Second Language – Part 2: Conversation

By the end of the month, Hugo could order a coffee, argue about football and ask a stranger for the way to the Retiro without blushing. He could not yet say what he felt in the subjunctive, but he was getting closer every week.

The coffees after class became a habit. A small café near the school with cracked tiles and a jukebox full of Spanish pop. They spoke only Spanish, as agreed, and when Hugo got stuck, Lucía corrected him with the patience of a saint and the sharpness of a red pen.

"You want to say I'd like to walk with you," she said one evening. "But you've said I walk you want."

"That's an accident."

"It's a confession," said Lucía, and grinned, and he lost his place entirely.

They walked after that, through the wide streets of Chueca and the quiet gardens of the Retiro, where the trees were turning orange and the paddle boats drifted on the lake. Lucía told him about her childhood in Valencia, a family of fishermen's daughters who had learned to argue before they learned to walk. Hugo told her about London, the grey skies and the glass towers and the quiet flat he had decorated with plants he kept forgetting to water.

One Sunday, sitting on a bench under a plane tree, Hugo took out his phone.

"I'm going to call my grandmother," he said, in careful Spanish. "I want to say something true."

Lucía looked at him, her eyes warm. "Then I'll stay here," she said. "And I won't laugh unless she does first."

The call connected after three rings. His grandmother's voice came through, loud and cheerful and full of accusations about his haircut.

"Abuela," said Hugo, and his voice cracked.

"¿Hugo? ¿Qué pasa?"

He took a breath. He looked at Lucía, who nodded, very slightly.

"Estoy solo, Abuela," he said. "Pero estoy aprendiendo a estar bien. Y tengo una profesora muy buena."

There was a long silence on the line. Then his grandmother laughed, a rich, delighted sound that carried all the way down the phone.

"¿Una profesora?" she said. "¿Es guapa?"

Hugo looked at Lucía, who had gone very pink and was pretending to be fascinated by a passing pigeon.

"Sí," said Hugo. "Muy guapa."

"Then bring her to Seville at Christmas," said his grandmother briskly. "And tell her I'll be the judge of her cooking."

"Sí, Abuela," said Hugo, laughing through his tears. "Te quiero."

"Te quiero también, mi niño," said his grandmother, and hung up.

Hugo sat with the phone in his hand, staring at the plane tree above him. Lucía was watching him with a soft, careful expression.

"That was perfect," she said quietly.

"It was terrible grammar," said Hugo.

"It was the truest thing you've said since you arrived," said Lucía.

He turned to her. The autumn light came through the leaves in long, gold streaks across her face.

"Can I ask you something?" he said, in Spanish, and then, because the words were getting harder: "¿Puedo preguntarte algo?"

"Sí," said Lucía, gently.

"¿Quieres venir a Sevilla conmigo en Navidad?"

Her breath caught. She looked at him for a long moment, and then smiled, slow and bright.

"Sí," she said. "Quiero. But first, ¿puedo besarte?"

He laughed, astonished. "Sí," said Hugo. "Y si quieres parar, paramos."

"Muy bien," said Lucía, and leaned in.

She kissed him slowly, her hand warm against his cheek, the leaves whispering above them and the paddle boats drifting quietly on the lake. It tasted of coffee and the faint sweetness of the churros they had shared. When they parted, both of them were laughing softly.

"¿Verde?" she asked.

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

"Entonces," said Lucía, standing and holding out her hand, "vamos a aprender el subjuntivo juntos."

"Together," said Hugo, and took her hand, and felt, for the first time, that he was finally speaking the right language.