This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.

Copyright © 2014 by X. A. J. Morêt-Bailly

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Chapter 2.
A week in Seoul, a few days in San Diego

The austere meeting room was buzzing with the slightly muffled murmur of conversations and the rustling of papers manipulated by the dozen attendees. The strict symmetry of the long varnished table matched the sobriety of the attire of the men sprawled in large leather chairs around it: dark suits, white shirts, discrete ties and strictly cropped hair, the impression of uniformity was striking. There were representatives of the various authorities in charge of the civil nuclear industry in South Korea, a delegation from Mongolia, and the small group of French who defended the interests of the French leader in nuclear energy, Avero.

A member of the latter group, Galatea was the only discordant note in this group of otherwise homogeneous appearance. Despite her efforts to produce a polite and discreet façade, you couldn't miss her. It was simple: she was the youngest, she was the only woman, and she was lively and smiling. However, although the effects of jetlag started to be felt - she had arrived in Seoul that same morning - she was completely absorbed in her work as she actively participated in the discussion, with the confidence conferred by hours of hard work spent preparing this negotiation. The stakes were high: after years spent in the shadow of the great leaders or conducting deals with only a small chance of getting through, she finally had her chance to shine at the highest level.

A few months ago, the UAE had entered talks with South Korea regarding the construction of the first nuclear power plants in the UAE. In this context, it was expected that Korea Electric Power would provide technical support for the construction of said centrals and assume leadership of the overall project, while the French Avero would provide the fuel to the Korean group Kepco Nuclear Fuels - enriched uranium of course, as the ore itself was to be sourced in Mongolia with a consortium called MonAtom. When Galatea had been appointed to lead the negotiations, it had seemed that Avero's chances to win the deal were low, since the French hadn't won the main contract for the construction and management of the plants themselves. But things had suddenly changed a few weeks ago, when their main competitor on the fuel segment had suddenly been involved in a large and highly publicized bribes scandal. The practice was not uncommon for contracts of such strategic significance, but it was still necessary to remain discreet - and not get caught. At any rate, Avero was now the only bidder on that portion of the contract, and Galatea found herself at the forefront to negotiate a deal of which only she mastered all elements. Too bad only that her boss had arranged to be present as well: although his knowledge of the deal was superficial, Galatea knew that their interlocutors preferred to speak to this man of similar age and corpulence rather than to her, the too pretty, too young and too bubbly Galatea - which was frankly unnerving. She had to constantly resist the temptation to turn into a chatterbox to assert her competence and monopolize the conversation - a tendency that was only too natural to her talkative personality, and which usually got worse when she was tired as now.

The meeting, which was only a preliminary to the actual negotiations scheduled to take place in the following days, was however going well: Avero was in a strong position, if only because they were the entity with the greatest experience of this type of contracts: complex, touching on all aspects of the nuclear value chain, and with an international dimension involving multiple partners. Moreover, as Galatea didn't hesitate to repeat several times:

"Due to the scandal afflicting our competitor, Avero has become the only possible counterpart for the supply of fuel, the sole company with the ability to supply the required volumes within the timeframe imposed by our Emirati partners."After a pause, she added: " And our contribution is all the most important that, as you all know, political support from the international community to this project has been obtained because the UAE have publicly promised that they will not be enriching themselves the uranium, but will source it on the international markets following a standard commercial process." The argument was well-rehearsed, its various points were repeated over and over again, so that when the meeting ended it was clear to everyone that Avero would lead the ball in the upcoming negotiations.

The atmosphere became more cordial, and even relaxed, at the dinner that followed. The Koreans had booked a room in a restaurant - one of the best in Seoul - which served traditional Korean cuisine, called hanjeongsik, following a precise and elegant ancestral protocol. The head of the Korean delegation, an elderly man named Jun Kyung-Woo, leaned towards Galatea when everyone was seated around the completely empty table: "You will see - where there is nothing, suddenly, there will be an abundance." And indeed: instead of the sequential service practiced in Europe, the servers came together and within moments the table was loaded with an abundance of delicious-looking dishes: grilled abalone with fried gingko berries, breaded ginger duck fillets, fish dumplings topped with egg foam... Galatea didn't know where to turn her chopsticks. As the bottles of soju came and went, while the glasses were repeatedly filled and emptied, everyone's tongues started getting untied and the Minister of Mineral Resources and Energy of Mongolia, who was sitting across from Galatea, suddenly spit out to her:

"Galatea, you are an impressive negotiator. But really, Avero's strong position would not exist if our government didn't support the provision of uranium. No uranium, no fuel, he he he…"

Galatea hesitated: she had hoped that the Mongolian delegation would not raise this point, but it was true that the partnership between French and Mongols for the exploitation of their mineral resources had recently encountered a number of political uncertainties, to the point where she'd started collecting information about a potential alternative sourcing in Kazakhstan. If, for one reason or another, the Mongols were to withdraw now from the partnership, it would suddenly become difficult to commit to the deadlines expected by the UAE. She chose to answer with one of her usual pirouettes:

"Come on, Mr Manlaijav, you wouldn't want to disappoint me like that, now would you?" she asked with a mischievous smile, a twinkle in the eye. Immediately, she saw her interlocutor soften up as he entered her game:

"Well, if it was only for you, I certainly wouldn't. Who would want to disappoint such a charming young lady? You remind me of my daughter, her hair is just as black and shiny as yours…"

"Oh really? She must be beautiful then, no doubt? How old is she?"

