I was opening my laptop and preparing for my presentation when she entered my field of vision. She was utterly out of place for a business meeting: wearing jeans and a bright red tank top, with her blonde hair tied up in a bun.
A gold necklace around her neck. Gold earrings in both ears. A man dressed in black approached and pulled out a leather chair; without so much as a glance at her surroundings, she sat down with a heavy thud.
It was Mary Schmidt herself. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I hadn’t been told she would be attending today, but it was too late to change the schedule. My only option was to use the materials I had prepared and deliver the presentation exactly as I had practiced.
I walked toward her, bowed, and leaned my upper body and arms across the polished mahogany table to present my business card. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she didn’t even lift her back from the chair; she simply pinched the card with her fingertips and discarded it on the table. That was all. She didn’t give me one of hers, nor did she offer an excuse for not having any.
As she stroked my card with her finger, she spoke. “Hiroshi Nakamura…?”
“Yes, Ma’am.” No, perhaps I should have said “Miss.”
The conversation died there.
The other man, the one in black, remained in the corner of the room fiddling with a headset. He looked less like a butler or a moderator and more like her bodyguard.
She was watching me.
I began to talk about business right there in front of her. In this situation, it felt like the only possible move.
Resigned, I returned to my PC, connected the HDMI cable, looked around the room with a forced smile, and gave a brief introduction. I flipped through the cover of the slides I had stayed up all night creating, and used the second slide for a short self-introduction. I was just about to explain the overview of the project on the third slide when—
“It’s bright.”
She narrowed her eyes, cutting me off.
“Eh?”
“It’s so bright outside…”
For a moment, I thought she was complimenting my presentation as being “bright”—meaning intelligent. I was wrong.
Striped beams of light leaked through the blinds, carving out the contours of her face like a piece of projection mapping, turning the stray hairs on the nape of her neck into shimmering gold. People who didn’t have work today were likely outside, enjoying a stroll or basking in the sun.
Did she have no intention of listening to my presentation? Was there something she disliked? Had I done something rude?
Or was she simply unmotivated? If so, why even bother showing up?
“Is it too bright?”
“Yes. It’s a beautiful day today, isn’t it?”
“My apologies.”
She must have meant that the outside light made the slides difficult to see.
Though I knew it wasn’t my job, I walked over to the window, pulled the cord, and closed the blinds completely. Only the glow of the display remained in the room, and her silhouette sank into the dimness. I regained my composure and continued the explanation.
“Let’s go for a drive, Hiroshi.”
“A drive?”
“Yes.”
“Unfortunately, I took a taxi here today.”
“I have a car.”
“I see.”
By “her car,” I assumed she meant a vehicle owned by her foundation, complete with a professional chauffeur. Given the weather, perhaps she wanted to go somewhere less gloomy and have a frank discussion over lunch. Yes, like a celebrity, perhaps opening a bottle of wine. Why did she want to be so personally involved in this project? I didn’t know. If this were a negotiation between two top executives, it would make sense. But I was nothing more than an office worker who had just finished grad school and started his first job.
The bottle of Volvic prepared for me remained untouched. The hundred-page document I had painstakingly prepared over several months had just become useless.
Was she intentionally playing the part of a whimsical, arrogant client? Was this some kind of tactical maneuver? Why involve a novice like me? Or perhaps she was offended that someone as low-ranking as I was sent? Was her plan to drag me to lunch just to humiliate me, knowing I lacked etiquette and manners?
Paranoid thoughts flooded my mind one after another.
She stood up abruptly. At the sound of her leather chair creaking sharply, I hurriedly snapped my laptop shut, yanked out the AC adapter, slid it into my briefcase, and glanced around to make sure I hadn’t forgotten anything.
She tapped something on her smartphone, and the bookshelf behind her slid open to reveal a door.
What on earth? A secret room? For a secret room, it was abnormally narrow.
“Come on, get in.”
Get in? Ah, an elevator.
The mustachioed attendant remained standing there with a blank expression. Was he not coming?
Leaving him behind, I stepped into the cramped box after her. It seemed to be her own private, direct elevator. In the complete enclosure, I was alone with her. Finally, I saw her face clearly under the light. I realized she was almost as tall as I was. Her shoes had almost no heel, and I am relatively tall for a man. In other words, she was exceptionally tall for a woman. Despite her size, she had no scent of perfume or body odor. If anything, I became self-conscious about the smell of my own sweat. Up close, I could see she wore very light makeup. However, because her features were naturally bold, it looked more dramatic than it actually was for someone of her age.
She wasn’t looking at me, yet she was looking at me. That is the only way I can describe it. I could feel her intense gaze. Was I being oversensitive? No. I simply didn’t know if I was allowed to look at her or not. My saccadic eye movements must have been several times faster than usual.
