Second Language – Part 1: Lesson One

The language school was on a narrow street in Malasaña, above a bakery that smelled of sugar and burnt caramel. The classroom had a broken fan, a whiteboard covered in verbs, and a window that looked out over a row of plane trees. Hugo sat at the front, notebook open, pen poised, feeling like a schoolboy who hadn't done his homework.

"Buenos días," said the teacher, coming in with a stack of papers.

"Buenos días," said Hugo, a little too loudly.

She looked up. She was small and sharp-eyed, with dark hair tied back and a red pen tucked behind one ear. She had the air of someone who had seen every excuse in the world.

"Your name?" she asked, in Spanish.

"Hugo," he said, and then, carefully, "Me llamo Hugo. Soy de Londres."

"Good. I'm Lucía," she said, switching smoothly into English. "You've learned one sentence. Let's see if you can learn ten more before the coffee gets cold."

Over the next weeks, Hugo learned to order coffee without apologising, to ask for directions without panicking, and to say lo siento in a way that didn't sound like a question. Lucía was patient, and exact, and frighteningly good at spotting when he was pretending to understand.

"You nodded," she said, on the third Thursday. "You don't understand the subjunctive, do you?"

"I understand it in my head."

"Your head is not talking to your grandmother," said Lucía, dryly. "Your grandmother is in Seville, and she thinks you've forgotten your Spanish roots. She told me so herself, last week, when she called to complain about your accent."

Hugo stared at her. "You've spoken to my grandmother?"

"She called the school. She has a very large voice." Lucía pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. "She wants you to speak to her properly, Hugo. Not just in shouts about the weather. And I think you want that too."

He was quiet. Outside, the plane trees rustled, and somewhere below a bus hissed to a stop.

"My mother never spoke Spanish at home," he said at last. "She wanted me to be English. My grandmother was the only one who spoke to me like I was hers."

Lucía's face softened, slightly. "Then we'll teach you to speak to her," she said. "One sentence at a time."

They worked through the lesson in silence for a while, the only sound the scratch of pens and the distant noise of the street. Then Lucía set down her pen.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, in English.

"Yes."

"Why did you really come to Madrid? Not for the grammar."

Hugo looked at her, and found that he didn't want to lie.

"Because I left my job in London, and my fiancée, and I needed to find out who I was when nobody was asking me to be useful," he said. "And because my grandmother asked me, on the phone, if I was lonely. And I didn't know how to say yes in either language."

Lucía was silent for a long moment. Then she reached across the table and laid her hand over his, light and warm.

"Then say it now," she said quietly. "In Spanish. Estoy solo."

"Estoy solo," said Hugo, his voice rough.

"Bien," said Lucía. "Now say something true, and I'll help you find the words."

He looked at her, the pen forgotten between his fingers, the fan turning slowly overhead.

"Me gusta estar aquí," he said slowly. "Contigo."

Lucía's cheeks went pink. She did not take her hand away.

"Very good grammar," she said softly. "Almost perfect."

"Can I ask you something?" said Hugo, in English, his heart thudding.

"Yes."

"Would you have a coffee with me after class? Somewhere the waiter doesn't speak English either, so we have to practise?"

Lucía laughed, quick and surprised. "Yes," she said. "But only if you promise to apologise for the subjunctive first."

"Lo siento," said Hugo solemnly.

"Bien," said Lucía, and squeezed his hand. "Verde?"

"Verde," said Hugo, grinning. "Muy verde."