Mr. XY is a real man though his initials have (as two of his instructors admitted) reminded them of the names given to axes on a graph; or chromosomes; or a set of variables in algebra (a word that another student stood up proudly in the classroom one day to announce that algebra has its origin in Arabic, it being derived from ‘al-jebr’ which, the student explained, meant the putting together of parts, this in turn being obtained from the literal meaning apparently referring to the setting or straightening of broken bones.)
It is uncertain whether Mr. XY understood any of that, he too being an immigrant with a different tongue.
“Your name is like a mystery. X and Y are numbers of mystery, unknowns,” the instructor told him, in English, with a smile, the first day Mr. XY turned up at the institute.
This, of course, was translated into Mandarin for Mr. XY by the teaching assistant, to which Mr. XY responded seriously, “Everything about me will be a mystery. All my papers. Gone. Drinking water in sea.”
This was translated back into English with a ‘verbal footnote’ by the translator to say, “He means his documents fell into the water. He arrived in Australia on a boat of course.”
What a quaint, poetic way of referring to what must be traumatic in reality, thought the instructor, simultaneously (like an equation) recalling another instance recently where an Asian sign in a park warned, “Please stay off the lawn. The young grasses are dreaming.”
Mr. XY, like the others in his class, was there to put in the required number of hours to learn English; one of twenty-one students of other languages in this particular class, called the Possums. Possums, possibly because nearly all of them were elderly and prone to dozing off somewhere between saying ‘G’day’ and ‘I reckon’.
The Romanian couple, the Georgescus, seated beside Mr. XY, befriended him and took it upon themselves to help him at least reach the level that they had arrived at, thanks to a healthy exposure to English in Romania from the greengrocer on their street who had a Scottish wife.
So in this snaking fashion, English was in turn befriended by Mr. XY, particularly after hours over a deliciously chilled beverage, since, as he confessed to Eugen Georgescu, he couldn’t speak in the classroom, as he was often overcome by shyness.
Somehow it was conveyed to him that diligence, especially in finishing the home tasks each day, would help break down some of the reserve Mr. XY was feeling.
“We too were very frightened to say anything when we first started classes,” said Eugen, but this sentence in turn had to be severely diluted and broken apart, repeated several times with gestures and dramatic enactment, before Mr. XY got the gist of what was being said. It was like that, every session. But the Georgescu couple were nothing if not patient. Slow and steady, they said, using their beverages as a teaching aid, taking little sips from it. Slow and steady.
In time, Mr. XY’s wife, a talented fabric painter, painted for the Georgescus, on silk, a fiery dragon veiled behind the outspread feathers of an Australian lyre bird. The Georgescus were overcome. Mrs. XY, shyer than her husband, began attending classes too. This, rather than deter him, helped Mr. XY find his tongue. Gradually he became a teeny bit vocal, unafraid to stand up and give a reply no matter how fractured.
“What did you do this weekend?” asked the instructor, one day.
“I went cinema,” said Mr. XY.
“Good. I went to the cinema,” corrected the instructor, asking, “Who did you go with?” “Your wife.”
“Your mean your wife,” corrected the instructor, recovering from a mild sense of alarm, “Yes, your wife,” said Mr. XY.
“That should be my wife,” said the instructor, before realizing the enormous complexities arising from ensuing explanations and calling things to a halt.
Kevin Martin is a journalist based in Sydney, Australia.
