un. voulez-vous embrasser?

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un.

|| voulez-vous embrasser? ||

The first week was terrible. It was by miracle that she found at least one person who spoke English at every necessary place. She could understand only a few phrases from her textbooks, and deciphering the Metro map was a nightmare. Her roommate, a cheery French-Canadian girl named Estelle, gave her lessons at night, and together they watched television.

“You speak acceptable. It will just take… immersion.” the girl with the dark curls and fairy-like face encouraged. She was a sweet girl; all the city folk were, and she gave Evelyn a lovely tour of the sights around town from the view of an inhabitant.

Evelyn learned she did not like poutine, that she found hockey boring, and that she was not attracted to the hairy men with their pungent cigars whom Estelle was always bringing around. She survived on cheap packets of noodles from Chinatown. Although her tuition was completely paid for, as well as her room and board, she elected to be thrifty. Her family was not the wealthiest, and the best offer had come from the Université du Québec à Montréal. So it came to be that Evelyn was the only Anglophone in a Francophone world.

She only had another week to adapt to her new lifestyle before school began, and she used that time wisely. She located bookstores, coffee shops, parks, Metro stations, and post offices to ensure she’d know her way around. Her Metro pass became worn and almost tattered within two days. She liked to ride; to just sit on the cool train as people got on and off as it whirred beneath the city. There were the worn elderly men from Chinatown, the teenagers out with their friends, the men her age who wore thick glasses and read even thicker books as they rode. Once, she attempted to start a conversation with the latter type.

He looked much like the men of Montreal; that is, dark hair, slim build, a bit of stubble, and a prominent nose. He read a copy of The Grapes of Wrath, which Evelyn recognized from the cover. Her uncle was an English teacher and he had the same edition, though his was in her native tongue. She leaned over to tell him so.

“Vous pouvez embrasser mon oncle. Est-il bon?”

Pardon?” he asked, looking up and simultaneously pushing up his glasses and running a hand through his black curls. She noticed now how handsome he was and became slightly flustered. She repeated herself.

“Non merci.” he replied. ‘No thank you’ was not even close to the correct response. When she saw him shift in his seat and become visibly uncomfortable, she realized she had not said what she intended. Her face lit up in an unbecoming scarlet color and she stuttered.

“Oh! Je suis vraiment désolée! Je parle anglais.” she apologized, hoping the admittance of her ignorance excused her. He nodded and turned back to his book. She began to mentally kick herself for her social failure, dreading the rest of the term should it be like this experience. Fortunately, he left the train at Berri-UQAM, which she had learned was the closest to the university. She prayed to every god man had ever created that she should not encounter him there.

†††

Français, as it turned out, was fairly easy to learn. With Estelle’s help, she lost the deep tones of the English alphabet and immersed herself in a language of musical syllables and occasional nasal tones. Estelle was the perfect teacher, and she taught Evelyn phrases that were useful, such as those commonly used by professors in class. Her assignments would be a stretch for the first few months, though she had discovered the resourcefulness of Google Translate.

When the first day of term began, it was easy for her to pull out familiar words from the jumble that arose from the quick mouths of her classmates and piece together sentences that occasionally made sense.

It soon became apparent that English class would be a break for her, as the teacher insisted on everyone speaking English for the entire hour, and she took the time to improve her French. While her fellow students learned the word book, she took the opportunity to learn its French equivalent, livre.

Her class was going well until a man burst through the door, his hair styled into a mess by the rain and wind.

Honoré!” exclaimed the professor in a sarcastic display of merriment, “How pleasant it is of you to grace us with your presence for a second year! Hopefully by now you have learned that you cannot pass a class while not attending it.”

A second year student in a first-level English class? He must’ve been the type who’d not come on scholarship, the kind that could waste tuition like so. Evelyn looked up to appraise him.

“Damn.” she said. The other students looked at her in amusement, perhaps recognizing the word as a curse. Of course, she would be the one to teach them English swears.

It was the man from the Metro, the one she was hoping to forget rather than mentally relive her embarrassment at night as she normally did in such situations. He didn’t look as appealing now; he wore an aura of exhaustion and equally rumpled clothing. How she had ever found him attractive, she did not know. He seemed to be exactly the sort she wanted to avoid; spoiled and unwilling to work.

“You will work with Evelyn. She is English, perhaps she will make you learn something this time around.” instructed the professor, pointing to the girl. Evelyn cringed as she felt his eyes on her. Honoré, as he apparently was called, voiced a few mocking words in French, including her name. A few of the students around her burst into giggles and the professor blushed.

Evelyn ducked her head in embarrassment, having no clue as to what he’d just said. She asked a fellow student, one she knew to understand English fairly well. The girl laughed and reluctantly translated.

“Evelyn, the girl who wants me to kiss her uncle."

It seemed that many things got lost in translation.

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