barely registered him, a new arrival to the class. She is struck now by his rather formal manners, his courtesy. She installs him in Rose’s sitting-room, one afternoon (he can only do afternoons, apparently, he has a morning job), but he leaps anxiously to his feet when she gets up to look for paper, or put the kettle on for tea. Rose has gone to Brent Cross on a shopping expedition, so they will not be in the way. Charlotte now takes in Anton’s appearance—a man pushing fifty, perhaps, neatly dressed in gray trousers, white open-necked shirt, black leather jacket. A lean body, long face, and notable eyes. He has these large, dark brown eyes that to Charlotte are interestingly foreign; these are not homely English eyes, they are eyes from elsewhere, central European eyes, eyes with forests in them, and Ruritanian castles, and music by Janácˇek or Bartók.
Anton can speak pretty good English, he understands well, but he has this great difficulty with reading the language. There is some mysterious block between English in the ear or on the tongue and English on the page.
He spreads his hands, a gesture of defeat, taps his head. “I am so stupid. It is here—but in the books I cannot see it.”
Anton must be able to read. He explains: “If I read, I get good job. Without read—job, yes. With read—job I can like.”
Anton is working on a building site, but he has none of the building trade skills. He is not a plumber, or an electrician, or a carpenter, he tells Charlotte. “I wish,” he adds with a smile—that beguiling, apologetic smile.
So what is he, what has he been, when he was at home, Charlotte wonders, and why is he here? And Anton knows that she wonders. He was—is—an accountant, he tells her. But there are no jobs where he lives. He has tried other places, with no luck, he was jobless for months. And then came the EU membership, and the possibility of work outside the country. Work here, in the UK.
Anton’s English was learned not at school but from contact with visiting English-speaking colleagues. He felt confident that he could manage, once here; he had not reckoned with this reading problem.
Anton is concerned about Charlotte’s injury, and shakes his head angrily when he hears the reason for it. “That is terrible,” he says. “A lady like you.”
An old lady, he means. Charlotte smiles. “A soft target, I suppose. They prefer not to take on the young and fit.”
Anton looks puzzled. She translates herself. “Soft target—something easy to…to hit.”
He sighs. “English is so…so many ways to say. But my language like that also.” A wry smile—and Charlotte glimpses the easy fluency in another tongue, the ability to say exactly what he means, but now he is floored, fettered by this lack of language, made to seem child-like, stupid.
“Your English is not so bad at all,” she says. “And it will get better all the time, the longer you are here.”
She has made tea; this is an acclimatization moment; she wants to get to know him better. “So how long have you been here?”
Anton has been in England for six weeks. He is staying in a housein south London that is an enclave of his compatriots; mattresses on floors, communal meals. Those who land a decent job move out to a bed-sit or a flat-share. Some are seasonal only, trying to earn enough in a short time to fund some long-term plan back home: the deposit on a house, the wedding. Anton is older than most; “I am uncle,” he says, smiling. Literally so, in one case; a nephew of his is here, doing waiter work. “He read well. He have English from school. He try to teach me, but no good. So I look for the class.”
Something more emerges. There is something else, in the crevices of what he says, or rather, of what he does not exactly say. He has no family; no children, and his wife has left. Charlotte senses someone whose world is all awry. At one point he shrugs: “I come to England because…because it not matter
Anton can speak pretty good English, he understands well, but he has this great difficulty with reading the language. There is some mysterious block between English in the ear or on the tongue and English on the page.
He spreads his hands, a gesture of defeat, taps his head. “I am so stupid. It is here—but in the books I cannot see it.”
Anton must be able to read. He explains: “If I read, I get good job. Without read—job, yes. With read—job I can like.”
Anton is working on a building site, but he has none of the building trade skills. He is not a plumber, or an electrician, or a carpenter, he tells Charlotte. “I wish,” he adds with a smile—that beguiling, apologetic smile.
So what is he, what has he been, when he was at home, Charlotte wonders, and why is he here? And Anton knows that she wonders. He was—is—an accountant, he tells her. But there are no jobs where he lives. He has tried other places, with no luck, he was jobless for months. And then came the EU membership, and the possibility of work outside the country. Work here, in the UK.
Anton’s English was learned not at school but from contact with visiting English-speaking colleagues. He felt confident that he could manage, once here; he had not reckoned with this reading problem.
Anton is concerned about Charlotte’s injury, and shakes his head angrily when he hears the reason for it. “That is terrible,” he says. “A lady like you.”
An old lady, he means. Charlotte smiles. “A soft target, I suppose. They prefer not to take on the young and fit.”
Anton looks puzzled. She translates herself. “Soft target—something easy to…to hit.”
He sighs. “English is so…so many ways to say. But my language like that also.” A wry smile—and Charlotte glimpses the easy fluency in another tongue, the ability to say exactly what he means, but now he is floored, fettered by this lack of language, made to seem child-like, stupid.
“Your English is not so bad at all,” she says. “And it will get better all the time, the longer you are here.”
She has made tea; this is an acclimatization moment; she wants to get to know him better. “So how long have you been here?”
Anton has been in England for six weeks. He is staying in a housein south London that is an enclave of his compatriots; mattresses on floors, communal meals. Those who land a decent job move out to a bed-sit or a flat-share. Some are seasonal only, trying to earn enough in a short time to fund some long-term plan back home: the deposit on a house, the wedding. Anton is older than most; “I am uncle,” he says, smiling. Literally so, in one case; a nephew of his is here, doing waiter work. “He read well. He have English from school. He try to teach me, but no good. So I look for the class.”
Something more emerges. There is something else, in the crevices of what he says, or rather, of what he does not exactly say. He has no family; no children, and his wife has left. Charlotte senses someone whose world is all awry. At one point he shrugs: “I come to England because…because it not matter
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