"Probably just a little younger than you: she is twenty-six, but she's actually celebrating her birthday three days from now, here in Seoul! Look, here is a picture of her… Her name is Sarantuyya, which means Moonshine."

Galatea looked at the picture, where a young woman with sophisticated makeup was smiling from under a fluffy fur hat. The fur looked so soft that inevitably the eyes of the young woman, circled as they were with kohl, had a hard look to them, but the whole picture was nevertheless pleasant.

"Why is she celebrating her birthday here, and not at home in Mongolia?"

"Because she wants a big party, with lots of people! There will even be a concert by that famous Korean singer she likes, what's his name again? Well, if he doesn't cancel, that is…" the Minister added with a grin. "Anyway, you are all invited, you shoulds all come!"

The offer was very tempting for a party girl like Galatea. She was nevertheless about to politely decline when her boss suddenly interjected:

"But of course, we will be there, thank you so much for the invitation!"

Galatea opened wide eyes: contrary to her, her boss really had nothing of the party animal. What was up with him? However, she started to understand where he was going when he added:

"But you were saying that this famous singer you've booked for this exceptional event might not be able to make it?"

"Um, well, it was a long shot anyway. He is kind of a superstar in Asia, and very busy. But, you know, nothing is too big for my dear Sarantuyya! I am supposed to go and pay his fee tomorrow, so I guess it will be fully confirmed then. Hopefully he will be impressed by the fact that the Ministry himself comes to meet him!"

Galatea's boss gave her a pointed look, observed a short pause, then replied:

"Oh, but tomorrow is going to be so busy – you know what, I have an idea: why don't we have Galatea go and meet him? As you just said, she is an excellent negotiator. I know for a fact that she won't come back without having secured his participation. Right, Galatea?"

Flabbergasted, Galatea didn't answer immediately. The suggestion shocked her on several levels: first, because it was implicitly understood that, if the Minister accepted it, Avero would pay the artist's fee for a concert which could only be described as private - on that point, she was nonetheless appreciative of the subtlety with which her boss had brought up the offer. It was self-evident that, if Avero did such a favor to the Minister, it would not be without compensation: it would suddenly become much more difficult for M. Manlaijav not to support Avero in future negotiations. But what irked Galatea most was the position in which her boss was putting her: what, suddenly she was only good for running around Seoul to satisfy the Prince's desires, while her boss took her place at the negotiating table? Not to mention the fact that, while she was quite prepared to negotiate a nuclear deal, she was on the contrary not all ready to do the same with a whimsical pop star!

All eyes were on her as her response took a long time coming:

"Well yes, of course! There is simply no better negotiator than me!" she finally belched through clenched teeth.

"Then it's a deal!" her boss went on. "Let's try to have you do that early tomorrow morning, so you don't miss too much of the negotiations. So… you should probably go to bed now, so you can get to it bright and early tomorrow morning!" he added with a booming laugh.

Galatea could not believe it: in addition to the rest, her boss had found a way to get rid of her for the rest of the evening. She knew very well what this was about: in this type of negotiation, particularly in Asia, dinner was followed by other types of entertainment. Everyone started by going to a bar for a drink and a dance, and if strippers or prostitutes came to join the party, everyone was the merrier for it - provided, however, that the company was exclusively masculine. Galatea knew that her presence was an embarrassment, an obstacle to the building of the personal relationships that eventually facilitate trade relations, but she liked to party too much to let it stop her, and had until now always been one of the last ones to go to bed - and the first one to get up the next morning, earning herself the admiration of her male colleagues for her incomparable endurance.

But her boss was leaning once more towards her: "And you'll make sure to buy a royal gift to the Minister's daughter, of course. French luxury de rigueur, there must be a Chanel or Hermes store somewhere in Seoul..."

Containing her anger, her jaws tightly clenched, Galatea nodded in assent.

The next morning, it is a pretty wound up Galatea who presented herself at the entrance of the elegant building of Nonhyeon district which housed the famous Jang Jun-Ki's production company. She hadn't slept well, and to energize herself - or to calm herself down, she wasn't sure which was her main motivation - had decided to walk the short mile that separated her hotel in the business district Cheongdam-Dong and the place of rendezvous. A bad decision, she'd quickly realized as her feet started to ache. Really, why had she chosen her most elegant suit and these heels when she could have just gone back to her hotel before going to the meeting, her mission accomplished? At least it wasn't too hot, nor too cold - a beautiful autumn weather, but one that did not preclude the possibility of a downpour at one time or another. "With my luck these days, it will fall on me just now." she growled while scanning mobile cloud cover over her head.

