“There’s no translator, the deal is about to fall apart!” shouted the company owner. But then the young intern spoke fluent Korean
The new office chair gleamed with chrome armrests. Leather, height adjustment, a 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 meeting room.
My name is Diana. I am twenty-three years old, graduated with honors in Oriental Studies, and spent five years studying Korean — both spoken and written. And for five months now, I had been working as an intern at KomplektElectro, a company that supplied electronic components.
“Working” was putting it loudly. I carried documents to the tax office, ran out to buy lunch for Oleg Ivanovich, wiped his desk before meetings, and sorted incoming mail. Three times a week, I worked as a courier around the city: invoices, reconciliation statements, contracts. Twice a week, I washed mugs in the kitchen after planning meetings because, as they said, “well, someone has to.”
In five months, not one assignment related to my specialty. Not a single kopek of 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 glanced 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 your recommendation. That’s all. Any questions?”
“But I’m doing courier work. A courier gets thirty thousand.”
“A courier is a staff position. You are not. Any more questions?”
I left. I didn’t ask any more questions. But I had a notebook in my bag, and I wrote everything down every day.
On my application form, I had written: Korean language, level — fluent. Oleg Ivanovich skimmed 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 stayed silent. I wrote in my notebook: “January 14, first day, four hours — delivering documents, cleaning the director’s office.” I had started using that notebook for my internship report. All the hours, all the assignments — 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 my first day. “And don’t take it to heart. He’s like that with everyone.”
I drank tea. I didn’t take it to heart. I wrote down the hours.
In April, everything changed. The company began working with Korean suppliers — Sungjin Electronics. A contract worth twelve million rubles. Components for three factories. Negotiations were scheduled for the fifteenth.
The translator — a full-time one from an agency — did not show up. He called forty minutes before the meeting: tonsillitis, voice gone.
Oleg Ivanovich stood in the middle of the office, red as his leather planner.
“There’s no translator! The deal is about to fall apart!” His voice thundered 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 ding 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. Me.”
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, plus-minus five percent tolerance — I knew those words in Korean because at university I had translated technical documentation for two semesters.
Mr. Pak nodded approvingly to 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 notes without looking up. The engineer asked questions about standards — I translated those too.
When the Koreans left, Oleg Ivanovich loosened his tie. Kostya, who had sat silently for the entire two and a half hours, finally exhaled.
“Well, you did your part,” he muttered 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 clenched around my notebook. I wrote: “April 15, two and a half hours — oral interpretation, negotiations with Sungjin Electronics, 12-million-ruble contract.”
Then I went up to Oleg Ivanovich.
“I saved your contract. I want this reflected in my recommendation.”
He didn’t even turn around.
“What recommendation? You’re an intern. Be glad you’re getting experience. At your department, you can say you interpreted at real negotiations. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
I left. Svetlana’s eyes were wide.
“Diana,” she whispered, leaning over the desk. “Kostya was given a bonus. Eighty thousand. For ‘successful negotiations with Korean partners.’”
Eighty thousand. To Kostya. Who hadn’t said a single word in Korean the entire time. Who had sat beside me and nodded.
I returned to my stool. I opened my notebook. Underlined the line about the negotiations twice. In my desk drawer lay the business card. White, with Korean characters and Latin letters: “Pak Sunho, Purchasing 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 timelines, certification questions. All in Korean.
Oleg Ivanovich called me in.
“Here’s the situation. 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?”
“Apparently, delivering documents.”
Oleg Ivanovich turned crimson. The ring on his little finger flashed when 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 recommendation. 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 brilliantly conducted negotiations with the Koreans! 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 sent Oleg Ivanovich a message through internal mail:
“Dear Oleg Ivanovich, I am an intern. Oral and written translation are not included in my internship program. For correspondence with Sungjin Electronics, I recommend contacting Konstantin Yermakov, who, according to your 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 simply didn’t know Korean. And the automatic translator twisted the specifications so badly that the Koreans thought they were being offered completely different components.
Tuesday morning. I sat in an empty office and listened as Oleg Ivanovich spoke on the phone behind the wall. His voice carried through the thin partition — he didn’t even try to speak more quietly.
“No, no, the situation is under control. The translator is temporarily unavailable. We’ll find a replacement.”
A replacement. Five months of unpaid work, one hundred and twenty hours of translations, 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 hit like a blow. “I took you in, gave you an opportunity, and now you’re pulling tricks on me?”
“I’m not sabotaging anything. I’m an intern. Translation is not internship work.”
