between the lines
September 2020
Malvern College, late at night. Wendy and Oriane, neither speaking English as their mother tongue, explaining their native languages to each other in the light of Wendy’s torch as I read unofficial stories in mine. They’re doing Oriane’s Chinese hall, and Wendy’s in her element — she knows the words, she rejoices in them, wrings them out like rain from clouds for Oriane to hear, to understand. It’s strange for all of us, I know — three languages now, dancing around the room — but occasionally I will throw a French phrase across the space between our beds and Oriane will understand it, and Wendy will want to. Suddenly the roles are switched entirely and it’s student teaching master how to draw out the j in the je of je t’aime with me adding in notes from the side. It rolls off your tongue, rather than sticking like an English j, I say, and it is then Wendy understands. Je t’aime, she says correctly, and the moment is one to hold close.
Oriane: I love Mandarin, it’s so beautiful.
Wendy: Is it? I think it’s so complicated.
Oriane: It’s complicated, but it’s beautiful.
Their English isn’t perfect, so their words are matter-of-fact, mannerisms and bluntness of each language jumping out to tug together an exchange so wildly surreal it almost doesn’t make sense to me. It’s wild, because I speak enough French to understand Oriane and I remember enough Chinese to get a grasp on what the homework is on, and we are all three of us intertwined by these languages in a way that nothing else could prove to bond us. They talk about dumplings, now, and neither knows that here I am noting this all down at nearly eleven on a Sunday evening — this, in my language, as they talk and think and write in theirs. How could this ever divide people? How does racism exist when something so beautiful as this lives at the other end of the spectrum? Oriane is counting up the number of symbols on the page in French and Wendy is looking at her in amazement as if they aren’t both bilingual, and there are 103 symbols — 3 over the requirement, enough, a celebration — and Wendy tells Oriane that her Chinese is good, but her Mandarin is amazing, and Oriane thanks her in Chinese, a phrase I understand. Xièxiè nî. 谢谢你. Thank you very much. Think about this:
I speak English fluently, I am learning French and I understand fragments of Chinese.
The bell chimes eleven. It is about 50 seconds late.
Wendy speaks Mandarin fluently, she is almost fluent in English and she is learning French.
Oriane speaks French and almost English fluently, and here she is in this very moment learning Chinese.
They are sisters. We all are. French, English, Chinese — and sisters. Wendy is now asking how to say I don’t like changing in French, and I wonder why, and Oriane tells her, and Wendy leaves. We say goodnight to her, in English. Oriane asks me if, in English, we say night night, and I explain that basically any variant of night bodes as a farewell in this language. Wendy always leaves with have a good night, and I love her for it, for the accent, for the sincerity. Oriane says good night to me, I say bonne nuit to her, and she falls asleep as I dance rings around the room with the beauty of it all. Do we dream in different languages, I wonder, as if it matters. As if anything matters, but this, and this, and this.