Entering the building, she walked up to the receptionist: "Hi, I am here to meet with, ahem... er, Mister... Jang Jun-Ki. Or his manager." she added in an indifferent tone. "I have an appointment." The young woman to whom she'd handed her passport looked at her with a vaguely shocked mien, picked up the phone to confirm the appointment, before mutely pointing her to the elevator. "Why in the world did she look at me like that? I can not help it if I have a little trouble with all these complicated names... I, at least, can speak English, ha!" she thought with a grimace as she waited for the elevator. On either side of the tall golden doors whose opening she was awaiting, two large cardboard dummies displayed the picture of a smiling young man holding a guitar, with several chains around his neck and way too much eyeliner. Once on the sixth floor, Galatea was showed into a large and bright office, and asked to sit in a comfortable armchair. Pulling out her phone, she started going through her emails, answering the most urgent ones, classifying the ones who didn't call for action on her part, adding others to her to-do list. Though absorbed by this task, she was nevertheless acutely aware of time passing: it was almost time for the negotiations to resume, and she had already been waiting for nearly half an hour. Standing up, she walked around the office for a while, then decided to ask the assistant who had welcomed her how much longer she had to wait - letting out a sigh of frustration when, with an explicit movement of her hands, the assistant expressed her ignorance. Pausing, she thought for a moment. Could she possibly proceed to the payment with the assistant and ask her to get confirmation from the singer or his manager for her? Or maybe she could get her the manager's phone number, to see if he or the so-called Jang Jun-Ki had any intention of honoring the appointment? Feverishly, she walked back and forth in the corridor a few times under the perplexed gaze of the assistant, weighing her options. This is when she suddenly heard the sound of male voices as she passed a door. Without hesitation, following her impulse, she knocked quickly on the door and immediately opened it.

Two men were standing in the room she had entered, and turned around to look at her. That office was much more decorated than the previous one: gold or platinum records on the walls, posters and photographs of artists and concerts, ripped open cardboard boxes pouring out a variety of mostly ugly gadgets - this could only be the office of a talent manager. Stepping in without waiting and walking towards the older of the two men present, whose slightly paunchy figure seemed to indicate that he was not himself an artist, Galatea confidently held out her hand:

"Hello, I am Galatée. I believe we have an appointment now regarding M. Jang Jun-Ki´s live performance in two days. I have here a copy of his signed contract, and all the documents necessary to proceed to the payment of his dues."

It was a bluff, but she had obviously struck lucky. In a decent, albeit very slow English, the man replied: "Yes, that is right. Sorry to have kept you waiting. Please let me introduce you to the man himself, whom I believe still needs to make a décision." And he gestured toward the sofa, from where a young man was watching whom Galatea recognized as the one whose picture adorned the models down by the elevators. Turning to him, she stretched her hand frankly out, breaking into one of those dazzling smiles that had men fall at her feet: "Hi, nice meeting you! I apologize for barging in like this, but I need this done as quickly as possible." As her hand touched the young man's, she looked at him more carefully, trying to gauge his mindset – but, weirdly, it was his appearance that troubled her. At twenty-eight, Jang Jun-Ki was in his blooming prime for a Korean star – quite in the literal sense for a man who was part of the handful of artists called "flower boys" by the Asian media. Tall, naturally thin with lean muscles, he had one of those faces that inspire manga artists: very long slit eyes, high cheekbones, upper part of the face significantly wider than the bottom part, pointed chin, small mouth that however opened on a wide and bright smile with impossibly perfect teeth. His sophisticated haircut was versatile enough to allow long curls for a romantic look, dynamic volumes with help of some gel and a blow dryer, or as now a more "artisty" look (dare we call it grunge? or perhaps traditional Asian, in the fashion of historical films on the Jeosong imperial era?) with the upper part tied in a high ponytail or a bun at the back of the head. "A fine specimen of metrosexual in its natural habitat," Galatea thought derisively. The term "manga pretty" seemed to have been created for this boy.

"You see," the manager intervened, "Mr. Jang Jun-Ki has a number of commitments that he needs to attend to in the coming days, so we don't think that he has time to perform at a private party like the one we're discussing, unfortunately."

"What type of commitments? Perhaps we can combine a few, or perhaps I can help rescheduling some of them to a later date?" Galatea answered. She had come prepared for a fight, and was not ready to concede defeat. She cast a glance at her phone, which was vibrating in her hand: her boss was trying to reach her, probably to ask her a question related to the deal. She had no time to waste, so she opted for the hard line: "May I also say: the fee that you would have to pay to cancel the contract with M. Manlaijav may not be very high, but shall I remind you that he is a Ministry in Mongolia with extensive outreach in the media? I know that M. Jang Jun-Ki has a strong fan base in Mongolia, and it is my understanding that M. Manlaijav would be extremely disappointed if M. Jang Jun-Ki didn't honor his engagement… Please, is there any way we could make this concert possible? I am willing to consider shortening the length of the concert, for example. Or, again, perhaps I can help you some way or other manage your other commitments?"

