Chapter 21: Is Speaking a Foreign Language Enough to Be Considered Talented?

The first emotion Chen Aijia felt was not anger, not fury, but warmth. So, he had overheard those two speaking ill of her and had stepped in to defend her. She laughed, a cold laugh, and walked over to pick up the soup tureen from the dining table. The tureen was small, holding at most a liter, and was still more than half full of hot clam soup, a specialty dish of sorts.

The older woman cowered in terror. She was wealthy, but not exceedingly so; compared to someone of Chen Aijia’s caliber, she was merely nouveau riche at best.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I was wrong, I…” she could only beg for mercy.

Chen Aijia replied icily, “If apologies were enough, why would we need the police?”

With a swift motion, she upended the steaming clam soup, tureen and all, over the old woman’s head. The woman shrieked like a pig being slaughtered, but dared not resist. If she truly offended Chen Aijia, her modest fortune would vanish in no time—a pain she could not bear.

The blonde, blue-eyed lobby manager had lost half his teeth to Yang Changfeng’s slap, and this finally alerted the restaurant’s owner.

She was a slightly plump Western woman, appearing not quite forty, dressed as a French lady of leisure. In her panic, her steps faltered, and the usual elegance and composure of a French lady deserted her.

“Oh no, gentlemen, ladies, this is so uncivilized! Why must such regrettable incidents happen in a place meant for dining?” she exclaimed, widening her supposedly innocent blue eyes and spreading her hands, loudly protesting. “Is this environment really so suited to uncivilized behavior? Oh God, how unfortunate—I must call the police to handle this matter!”

Chen Aijia sneered, “Madame Louise, I think your restaurant may need some reform. I’m sorry—though this is regrettable, I must inform you that I will be lodging a complaint with the relevant authorities. Your staff are truly disappointing. What I have experienced here is not the cuisine and elegance of France, but crude discrimination and shameless distortion of truth. Indeed, we need law enforcement to hear our respective grievances.”

She believed that Yang Changfeng was not simply making things up; though she was astounded by how fluent he was in so many foreign languages—a fact which filled her with shame, for she realized at last that it was not she who had been mocking Yang Changfeng, but rather he who had been watching her clownish performance with cold eyes.

Yet he would not fabricate a conversation to humiliate her; there was no need. This scoundrel never concealed his contempt when bullying her—always blunt and undisguised.

Their tangled relationship was an internal matter, something to be settled at home. For now, she had to stand with this infuriating man—they were a united front.

Madame Louise was startled. Several attendants quickly described what they had just witnessed. Only then did she realize that the beautiful lady boss who often dined at Eiffel had, most ungracefully, taken matters into her own hands.

Oh God, what a dreadful afternoon!

Madame Louise made a snap decision, immediately declaring to the man and woman, “Sorry, you two—though I don’t know exactly what happened, Chen is my friend, and I know her well. She is not an impulsive person, so I suppose you must have said something very unpleasant to her. Therefore, I’m sorry, but Eiffel will never welcome your patronage again. Please leave at once, will you?”

This Western woman was crafty indeed—so simply, those two, who were not exactly distinguished guests, were made scapegoats and dismissed?

Chen Aijia and Madame Louise truly knew each other, and after today’s commotion, Eiffel Restaurant would surely suffer some consequences. She felt regretful.

So, she wished to settle things quietly, but the two attendants and that manager could not be forgiven.

“If Eiffel truly shows a willingness to correct its mistakes, I… well, that’s not bad,” she said, turning to look at Yang Changfeng. Discovering that he not only had brains but also spoke so many foreign languages fluently, her attitude shifted considerably. She asked him, “What do you think?”

Yang Changfeng replied coolly, “You see not letting this go as a lack of magnanimity, don’t you? My affairs, I handle myself. You can forgive them, but don’t presume to speak for me. Foreigners surprised? To hell with them. Today, I’m determined to be the villain!”

He pulled out his phone, deciding to call the police. He knew he had struck first, and now foreigners were involved, so the police were unlikely to favor him.

But so what?

Madame Louise understood Mandarin and spoke it fluently. Hearing Yang Changfeng’s uncompromising stance—intent on escalating matters and even shutting down Eiffel—she grew anxious.

This was not France; if things really got out of hand, foreigners would not come out ahead.

Madame Louise understood this well.

“Chen, who is this gentleman…” Madame Louise pleaded to Chen Aijia for help, knowing that if Chen refused to let the matter drop, Eiffel had no choice but to close for a thorough reorganization.

Chen Aijia hesitated. She heard the forcefulness—almost the domineering attitude—of Yang Changfeng, but felt there was no need to make an enemy of Eiffel. That would betray a lack of grace and cost her a friend she could converse with.

But his attitude, she admitted, was beyond her control.

If he refused to let go, who could change his mind?

Ask his aunt?

Force him to swallow his anger—how would they get along in the future?

Chen Aijia remained silent. It wasn’t that she didn’t wish to help Madame Louise, but compared to keeping a foreign friend, Yang Changfeng seemed more worth not offending.

Yes, Chen Aijia’s attitude toward Yang Changfeng had changed dramatically.

It was ironic: no matter how well one spoke Mandarin, others would only think you had been a broadcaster. But if you spoke a foreign language fluently, people would regard you as capable and talented.

Chen Aijia was not immune to this, though her status and perspective ought to have given her greater insight. She should have known that, within the sphere of her influence, speaking fluent foreign languages was hardly a remarkable skill.

Yet she felt that Yang Changfeng’s ability to speak so many languages so well made him a talent, unquestionably.

Perhaps it was simply connected to Yang Changfeng himself, to his person, rather than the languages themselves—Chen Aijia couldn’t clearly distinguish between these perceptions.