street!”
Three people in the office lowered their eyes. Svetlana froze with a cup in her hand. Kostya slipped out for a smoke — silently, sideways, as if he had nothing to do with any of this.
I stood in front of his desk. My arms hung at my sides. The watch on my wrist ticked so loudly it felt as if the entire floor could hear it.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll return to the correspondence.”
Oleg Ivanovich nodded.
“That’s more like it. And don’t forget — Kostya’s signature.”
I left. But I did not sit down to handle the correspondence.
I sat down with my phone. I dialed LingvaPro Translation Bureau and asked for their rates.
“Korean, simultaneous oral interpretation?” The girl on the other end paused. “Three thousand rubles per hour. That’s the minimum rate. For technical negotiations, it starts at four.”
“And written translation?”
“One thousand two hundred per page.”
I wrote it down in my notebook. Then I called the labor inspectorate hotline. The conversation lasted eleven minutes. The consultant explained: if an intern performs the functions of a staff employee without registration and pay, that is a violation. A complaint can be filed. Evidence is needed: correspondence, assignments, working hours.
The notebook lay on the desk. One hundred and thirty-two days. Each one recorded.
That same day, Oleg Ivanovich called me in again. This time, differently.
“Diana, I need a reference for your department. Write it yourself, and I’ll sign it.”
“And the recommendation letter? You promised one in February.”
He grimaced. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. The ring swayed on his little finger.
“What letter? You haven’t done anything significant. You translated a couple of times — so what? Any student with an app on their phone can do that. I give letters to people who actually work. Kostya, for example — I’ll give him one. He handled the client, maintained contact, went to meetings.”
I opened my mouth to say that Kostya had not gone to any meetings, that I had maintained contact, that the client knew only my name. But I said nothing. Because Oleg Ivanovich had already turned back to his monitor. For him, the conversation was over.
My fingers turned white around the spine of my notebook. One hundred and twenty hours of translation — “nothing significant.” A twelve-million-ruble contract saved — “translated a couple of times.” An eighty-thousand bonus to a man who did not know a word of Korean — “real work.”
I looked at the signet ring on his little finger. At his red face. At the twenty-five-thousand-ruble chair standing in Kostya’s office.
“All right, Oleg Ivanovich,” I said. “I understand.”
One hundred and twenty hours. I recalculated it three times that evening while sitting in the kitchen. The notebook was open on the table, a calculator beside it.
Oral negotiations: one meeting, two and a half hours. Three thousand per hour — seven and a half thousand.
Written translations: twenty-two emails, average length — two pages. One thousand two hundred per page — fifty-two thousand eight hundred.
Preparation for negotiations, studying technical documentation, correspondence: ninety-three hours. Minimum rate — one thousand five hundred per hour. One hundred thirty-nine thousand five hundred.
Phone negotiations with the Korean side: fourteen calls, total duration eleven hours. Three thousand per hour — thirty-three thousand.
Total. I put a period and circled the number.
Three hundred sixty thousand.
The lower limit. At market rates. No markups, no penalties, no compensation for emotional damages.
Three hundred sixty thousand for work Oleg Ivanovich called “nothing significant.”
The next morning, the final negotiations with Sungjin were scheduled. Contract signing. Oleg Ivanovich invited the Koreans into the conference room with the new coffee machine and leather chairs.
He told me:
“Translate. Smile. Then leave.”
I translated. Two hours without a break. Specifications, delivery schedules, warranty obligations. Mr. Pak watched me attentively. When they reached the signing stage, he took out his pen.
And then I stopped.
“Oleg Ivanovich, before the signing, I have a statement to make.”
He looked at me as if I had poured coffee on the contract.
“What statement?”
I opened the folder. An ordinary cardboard folder, the same kind I had carried documents in for the past five months.
“This is an invoice. For translation services I provided to your company from January to June. One hundred and twenty hours of oral and written work. At the market rate — three hundred sixty thousand rubles.”
Silence. Kostya’s mouth fell open. Svetlana, who had come in to offer tea, froze in the doorway.
“Are you completely out of your mind?” Oleg Ivanovich hissed. “You’re an intern!”
“An intern delivers documents and makes copies. I interpreted negotiations, conducted business correspondence, and ensured communication with a foreign partner. That is the work of a staff translator. Without registration and without pay.”
“You agreed to it yourself!”
“I agreed to an administrative internship. Not to unpaid Korean translation.”
I placed a copy of my notebook on the table. Next to it, a printed price list from the translation bureau. Next to that, a one-page calculation.
“Here are the hours. Here are the market rates. Here is the total.”
Mr. Pak looked at me. Then he asked in Korean:
“Diana-ssi, they didn’t pay you for the translations?”
“No, Mr. Pak. Not once. For five months.”
Pak slowly put his pen away.
“Oleg Ivanovich,” he addressed him through me, which felt almost absurd, “we will sign when the issue with the translator is resolved. We work with companies that respect their employees.”
Oleg Ivanovich turned a color I had not seen in all five months. A vein in his temple began to pulse.
“This is blackmail,” he spat. “You came here to learn, not to issue invoices.”
“I came here to learn. And I learned how to count,” I replied. “A copy of this invoice and a description of the situation have been sent to the labor inspectorate. This morning.”
Kostya stared at the table. Svetlana put the tray down on a cabinet — her hands were shaking.
Oleg Ivanovich turned to Pak.
“Mr. Pak, this is an internal matter. We’ll resolve it.”
Pak shook his head.
“An internal matter that concerns our translator is our matter too,” he answered. In Korean. And looked at me.
I gathered my folder. Took off my intern badge and placed it on the table beside the contract, which remained unsigned.
At the door, I turned around. Svetlana stood there with the tray, looking at me. Her eyes were shining. She gave me a barely noticeable nod.
I stepped outside. May. Sunlight. The watch on my wrist showed eleven thirty.
For the first time in five months, I had no task for the next hour.
Three weeks passed.
Oleg Ivanovich did not pay. But the labor inspectorate began an investigation — they called me, clarified the details, and requested a copy of my notebook. Svetlana confirmed my hours. Quietly, over the phone, asking that her name not be mentioned.
The Sungjin contract stalled. The Koreans did not refuse, but they did not sign either. They waited.
Then Mr. Pak called. Personally. On the number I had left him back in April.
“Diana-ssi, we have a position for a coordinator working with Russian suppliers. Translation, negotiations, documentation. You are a good fit for us.”
The salary was four times higher than what Kostya had earned at KomplektElectro.
Oleg Ivanovich, they say, tells everyone that I am an “ungrateful fraudster who blackmailed the company.” That these days, if you give interns even a little, they’ll climb onto your neck.
And the notebook is lying in my desk. One hundred and thirty-two days. Each one recorded.
Three hundred sixty thousand for five months of work that was called “nothing significant” — was that a fair invoice or blackmail? Was it worth presenting it, or should I have simply left quietly and not damaged my reputation?