Jang Jun-Ki and his manager looked at each other. A few sentences were exchanged in Korean. Judging by their attitudes, it was clear that the young man was positively inclined and argued in favor of Galatea, while his manager was showing some reluctance. In the end, Jang Jun-Ki turned to Galatea and, in perfect English, said:

"I am willing to do the concert, under one condition: you will help me today fulfill one of the commitments I have for this week."

"Well, I am very busy today, but what type of commitment are we talking about? And how can I help?" Galatea asked. She was inwardly praying that it was something that could be done at night, or very quickly. Very very quickly.

"What are your commitments today, see if we can work around them?"

"Well, I have business meetings I need to attend to, all day. Oh, and before that I have to go buy a birthday present for the very girl you will be giving a concert for! Shoot, I almost forgot!"

"Well then, let's go and do that. I'll tell you what my project is about on the way."

Jang Jun-Ki stood up. Clearly, the conversation was over as far as he was concerned. Galatea had just enough time to get his signature where she needed it, and they were gone. Once outside, they were joined by a small team carrying cameras and microphones – four people in total, including a little woman who rushed to Galatea to pat her face with a powdered sponge. Galatea leapt back, taken aback, while Jun-Ki jumped into a white van parked at the curb, immediately followed by his team: "Come on, Galatea, jump in!" he called. "Oh yeah?" Galatea replied, suddenly rebellious. "And where to, if I may ask?"

"Don't you need to do some shopping? If it's for a Ministry's daughter, then there is only one place to go: the Galleria in Gangnam district. Let's go!" Intrigued, and her sense of adventure suddenly awakened, Galatea climbed into the van.

Jun-Ki was very proud of his idea: he had recently been asked by Yahoo Korea to produce a series of short videos showing him trying to fulfill challenges suggested by his fans. The idea was original and it had been fun to make the first few episodes, which invited him to distribute ten of his own CDs on the street, or go outside a high school and kiss five girls kissing on the cheek - only five, no more, therein laid the real challenge! But the seventh and final challenge left him uninspired, and he had merely pushed back the time to get to work. The deadline was now here, and this charming and determined girl had burst in at just the right time...

"So here is the deal: I need to convince a foreigner who doesn't know me that I am a true star by demonstrating my talent to her. The challenge will be met if she demonstrates one way or another, that she believes me. We will document this on a video that will be published on Youtube as part of a promotional event. Should be fun, shouldn't it?"

"Oh yeah, a lot of fun if what you need to do is convince me through a demo in a shopping mall. Really looking forward to it!" Galatea said sarcastically. She had just received a new message from her boss, and evidently things were not going as well as they ought to have. Quick, she had to get rid of this double chore and run to her meeting.

Jun-Ki was looking at her from the corner of his eye, perplexed: "What, you don't think this will be fun? I picked you because you looked like someone who had a little humor, so don't disappoint me now!" Galatea gave him a grim look: "Yeah, well, doesn't it look like I'm having a ton of fun right now?" Jun-Ki lifted his eyebrows: this was different. Because of his fame, most of the girls he met - fans aside, with whom hysteria usually was the common behavioral denominator - treated him either with deference or with shyness. With his friends and male staff, he was usually the one who made fun of others, bigmouth as he was with his charming self-confidence and killer smile. Strange woman - but soon she would realize that spending time with him was a privilege, a privilege for which millions of people - well, millions of girls to be exact - were willing to pay a lot.

After a few minutes, the van dropped them at the entrance to the famous Galleria, the most luxurious shopping center in Korea. Standing in front of the list of stores at the entrance of the building, Galatea was fully absorbed, skimming the long list of stores and trying to memorize the relative location of the Vuitton, Chanel and Hermes boutiques on the map, when a loud "Hey!" screamed in her left ear made her jump. She turned to Jun-Ki, prepared to bluntly berate him, but glimpsed the video team behind him. They had obviously started filming - and who knows what they would do with the materials collected? Better keep a low profile: "Yes?"

"Hi, miss, I am Jang Jun-Ki, do you recognize me? I am pretty famous in Asia, are you Asian?"

With a mischievous gleam in her eyes - after all, it wasn't forbidden to be a little witty, especially if it allowed her to put a few roadblocks in his way - Galatea replied: "Well, my dad is Indian, my mother Greek, and I was born and raised in France. I guess that makes me one third Asian? Still, I absolutely do not recognize you, Sir, sorry…" Jun-Ki took a breath and was about to answer when she went on: "Oh wait, maybe I do recognize you… Would you perhaps be… the guy in this commercial for ramen soup that's everywhere on TV?" Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked into the mall, smirking. Unabashed, Jun-Ki followed in her footsteps, pursuing the conversation: "Well, not quite, but almost. My most recent TV commercial was for a brand of winter sports clothing. Perhaps, you've seen it? It's called Ferrino, it's Italian." As Galatea didn't react and kept walking towards the escalators, he continued: "And the former one was for a brand of cosmetics… Oh, right here, look!" They were in the middle of the space on the ground floor dedicated to the displays of various international brands of cosmetics. Galatea's eyes followed the direction pointed Jun-Ki, and indeed: from the bright advertising screen that bordered one of the closest stalls, Jun-Ki was smiling at her naughtily, pink shirt and cream silk scarf, leaning against a fuchsia convertible, a tube of mascara in his hand. Galatea stopped short, and burst out laughing. Turning to Jun-Ki, her glee doubled when she saw his slightly vexed look. Between two hiccups, she gasped: "I think you would have proved your point, man… if only I could be sure it is a guy I see on this picture!"