“Internship work is whatever I say it is!” He stood up, and his chair rolled back to the wall. “Do you even understand that without this contract, half the office could be out of work?”
“I understand. But translators should be paid.”
“Paid?” He laughed. Short, humorless. “You’re twenty-three. You don’t have a single day of experience. And you’re telling me ‘paid.’ Interns are disposable material! You should be saying thank you for 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 went outside to smoke — silently, sideways, as if he had never been there.
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.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll return to the correspondence.”
Oleg Ivanovich nodded.
“That’s my smart girl. And don’t forget — Kostya’s signature.”
I left. But I did not sit down to write emails.
I picked up my phone. I dialed the translation agency LingvaPro. 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 — from four thousand.”
“And a written translation?”
“One thousand two hundred per page.”
I wrote it 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 payment, that is a violation. A complaint can be filed. Evidence is needed: correspondence, assignments, working hours.
The notebook lay on the desk. One hundred thirty-two days. Every single one with an entry.
That same day, Oleg Ivanovich called me in again. This time, differently.
“Diana, I need a recommendation for your department. Write it yourself, and I’ll sign it.”
“And the letter of recommendation? You promised it in February.”
He grimaced. Rubbed the bridge of his nose. The ring shifted on his little finger.
“What letter? You haven’t done anything significant. 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. He managed the client, maintained contact, went to meetings.”
I opened my mouth to say that Kostya hadn’t gone to meetings, that I had maintained the 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 the notebook. One hundred and twenty hours of translation — “nothing significant.” A saved twelve-million-ruble contract — “translated a couple of times.” An eighty-thousand bonus to a man who didn’t 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.
“Fine, Oleg Ivanovich,” I said. “I understand.”
One hundred and twenty hours. I counted three times that evening while sitting in my 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 volume 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.
Telephone negotiations with the Korean side: fourteen calls, total duration eleven hours. Three thousand per hour — thirty-three thousand.
Total. I put a dot and circled the number.
Three hundred sixty thousand.
The lower limit. At market rates. No markups, no penalties, no compensation for moral damages.
Three hundred sixty thousand for work Oleg Ivanovich had called “nothing significant.”
The next morning was the final negotiation with Sungjin. Contract signing. Oleg Ivanovich invited the Koreans into the conference room with the new coffee machine and leather chairs.
He told me:
“You translate. You smile. Then you leave.”
I translated. Two hours without a break. Specifications, delivery schedules, warranty obligations. Mr. Pak watched me attentively. When it came time to sign, he took out his pen.
And then I stopped.
“Oleg Ivanovich, before the signing, I have a statement.”
He looked at me as if I had spilled coffee on the contract.
“What statement?”
I opened the folder. An ordinary cardboard folder, the kind I had carried documents in for the last five months.
“This is an invoice. For translation services that I provided to your company from January to June. One hundred and twenty hours of oral and written work. At 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 translated 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 yourself!”
“I agreed to an office administration internship. Not to free Korean translation.”
I placed a copy of my notebook on the table. Beside it — a printed price list from the translation agency. Beside that — the calculation on one sheet.
“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 did not pay you for the translations?”
“No, Mr. Pak. Not once. For five months.”
Pak slowly put away his pen.
“Oleg Ivanovich,” he addressed him through me, and there was something almost absurd about it, “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 pulsed at his temple.
“This is blackmail,” he said through his teeth. “You came here to learn, not to send 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 were sent to the labor inspectorate. This morning.”
Kostya stared at the table. Svetlana set the tray on the cabinet — her hands were shaking.
Oleg Ivanovich turned to Pak.
“Mr. Pak, this is an internal matter. We will 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 that had still not been signed.
At the door, I turned around. Svetlana was standing with the tray, looking at me. Her eyes were shining. She gave me a barely noticeable nod.
I went outside. May. Sun. The watch on my wrist showed eleven thirty.
For the first time in five months, I had no assignment 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, requested a copy of the notebook. Svetlana confirmed my hours. Quietly, over the phone, asking that her name not be mentioned.
The contract with Sungjin was hanging in the air. The Koreans had not refused, but they had not signed either. They were waiting.
And 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, people say, now tells everyone that I am “an ungrateful fraudster who blackmailed the company.” That nowadays, if you give interns even a little, they climb onto your neck.
But the notebook is lying in my desk drawer. One hundred thirty-two days. Every single one with an entry.
Three hundred sixty thousand for five months of work that was called “nothing significant” — was that a fair invoice or blackmail? Was it worth sending, or should I have simply left quietly and not damaged my reputation?