She glanced at her wristwatch. A high-end automatic. A Swiss tourbillon, perhaps?
“We still have plenty of time. Let’s go far.”
“Yes. Please, as you wish.”
I had no idea what was happening. I could only go with the flow.
The white LED indicators above the door blinked and gradually shifted to the left. The elevator descended rapidly, passing the ground floor and heading deep underground. When it reached the bottom floor, the doors opened. As we stepped out, the lights dimmed on slowly.
A smell I hadn’t encountered since I was a child. Kerosene? No, gasoline.
There, several antique gasoline cars were lined up, their hoods polished to a mirror shine. It looked like the automotive museums I had visited on school field trips as a child.
“Which one do you want, Hiroshi?”
“Which one? You can’t possibly mean we’re taking one of these old cars.”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Are they properly maintained?”
“Of course. Every single one is fully operational.”
“Have they passed inspection? Are they compatible with autonomous driving functions?”
“Obviously they’ve passed inspection. But I haven’t added any unnecessary gadgets like autonomous driving.”
“Unnecessary gadgets”?
My bad feeling was confirmed.
“Then I cannot drive it. I don’t have the kind of insurance required for that.”
“I didn’t tell you to drive. I’ll be the one driving.”
“Um, Ms. Schmidt…”
“Call me Mary.”
She knit her brows, shutting me down before I could say another word. Was she intending to force me to indulge her hobby without question? To put me in her favorite car?
Yes. Her name was Mary Schmidt. I had only met her twenty minutes ago, but I knew who she was without needing a business card. I hadn’t researched her for today’s presentation. Regardless of work, many people—not just me—knew her. She was a celebrity. The only daughter of the Schmidt Conglomerate.
“Rolls-Royce? Or would you prefer a Ferrari?”
Was there nothing less powerful? A Volkswagen or a Mini Cooper, perhaps?
“If you won’t decide, I will.”
With that, Mary promptly climbed into a two-tone Porsche 911 Carrera S Cabriolet, with a black soft top and a white body.
It looked like a model from around 2020.
“Mary. Forgive me, but how old are you?”
“My age? I just turned eighteen.”
“Do you have a driver’s license?”
“I got it as soon as I turned eighteen.”
“Which means, have you actually driven on public roads?”
“I’ve driven every day since I got my license.”
“And how many days has that been?”
“Let’s see. About seven days. No, maybe five.”
“And you expect me to sit in the passenger seat?”
“Obviously. Or would you prefer the trunk?”
I realized I had asked a stupid question. A Porsche Carrera has no rear seats. Furthermore, since it is rear-engined, the trunk is under the front hood. How terrifying it would be to be locked in such a place.
This was no joke.
It is true that even in this day and age, “humans” are not completely forbidden from driving cars. It is the same as how there are still no explicit regulations forbidding horse-drawn carriages or riding horses on public roads. Nowadays, almost no one grips the steering wheel and presses the accelerator and brake themselves. If they do, it’s usually a hardcore enthusiast taking a Jeep off-road. Even those who manually drive for specific reasons normally use autonomous
driving on public roads.
If a human drives a car without autonomous assistance and causes an accident, the negligence is treated with extreme severity. A fatal accident is treated almost the same as manslaughter. Moreover, the insurance premiums for those who do not use autonomous driving are abysmal. On top of that, cars running on old-world gasoline engines are no longer manufactured, are astronomically expensive, parts are scarce, maintenance costs are outrageous, and the inspections are dreadfully complex due to emission regulations.
Then again, she is an ultra-celebrity with money to burn. The people around her handle all the tedious details. She drives a gasoline car simply to flaunt her status to the world. Whether she dies or kills someone is her own business.
However, she said she has only been on public roads for a week. Which means my life is in danger.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you getting in?”
She called me, sounding impatient. The skin of her broad forehead was very thin, with several veins visible, making her look all the more high-strung.
“If I don’t get in, will you not sign the contract?”
“Contract?”
“Yes. I came here today as a representative of my company to explain the partnership plan between our two firms.”
“Oh, that. Let me tell you something: unlike you, I don’t have the time to explain things to you, nor do I have the time to listen to your explanations.”
“Yes. I am well aware of that.”
Then send a practical manager instead of a top executive like yourself, the words almost escaped my throat.
“Decide now: either you go home, or you get in.”
“I understand.”
I decided to get in without resisting. Not resisting is my policy.
The interior was upholstered in bright red genuine leather. Not just the top and seats, but every single small part—even pieces that looked like plastic at first glance—was meticulously covered in leather. We were enveloped in the scent of leather.