"Ahjumma, whether I'm a man or a woman is not the point here! You have to admit that this is me on the picture – and you can't deny that I am very pretty on top of that. Seriously, have you ever seen anyone that good looking?"

"Ok, so I guess you are a model then. And is that why you go and pick up girls at the entrance of the mall? Because you're afraid they won't recognize you're a guy when they see this picture, and need to convince them?"

"Ah, ah, very funny. I guess you also need a demo of some of my other talents then."

"All right." Galatea replied, feeling charitable."But let's do that a bit later. I need to get moving." A moment later, they entered the Chanel store and Galatea started reviewing her options. Improbably priced ski suits retained her attention for a moment: who on earth could afford to invest such an amount in an outfit, white to top it all, made for the practice of such a physical sport? She finally set for a bag, gloves and a scarf, having in mind the with white fur hat worn by the girl in the picture she'd seen, and was about to pay when she heard the sound of an electric guitar in her back. At first she thought it was only the store's music player, but when a beautiful male voice started singing, she turned around: Jun-Ki looked straight at her and went on with his pretty song – of which she didn't understand a word, but which he interpreted with undeniable grace. The three shop attendants were also watching the show, clearly charmed, and a few people had stopped and grouped themselves at the entrance of the store while the video team revolved around them, filming.

A moment later, however, the small group had grown, swollen to a point where it could almost be called a crowd, and a moment later still, shouts could be heard - some at a distance, followed by the sound of hurried steps, others nearby. The group gathered at the entrance of the store was getting denser, its mass darker, the pressure greater - to the breaking point: suddenly, the crowd poured into the small shop, and it was chaos. Galatea had of course attended concerts and other public events involving large crowds and partly uncontrolled collective enthusiasm, but this time was different: she was not part of the crowd in question, and the degree of tension, of hysteria even, was without proportion to anything she had ever seen. Distraught, she was about to dive under the nearest display when a hand grabbed hers and pulled her toward the exit. The man was wearing a cap but she recognized Jun-Ki's gray hoodie and followed him. Once outside, they started to run, zigzagging to avoid people coming their way. A turn to the right, another to the left, and they'd fallen back to a satisfactory anonymity. At once, the fugitives laughed: "Phew, I realize now that you live a risky life!" Galatea exclaimed breathlessly, pulling her phone out of her pocket. Her boss had just sent her a message, and as she read it her good mood vanished at once: "Oh, you must be kidding me! My boss tells me the Ministry says his daughter would love a Chanel ski suit – and because she's the same size as me, he thinks I should pick it up as a present. Can you believe it? Now we have to go back to the Chanel store…" She could have wept with rage.

"That is fine – we need to get back to the video crew anyway. And capture your reaction to that unexpected event!" Jun-Ki added with a wink. But Galatea was in no mood to joke. Once again, she was a puppet, a toy in the hands of these men in suits who didn't give her the consideration she deserved. They returned to the store, now empty again, where Jun-Ki insisted they finish the video while she tried on the ski suits. He had grabbed the camera and playfully pretended to break into the dressing room. Livid and feeling uncooperative, Galatea pushed the camera away and was about to close the door to Jun-Ki's face when a detail grabbed her attention: clearly visible on the side of the device, a small gray lion head on a black background was embedded in the red plastic. Yes, it looked like a little medal that would have been melted there permanently. But why was this symbol so familiar?

When Galatea came out of the dressing room to look at herself in the mirror – the ski suit managed the feat of being both incredibly comfortable and the sexiest she had ever worn - Jun-Ki came to take her by the shoulders, pinning her against the mirror, and then asked to her face as the camera came nearer for a close-up: "Just admit it, ahjumma: you are now wearing this suit because you want to protect yourself against my incredibly attractive star power, am I right, or am I right?"

Planting her eyes in his, green stare against black stare, Galatea said: "Oh, I do believe that you are a star all right. As for incredibly attractive on the other hand, haven't seen any of that personally, sorry!" Moving away, she added: "And by the way, what does this "ahjumma" name that you keep calling me even mean?" Jun-Ki looked defiantly at her and raised his eyebrows: "Ahjumma? It is the polite way of addressing an older woman in Korean. "Older lady" – pretty appropriate in your case, what do you think?"

Taking a deep breath, Galatea replied with dignity: "I will see you at the concert in two days. Good-bye for now." And, turning her back to him, she went back into the dressing room.

