The Language School

Chapter 3

I watched the cars and pedestrians go by as I ate my petit-dejeuner. Then the door behind me opened and I had to stand up to let a man leave the building. As I sat back down again a black plaque on the side of the doorway caught my eye. It looked new and had shiny gold lettering, which read, "Interlangues, Ecole de Langues, Premier étage".

In my hungover state, it took me a few seconds to realise that Interlangues was a language school. If it’s a language school it probably employs language teachers, I thought, and if it employs language teachers it probably employs English teachers. I threw my normal caution to the wind and pressed Interlangues’ intercom button. After a few seconds, a voice replied: "Allo?"

"Interlangues?" A buzzing sound came from the heavy, glass door to indicate the lock had been opened for me. The building was much more modern than Eurolangues', but was also home to some apartments. Along one wall black arrows, printed on sheets of white A4 paper, were pointing the way to the school, and I followed them to a door on the first floor. Before going any further, I stopped and rehearsed what I was going to say. "Je sweeze oon professor day Anglais et je sherche pour oon travail (I'm English teacher and I look a job)," I said to myself four times.

On the door there was another printed sign, which said, "Frappez et Entrez". Not knowing what that meant, I decided to knock and enter. The side of the reception desk was to the right. It was low and covered with files and papers. Standing behind it was a woman in her early 30s. She was of average height, had black, bobbed hair and was wearing blue jeans and a cream-coloured sweater.

"Monsieur Duboeuf?" she asked

"No, I’m not Monsieur Duboeuf," I said in English. "Je sweeze oon professor day Anglais et je sherche pour oon travail."

The woman looked nonplussed so I reached into my bag and hurriedly pulled out a copy of my CV, tearing it almost in two as I did so. "Oh, sorry about that," I said, holding out the torn piece of paper. The woman just stared at it, then at me, in amazement. "Je sweeze oon professor day Anglais et je sherche pour oon travail," I repeated.

"Ah, now I am understanding," she said. "You are Ingleesh. I fought zat you were ze new student, Monsieur Duboeuf. I am going to pass you to ze manager. I am Madame Darc, ze secrétaire."

She took hold of my crumpled and torn CV, looked at it and added: "But first, I am putting some Scotch on your, 'ow you say, curriculum vitae, before I give it to ‘er."

Now it was my turn to look confused. She was going to put Scotch on my CV before giving it to the manager! It was in a bad enough state already, without having whisky poured on it, never mind the waste of good Scotch.

"Don't worry, I will tell ze manager zat I did zis myself," she said, while I looked on in bewilderment. She opened a drawer, but instead of producing a bottle of whisky, she got out a role of Sellotape and stuck my CV back together. "Voila," she said, holding up the repaired piece of paper. "I ‘ave Scotched it for you."

The French word for Sellotape was obviously Scotch, and it could also be used as a verb: to Scotch. I’d only just arrived at the language school and I’d already learnt something.

"Now I will go and see ze manager." Taking the CV with her, she walked round to a door opposite the front of the reception desk, knocked and went in, shutting the door behind her.

The top halves of the dividing walls in the school were all made from glass and I could see the secretary talking to a woman who was sitting behind a desk. The secretary handed the woman my CV, then took out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and gave another to the seated woman.

After a few minutes the secretary came out and said: "Madame Glanville will be able to speak to you soon… Zere are some magazines in Ingleesh if you want to read." She pointed to a display unit holding a few magazines, which was next to a very low, small sofa outside the manager’s office. I sat down and picked up a copy of Time magazine, which had pictures of the US President, George Bush senior, and the Iraqi leader, Saddam Hussein, on the front.