I married a Guatemalan.” She paused, the little smile returning. “Disappointed? You wanted a chapín?”
“A what?”
“A nacional?”
“No. Makes no difference.”
“Actually, it’s unusual for this school to pair male and female anyway, but it seems I was the only available tutor.”
“I think I’m lucky to have one at all. Even a Yankee fan.”
“Oh, the hat. Actually, I’m not a fan, of anything. Shall we get down to business?” She pulled a notebook out of her bag.
“You’re the boss,” I said.
She nodded, as if there were no question. “Let’s talk English for a while. We’ll be immersed in Spanish soon enough. Here’s how things go. We’ll be working all day, five days, six hours a day, with a two hour noon break, and assignments to do in the evening. We’ll speak Spanish almost entirely and we expect you to speak Spanish in your residence, at meals, and as much as possible in all other outside contacts. Spanish TV, radio, newspapers. Does that seem manageable to you?”
“I’ll limp along,” I said. I was judging her age. She could be younger than she looked. Her face was narrow, bones prominent. A few threads of gray in her hair caught the light where they had escaped the cap. No make-up.
“We usually start with a diagnostic test,” she said. “But first I’d like your own estimate of where you stand, with the language, that is.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, good, that’s something to build on.” She gave a short laugh. Her laugh, unlike the rest of her, was round and mellow, as if another person lived inside her for that purpose. “Your application doesn’t mention language courses, high school or college.”
“I took French and Latin. Not that I remember much.”
“Not Spanish?”
“No.”
“So, then, you’ve never studied Spanish and you have no proficiency.”
I didn’t answer, though she gave me several seconds, her eyes on my face. There was an intensity about her that put me on edge, a certain alertness that brought something to her eyes—not a spark, but a further darkening of the irises.
“What brings you here, to language school?” she asked then. “Do you mind telling me?”
Did everybody here ask personal questions? “Well, it’s not a passion for the language, if that’s what you mean,” I said.
“Well, as a matter of fact,” she answered dryly, “passion is the furthest thing from my mind. I just think it might help if I have some idea of what you’re hoping to get here. You can study Spanish anywhere, of course.”
“I have some family business to take care of,” I told her.
“All right. Is there any aspect of the language you think might be important, in doing this business?”
There was no way to even contemplate an answer to that.
“Look,” she said. “I don’t care a rat’s patooty about your personal business. All I want is to do the job right. If you can’t help me, that’s okay. We’ll blunder along.”
“I’m just a little surprised at the interrogation,” I said.
“Interrogation?” She paused. I thought she was going to laugh, but she only produced the reluctant smile. She had nice teeth. In my present mood, they were a little disquieting. “I think this is not your first trip south of the U.S. border,” she said.
So she knew. I answered. “I lived here once. As a kid.”
Her eyes darkened. “Your accent gave you away.”
“My accent?”
“How you said buenos días, how you pronounced Guatemala. Yankees work their heads off to get that just right. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’d rather it didn’t raise expectations.”
“You can trust me. If you’re relearning an early language, it makes a big difference. Were you born here?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, then you are actually a Guatemalan?”
“I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“You’re a U.S. citizen then, by choice at age eighteen.”
“Correct.”
“You haven’t been back?”
“No.”
“And how old were you when you left? May I ask?”
“Seven.”
“Seven years old.” She stared at me as if I were still a child, a naughty one. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “Unless you were hermetically sealed in some Yankee bubble-house for the first seven years of your life, you spoke Guatemalan Spanish—fluently, I expect.”
“As fluently as a seven-year-old might, I suppose.”
“Did you read it?”
“At an elementary level. A bit of grammar in school, as I recall.” With my mother as first classroom teacher, a stickler for grammar, but I didn’t say that. Ordered by the same mother to never speak the language again. I didn’t say that either. “The truth is, I haven’t used it in years and I can’t account for what I’ll remember,” I said. “Isn’t that what’s important?”
“Have you reviewed it at all?”
“Not really.”
“It should come back quickly.” She rattled off something in Spanish.
“You’ve lost me,” I told her.
“Old expression. ‘Those raised by lions will always know how to growl.’ I’ve been speaking Spanish for twenty years, and if I stopped, I’d get rusty pretty fast. But I’ll never forget English. My guess is you’ll find your Spanish right where you left it.”
“In the lion’s den? Then who is to say I won’t be eaten?” I thought that was rather funny, but she asked, “Is that why you’ve never been back?” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Well, why don’t you ask the questions for a while. You must have some.”
And you, Catherine O’Brien from Milwaukee, what brought you to this country? I didn’t ask. I didn’t really want to know. Three whole weeks in her presence, under her tutelage? “Exactly what are we going to do for six hours a day?” I asked.
“Does that seem like a long time to you?”
“Possibly
