In between my interviews I sat on park benches and waited for time to pass, alongside homeless people drinking cider from cheap two-litre bottles. They didn’t ask why I didn’t have furniture or how old I was or why my English was so good.
‘You’re young, aren’t you,’ said an older lady sat next to me. That was all. She opened a can of raspberry vodka and didn’t look at me again. Her mascara was running down her cheeks.
The viewings continued. In house after house I left my name and the hostel’s phone number, like a dog marking lampposts. Most people said they would ring when they had come to a decision. In my notebook I jotted down names and addresses, for reference when they called. But no one did, and after searching non-stop for four days I was still without a place to live. On the way home, I caught a tram and passed several stops before I realised it was going in the wrong direction. I got off on a deserted main road and had started the walk back when I heard a deep voice shout from a passing car:
NICE TITS, BITCH!
And then he drove off, fast, and the ’TCH drowned in the noise of the engine. I could feel my cheeks burn and I pulled my jacket tighter around myself.
When I finally got back to the hostel I was tired, cold and certain I didn’t want to talk to anyone, but the receptionist stopped me in the doorway:
‘Someone called for you and left this message.’
She handed me a yellow, folded note. I thanked her and unfolded the paper, excited to see whether I’d been offered a room, but it was just a friendly rejection from the bandana girl:
Dear Jo, the room in 21 Primrose St is now taken. We chose two Canadian girls. Thanks for coming.
THIS IS HOW I remember my first day at the university: my shadow slipped between big stone stairs, benches and fountains. Groups of students who already knew each other were everywhere. They talked loud and fast and showed each other books and schedules. Among these sounds, my booted steps were inaudible.
On campus the tall brick buildings shut out the rest of town. Some had spires that looked like the City Hall clock tower. On a large lawn outside the library the student societies had put up tables and colourful banners. Join the Christian Student Organisation, one of them said in cramped handwriting. University of Aybourne Queer Society was painted on another in vivid rainbow colours.
‘It’s No Diet Day,’ a girl shouted after me outside the main building of the biology institute, Earth Sciences. She had dreadlocks and a rainbow-patterned T-shirt.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘No Diet Day,’ she repeated. ‘Today we celebrate the fat!’ She then handed me a sweaty chocolate muffin from a plastic tray. ‘No Diet Day,’ I repeated to myself. I continued to replay snippets of conversations that I overheard around me while I walked to the Earth Sciences department and until I got to the lecture hall door.
The hall was a huge auditorium, filled with students. I walked between the benches looking for an empty seat. The rows slanted steeply towards the lectern at the bottom, and on the second row from the front someone finally scooted over to offer me a seat. Behind me I could hear the rustle of paper: hundreds of students leafing through information sheets from folders titled New Bachelor of Science Students – Welcome Session. One of the professors was then introduced, and he started to tell us about the university regulations, about the bachelor’s degree and about biology studies. I jotted down new magical words in my notebook: tutorial, prerequisite, curriculum, research thesis. Then I noted some academic terms: cell theory, homoeostasis, endothermic. I silently mouthed the new words, and hung on every term I recognised and almost recognised.
During the induction day I became increasingly aware how unprepared I was to study in English. After the welcome session we were divided into small groups and asked to introduce ourselves. While I waited my turn I noticed how all the students’ voices went up on the last syllable in every sentence. Everything they said sounded like a question: My name is Alistair? Or I’m Catrìona? From Aybourne South? It sounded like they didn’t know their names or where they lived. When it was my turn, my voice was stiff and rusty. In short spurts I told them my name and where I was from, but every pause was too long and the syllables too short. The language grated on my throat. The words were wrong: Norway was not a country I’d been to, and it felt like a lie to pronounce my name as Djåoanna. And even before Johanna, when I said, Hello, my name is, I couldn’t help but think of other names, from pop songs and films: My name is Luka, I sang to myself, My name is Jonas, gurgled behind my tongue when I said, ‘Djåoanna, Djåo.’ When I finished, I was almost certain that I had said something else, a different name, something wrong. I suddenly knew nothing about myself, nothing seemed right in English, nothing was true.
There was only one first-year at the Faculty of Science who wasn’t from the area. She was German, and when she introduced herself as Fran-ziska-from-Ham-burg, I recognised my own stiff delivery at once. Her voice had a depth that made it more confident than mine. It sounded calm and shockingly serious in comparison with the light question-inflections coming from the other students. Franziska and I walked out together after the seminar. We were both a couple of years older than most of the students, and she seemed happy to meet someone else who wasn’t a native.
‘Where do you live?’ I asked.
‘I live down on South Beach, with my brother. He’s been living here for a couple of years, so I was lucky. Where do you live?’
‘I’m looking.’
‘Did you see many places?’
‘Yes, no one wants me yet though.’
‘Most people probably want someone they know, or someone who can’t just run off. You know, back to another country. That’s what my brother says anyway. But there’s a place on campus with listings. I can show you before I go.’
It was late in the day. Most of the students had gone home. The listings were hanging in the window of a café at the far end of the campus. Lots of handwritten notes formed a city map of index cards, showing the way to abandoned apartments, dusty bedrooms and old cars. Some included colourful drawings of cute cats or lively explanations for why a new tenant was needed. ‘Are you our dancing queen?’ it said on a note stuck in the middle, and another one read, ‘Desperately seeking YOU! (If you love cats.)’
One note stuck out, on the edge of the clump. It had no drawings, puns or patterns:
ROOM AVAILABLE IN LARGE W.HOUSE.
SHARE WITH 1 F.
.QUIET.
There followed an address and a phone number. The word QUIET, closed in by a full stop on either side, had an emphasis I liked. Quiet worked for me. I couldn’t imagine the other girl, only large rooms, unfurnished and uninhabited. And when I rang from the phone box by City Hall, the girl didn’t have a voice either, only a mechanical one from the phone company:
You have reached the answering machine of … Car-ral … John-ston. Please leave a message after the tone, or hang up.
While