At the same time, but on the other side of the planet, Xavière was struggling against the torpor pervading her mind as the end of the day was approaching. The Intel Summit in San Diego was one of the most important conferences of the year in the tech industry, and she'd learned a lot the first two times she'd attended it. The conference was a great way to hear about the latest innovations in the field of information technology: what were the most promising tech startups, the most promising investment areas. But the novelty had eroded, and this year she was mostly bored, bored with almost as much intensity as in her everyday life - as she formulated it to herself with humor. The most exciting part of the conference, not subtly dubbed "speed-dating" in that it consisted of a marathon, or a ballet, of ten minutes meetings between entrepreneurs and investors, was now in full swing. The ballroom of the hotel was dotted with hundreds of small tables, each topped with a big black number. Every ten minutes, a bell rang and everyone looked at their agenda, looking for the number of the table where their next appointment would be taking place. It was tiring, but overall interesting enough to keep her awake.

Xavière had just come out of a discussion with the creators of an organ preservation technology that had the potential to revolutionize the field of organ transplants, allowing the preservation of kidneys, or other organs of large dimension, for months or years in a row. Her next appointment was with an entrepreneur developing a 3D printer - the latest trend, and an area in which General Electric was preparing to invest. Taking advantage of an empty slot between these two "dates", Xavière opened the Facebook application on her phone to write a message to Galatea, who immediately replied:

Xavière: "Am at a venture capital conference, full of arrogant investors in stiff suits and filthy entrepreneurs in flip-flops. Classy. Just got hit on by a Swiss investor."

Galatea: "Do what I do, just like in the movie "The Names of Love": I take the worst ones, the most conservative ones, I let them flirt with me, and then I try to convert them – left-wing proselytism with panties-based blackmailing. Unattainable carrot of course, but prominently shown at the end of a stick. I experiment, we'll see if it works and if I convert anyone."

Xavière: "Yeah, you're a modern evangelist monk, sort of. In my case I don't know if I see them as advocates of free-market capitalism at all. They are either innovators, or guys who make daring bets to finance innovation. I see it in a rather positive light – the march of progress, if you want. And I must say that the fact that a guy has different ideas from me has never been a limiting factor to my attraction to him - quite the opposite, actually..."

A little later, the speed-dating session over, Xavière sighed as she realized she had still to endure a presentation in the great conference room. Then it would be time for dinner, which this year anyway promised to be exceptional given that the conference organizers had booked the pontoon of a nearby aircraft carrier. What was the ship's name again? Having found a chair in the great room, she scanned the program as, on the stage, the last presentation was announced, punctuated with loud music and dramatic light effects. As the audience counted a thousand people or so, that's what it took to gather everyone's attention - at least for a while. Two armchairs had been arranged symmetrically in the center of the stage, and the Intel's General Manager took the stage to introduce the two protagonists to be engaged in the "fireside chat" that was on the agenda. The first one was no surprise, a journalist from Forbes Magazine named Kerry Dolan; the second participant was meanwhile introduced in the following terms:

"Kerry Dolan will be conducting a conversation tonight with Ashish R. Lohranas. He is the founder of the Simba Corporation. Ashish is, to say the least, passionate about entrepreneurship: he started his very first IT technology company at, get this, the tender age of fifteen years old. Since then he has successfully driven the growth of Simba to become a global multi-sector conglomerate with more than 7,000 employees in 26 countries worldwide. Please join me in welcoming to the stage Kerry Dolan and Ashish Lohranas!"

Then, a woman of a certain age, looking a little dull, made her entrance, followed by a man of medium height sporting a black jacket and washed out jeans, clearly of Indian origin, and surprisingly young - the "keynote speakers" at such conferences were usually men well over fifty years old, but this one seemed to have just turned thirty. Once they were both seated, Kerry, the journalist, began:

"Well, good evening, everyone. I'd like to say that, in my nearly two decades at Forbes Magazine I've had the opportunity to interview probably hundreds of CEOs and entrepreneurs, but Ashish is the first entrepreneur I've interviewed who is also a survivor of the genocide in Rwanda. Ashish, you have a really unique and heartbreaking personal story. Talk to us a little bit about your origins…"

Upon these words, Xavière pricked up her ears. A young keynote speaker, Indian-born but with an African history (and invited to an American conference), survivor of a genocide in which France had been involved, and entrepreneur at fifteen? Now that was original, and interesting...

Having thanked the journalist and the audience, Ashish had started:

"My family left India in 1890 and sailed for fourty-five days, purely looking for trading opportunities, and my father's family ended up in Uganda. In 1920, similarly, my mother's family left India and ended up in Tanzania. After they got married, mu parents lived in Kenya for a bit, then moved back to Uganda. In 1972, the Idi Amin saga took place in Uganda so my parents got kicked out of the country and moved to England. They lost everything they had, so my father worked in the Ford factory, my mother worked in another factory, they built up a little bit of capital and setup a small business, built up a little more capital and bought a small home. But in 1993, they wanted to come back home, they wanted to come back to Africa, so we ended up selling our business and our home, and moving to Rwanda. Nine months later, my parents, my sister and I were refugees during the genocide in Rwanda, and lost everything my parents had built up from 1972 to 1993. My father died shortly thereafter."

