La fête s’est déroulée dans l’un des lieux les plus exclusifs de Guadalajara, sur la terrasse vitrée de l’hôtel Demetria, d’où le ciel orange se confondait avec les lumières de la ville. C’était un mariage élégant, plein de sourires forcés, de costumes sur mesure et de parfums coûteux flottant dans l’air. L’orchestre jouait un boléro avec une précision technique, mais manquant d’âme.
Tout le monde s’efforçait d’avoir l’air heureux, tout le monde sauf un. À une table ronde, en retrait du centre de la pièce, était assis un homme qui semblait avoir été placé là comme une erreur de protocole. Kenji Yamasaki, japonais, au visage impassible, en costume sombre sans une seule ride, les mains posées raides sur ses jambes.
Il ne parlait à personne, ne regardait personne, regardait simplement en silence, comme si le monde autour de lui était un film muet qu’il avait vu de nombreuses fois auparavant. Autour de lui, les invités évitaient même de se croiser. Certains chuchotaient à son sujet. On dit qu’il est millionnaire, mais il n’en a pas l’air. J’ai entendu dire qu’il avait des usines automobiles ou qu’il avait acheté la moitié de Jalisco, mais personne ne s’en est approché.
Et même si la piste de danse commençait à se remplir de gens qui se déplaçaient maladroitement entre les rires et les boissons, il restait là, immobile, comme s’il ne savait pas ou ne voulait pas en faire partie. Il ne comprenait pas un mot de ce qu’ils disaient, mais il comprenait les gestes, les rires étouffés, les regards détournés.
L’inconfort n’a pas besoin d’être traduit. Pendant ce temps, entre les plateaux et les verres vides, Julia se promenait agilement dans la pièce, esquivant les conversations qui ne lui appartenaient pas. Elle avait 24 ans, des yeux vifs et une expression qui essayait de rester neutre, bien que ses pensées soient rarement silencieuses. Elle portait l’uniforme du personnel : une chemise blanche, un gilet noir et un tablier soigneusement repassé.
Personne ne savait qu’elle parlait japonais. Personne ne savait qu’elle avait été une excellente étudiante à l’université avant d’abandonner. Au mariage, elle n’était que la serveuse brune dans un coin et avait l’habitude d’être invisible. Mais cette nuit-là, son attention fut attirée sur Kenji, non pas par curiosité superficielle, mais par quelque chose de plus profond, de plus humain.
Il y avait en lui une solitude qui lui semblait familière, une rigidité née non pas de l’orgueil, mais du déracinement. De son coin, elle le regarda prendre juste une gorgée d’eau. Elle remarqua qu’il avait du mal à garder son sang-froid, comme s’il défendait une dignité silencieuse que personne ne semblait reconnaître. Il n’y avait pas d’arrogance dans son regard, mais une lassitude subtile et ancienne.
Quand leurs yeux se rencontrèrent, pendant un instant, Julia baissa instinctivement le regard, mais elle sentit quelque chose. Ce n’était pas une connexion romantique ou un éclair d’attraction, c’était quelque chose d’autre, comme si, au milieu de la fête, ils savaient tous les deux qu’ils n’étaient pas tout à fait à leur place. Cet échange de regards a été bref, si bref que personne d’autre ne l’a remarqué.
Mais pour tous les deux, sans le savoir encore, cette nuit-là ne serait pas comme les autres. Julia n’avait pas l’habitude de s’impliquer avec les invités ; Elle savait ce qu’elle avait à faire : passer inaperçue, prendre son tour et rentrer chez elle avant que la fatigue ne se transforme en tristesse. Mais cette nuit-là, alors que les toasts se répétaient avec des rires de plus en plus forts, son regard revenait encore et encore vers le coin, où Kenji restait comme une ombre.
Alone, his hands firmly in his lap, his eyes fixed on the center of the room, not moving an inch. Something inside her wouldn’t let her ignore him. She’d seen plenty of people alone at parties, drunks without company, ignored women, divorced uncles with a blank stare. But this was different. It wasn’t the loneliness of someone who’s been excluded.
It was that of someone who, although present, had never actually been invited. Pulia watched him for several minutes amidst trays of snacks, chatter about investments, and classist comments thrown like darts wrapped in politeness. “That man seems mute,” said a woman in a red dress, smiling maliciously. “Or he’s waiting for them to come and worship him,” her friend replied. “Or he just doesn’t want to mix with Mexicans,” a man added, letting out a tense laugh. Julia felt those words tighten in her chest. Not because of him exactly, but because she’d heard that tone so many times directed at people like her, people who worked serving, cleaning, caring, people who didn’t matter.
Meanwhile, Kenji still didn’t react, but there was a slight tension in his shoulders, as if he understood more than he let on, as if each word touched him from afar, but touched him just the same. After half an hour, Julia approached their table with a tray of refreshments. She didn’t have to, since another waiter was in charge of that area, but something compelled her.
She placed a fresh glass in front of him with gentle movements. She was about to turn away. When she heard him say quietly, “Thank you.” His accent was clumsy, but understandable. Basic Spanish, with effort. Julia looked at him in surprise and, without thinking, answered in Japanese. Duita shimashite chini shinai de kudasai. Kenji’s head jerked up. His eyes opened slightly, and for the first time all night, something in his expression changed. A crack in the wall.
“You speak Japanese,” he said slowly, still in his own language. Julia nodded. “I studied it for three years. I really like their culture.” He didn’t respond immediately, but nodded with a slight bow that came from his heart. It was a brief, subtle gesture, but full of respect. Julia felt she had just crossed a line, an invisible one, not only with him, but with the entire party.
She knew that if anyone saw her talking to a guest, let alone that guest, the stares would soon arrive. But at that moment, she didn’t care. “Would you like anything else?” she asked, now in Spanish. Kenji looked at her for a long second, then shook his head. “Just thank you for talking.” Julia nodded. She smiled briefly, a shy smile, more to herself than to him, and went back to walking between the tables.
No one had noticed anything yet, but something had changed. After that brief exchange, Kulia continued working as if nothing had happened. But her body didn’t lie; her steps were lighter, her breathing more alert. She felt a different energy in her chest, a mix of adrenaline and doubt. She had done wrong.
Had she made him uncomfortable? Had anyone seen them? Actually, yes. Someone had. Álvaro, the head waiter, tall, dark-haired, with a dry voice and a face that seemed carved with annoyance, watched her from near the bar. He was a man who didn’t shout, but knew how to punish with a single sentence. And although he didn’t say anything at that moment, his eyes followed Julia with a silent judgment she knew all too well.
Meanwhile, in his corner, Kenji still didn’t move much, but something in him had changed. Now his eyes didn’t gaze distantly at the room, they searched. Every so often, discreetly, they glanced toward Julia as she passed between the tables. It wasn’t lust, it wasn’t romanticism, it was something simpler and rarer: gratitude. It was as if for the first time all night, perhaps in many nights, someone had seen him as a person.
The other guests remained the same, laughing loudly, dancing without rhythm, feigning ease over expensive drinks, but the murmur around Kenji was beginning to become more acidic. What’s that guy doing here? He doesn’t dance or talk. He was probably invited out of obligation. Did you know he bought land in Sayulita? How ridiculous to have so much money and not know how to behave.