Wow, now that was not banal, and even less boring! Xavière was fascinated, tense in anticipation of the rest of the story to come. The young man spoke clearly and composedly: one could feel that he was a little nervous, but the way he delivered his story gave the impression of a tale, a tale he would have told one evening by the fire to an audience of fascinated children. At the request of the journalist, he continued:

"When we left Rwanda and came to Uganda, having lost everything, I was a teenager and could understand what was happening, see what my family had been through, and that lots of people were avoiding my family, afraid that they would ask them for money or a favor. So I took a 5,000$ loan, from three different people, and started flying to Dubai, filling my suitcase with motherboards and other computer parts, and selling them in a little shop back in Uganda. All this during my summer vacation."

As Ashish kept explaining how he'd come up with this idea, and how his parents had allowed him to pursue his operations instead of returning to school once autumn had arrived, Xavière really looked at him for first time. She was too far from the stage to see him clearly, but a close-up of his face was displayed on two giant screens on either side of the stage. "Not bad... cute, even..." she mused. "The nose is a little long, but otherwise nothing to change. Beautiful voice, beautiful piercing eyes. And what a lovely laughter - friendly and youthful..."

Ashish was now explaining how he'd grown his business by replicating the same model in other African countries and expanding into other sectors through partnerships in these countries. As he spoke, it seemed increasingly clear to Xavière that the key to his success lay in the stubbornness of this young man, probably born of the difficult situation in which he had seen his family: where many local entrepreneurs who'd likely had the same idea had probably considered themselves satisfied with the relative wealthiness procured by their local activity, Ashish had obviously been consistently striving to grow his business. "A hyperactive insecure personnality – I bet that guy lives in fear of losing everything again, and spends his life running to avoid that." Xavière thought. Pop psychology, for sure, but what the heck? One could have a little fun. By comparison, Xavière felt suddenly so modest, so comfortable: of course, she had been brilliantly admitted into, and was a graduate of several of the very best French grandes ecoles; of course, she had a nice career where title and salary followed an exponentially upward slope; but how that life seemed flat compared with that of this man, who was probably her age!

The journalist was just confirming it: "In case you haven't made the math yet, Ashish is only thirty-two, and he is the first African to make the Forbes "40 under 40" list.""Oh come on!" Xavière thought - she only had a very remote interest in this kind of rankings, having no desire to get rich herself and preferring intellectual papers like The Economist to slightly vulgar magazines such as Forbes, but she knew that the very exclusive "40 under 40" ranking, which lists the 40 business leaders under 40 judged most promising in the world by the magazine, was a very pretty star to hang to one's resume.

For the rest, the cute Ashish was clearly here to promote himself and his company, and more generally to pose as representative and promoter of Africa in front of an American audience which he knew tends to consider this continent as a single homogenous entity, whose main common denominator is being corrupt. His argumentation was by the way rather good, though a little caricatural when it came to praising Nigeria as a business paradise.

Xavière pulled out her phone and quickly researched Ashish's profile made by Forbes, posting the link on her Facebook page with the comment: "Listening to this guy at a conference. Quite impressed!" That would probably interest her friends, especially Martin, Samia and Jerome who worked so often in Africa.

On the stage, Ashish was proceeding with his pro-African propaganda: "Simba in a local dialect means « lion », our logo is the African lion. My little joke, which a lot of people do no appreciate, is that the Indian tiger and the Chinese dragon have had their days, it's now the African lion's turn." Xavière smiled: nice slogan, which would probably stick in more than one mind. She turned her gaze to the screen on which the logo in question was being displayed, and let out a little involuntary cry: the lion of the Simba Corporation just evoked by Ashish likened in its every detail Lena's medallion.

To get to the dinner, the conference participants had to travel a short distance along the waterfront, from the conference center to the aircraft carrier, and had thus been advised to wear comfortable shoes. In the great hall, Xavière was hesitating: she didn't want to give up the beautiful and expensive burgundy Tory Burch heels that made her legs so pretty, but she didn't have any intention to damage them on the uneven cobblestones the docks... She finally decided to take her car, and had just started off towards the parking lot when a large group came from the opposite direction, apparently en route for dinner. She would have crossed their way without a second thought, when a pair of bright black eyes met and held hers. She felt as if her legs were giving way beneath her, and suddenly she was breathless: this look belonged to none other than the handsome Ashish, and it was clearly not an indifferent look.

Xavière was a pretty girl, a very pretty girl even, and was therefore used to attract male attention. She also had enough life experience to have felt troubled many times by the stare of a man who attracted her. This time, however, was special - special because of the intensity of her emotion, special because she had been unaware until that very moment that this man attracted her physically, special because of the force with which their eyes had seemed to collide. A full second and three steps later, she was still staggering. There was no need to think, no need to make a decision: she turned around and followed Ashish.

While walking, she wondered: but what is he doing there? A guy like this has better things to do than attend a conference dinner, randomly talking to more or less interesting people? She had not imagined for a moment that he might be present. To be honest, she had not considered at all that she would ever see this man again after his afternoon speech. But now, suddenly, here he was, very real before her with his slightly too trendy black and white leather jacket and tight jeans. And she didn't know what to do. The only thing she knew was that she wanted to follow him. "Now, there's an idea: to follow. I follow..." she thought. She recovered however enough of her spirits to start a conversation with the German man who was walking beside her, a representative of Siemens Capital with whom she exchanged the usual small talk during the short journey that led them to the aircraft carrier. Along the way, she tried to get closer to Ashish, but it wasn't easy and one or two people still separated them when everyone reached the big boat. She had never been the kind who approaches men, probably because men generally approached her first, and was baffled by the realization that she was literally running after Ashish. What in the world would she do if she caught up with him? Would she find the courage to talk to him? Having herself been a speaker at a number of conferences, she remembered with some distaste those men who tried to leverage her speech to come forward and asked obviously artificial questions. She had always hated groupie-style behaviors and didn't really see herself sucking up to the man – with the implicit goal to hit on him at that.

Her dilemma found itself however resolved when, having randomly climbed one of the small iron spiral staircases by which the dock could be reached, she found herself almost nose to nose with Ashish. Or more accurately a few steps away, but close enough for him to see her at the same time she saw him. Both hesitated an instant, took one step towards each other, then Xavière took the plunge:

"Hey, I really enjoyed your talk earlier today, thank you so much!"

"Oh, thank you." he replied. He held out his hand, capturing her with his intense gaze: "I am Ashish." When his hand enveloped hers, Xavière thought she would liquefy on the spot. More precisely, her excitement was so intense, rose so fast and so strong in her gut that she thought she'd have an orgasm right there, while another part of her, below, embarrassingly melted - quite literally. What was happening to her? Then she noticed that he was wearing a little too much perfume, and the thought made her smile inwardly: he was not perfect, after all.

"And I am Xavière." she managed to answer after a moment, pointing to the badge with her name on it that all attendees to the conference were wearing. If she was generally glad to have an unusual name, in that moment she would have given a lot to have one of those names that don't require any explanation, one of those names that are easy to spell and remember...

They exchanged the standard platitudes - where she came from, where she currently lived, her profession, if she enjoyed the conference and San Diego. Ashish explained in turn that he was leaving for San Francisco the next day, that it was his first time in San Diego and that he liked the city a lot: "I definitely plan to go for a run along the beach tomorrow morning!" Did he expect her to ask if she could come with him? Xavière felt, in both his comments on his trip to San Francisco and on his running plan in San Diego, the breath of a door left open, calling for a reaction on her part - but maybe she was only confusing her wishes with reality, so she didn't answer.

At this point, a conferencee came to mingle in their conversation and congratulate Ashish, who kindly thanked him before turning back to Xavière: "I was serious earlier," she said sincerily. "I was impressed not only by your story, but also by the way you delivered it – it felt like a saga, or a poem perhaps. Have you been taking public speaking classes by any chance?"Ashish seemed pleasantly surprised and replied: "You know what, I haven't, but thank you for saying this. I actually feel like I have much room for improvement, so it feels good to hear this." Again, he enveloped her with his intense gaze, all his attention focused on her, making her shudder from head to toe when the conferencee chipped in again in their conversation, overwhelming Ashish with compliments: "But the contents, the lessons you shared, that was really the best thing!" Xavière took a step away, a slightly mocking smile pulling her full lips: "Yeah - one has to admit that the contents were way more sexy than anything else we had to listen to today!" Ashish threw back his head and burst into the warm and youthful laughter Xavière had noticed earlier, clearly charmed, and followed her. Unfortunately, the intruder also followed suit and, as all three walked down the deck towards one of the fighters that were exposed there, Xavière pulled away gradually.

What was she doing exactly? Was she a groupie? Or the kind of girl who chases after a man? Besides the fact that she had a partner and a daughter at home - if Galatea, Lena and herself often and freely talked about their fantasies and the men who fed them, and if her position on the subject of infidelity was theoretically rather liberal, she had never cheated on Karl - or indeed on any of the boyfriends who had preceded him. Not that the opportunity had never presented itself, or that she saw an insurmountable prohibition in the act itself: the temptation simply had never been great enough. Another way to put it would be to say that she was just too lazy: too many practical complications, too many complex ponderings in perspective, she was happy enough in the position of arbitrator of the convoluted issues submitted to her by Galatea or Lena.

A moment later, she looked around her: Ashish was nowhere in sight. She wandered a moment from buffet to buffet, pretending to compose herself a plate but relentlessly looking for him - without success. "Well, too bad for me. Once again, I wasn't motivated enough, but what to do? I didn't see myself starting a boot-licking competition with this fool, anyway." She sat down at one of the large round tables scattered on the deck, and joined in the conversation of the people who were already sitting there.

In Seoul, Galatea was pouring herself a cup of tea, taking advantage of a break in the negotiations, when her phone vibrated in her pocket: "Hm, new private Facebook message..." She opened the application, and a message from Xavière appeared: "This is it, my friend, I have found my hare... And it's a huge one, you have no idea..."