Chapter 43

CHAPTER 16 — BOOK III

 

In Another Language

 

(2009)

 

Not all of that year unfolded inside houses.

 

University resumed without announcement. Lecture halls filled and emptied with mechanical efficiency. Assignments accumulated. Applications were submitted. Schedules rearranged themselves without asking permission.

 

Nuryani needed additional reception staff that semester.

 

The lobby already belonged to familiarity — two Malaysian students behind the desk moving between calls and keycards with quiet competence. The air carried the faint mix of printer ink and carpet cleaner that most front desks acquired over time.

 

Embong arrived early.

 

He sat near the wall, résumé folded once and unfolded again without reason.

 

A young man took the chair beside him.

 

White. Slim. Dark hair that fell forward and was pushed back absently rather than styled.

 

“You are also applying?” he asked.

 

His English was fluent, but shaped differently. Certain vowels rounded before settling.

 

“Yes.”

 

They compared timelines almost immediately.

 

Same age.

 

The Frenchman had already finished university in Paris.

 

“Grégoire,” he said, offering his hand.

 

Embong shook it.

 

When his name was called, he crossed the room without hesitation.

 

Embong watched him go, then glanced down at the résumé resting briefly on the adjacent chair.

 

Grégoire Savard.

 

The font was understated. The layout precise. Paris listed plainly, without embellishment.

 

Nothing about it tried to impress.

 

When Grégoire returned, he handed a spare copy across.

 

“In case you know somewhere else,” he said politely.

 

There was nothing performative about him. He did not fill silence. He did not rehearse answers aloud. He simply waited.

 

A second student arrived shortly after — quicker in movement, sharper in gaze.

 

He dropped into the remaining chair with casual ease.

 

“Ludovic,” he said, nodding.

 

He and Grégoire exchanged something rapid in French — too fast for Embong to follow.

 

Ludovic smiled.

 

“He says we must look serious,” he translated.

 

“You don’t look serious,” Embong replied.

 

“That is intentional,” Ludovic said.

 

When their names were called, they crossed the room in sequence.

 

Nuryani listened. Asked three questions. Marked something down.

 

When they returned, Grégoire passed a spare copy of his résumé across to Embong without comment.

 

“In case you know somewhere else,” he said politely.

 

It was not ambition.

 

It was courtesy.

 

Later, when the shift schedule was posted, all three names appeared within two lines of each other.

 

It did not feel like an event.

 

At the time, it was simply proximity.

 

Proximity required little effort to maintain.

 

Coffee after shifts. Shared complaints about coursework. Ludovic insisting that Sydney’s dumplings required proper evaluation.

 

“Where is the best Chinese restaurant?” he demanded one evening.

 

Embong hesitated only briefly.

 

They went to Golden Century Seafood Restaurant in Chinatown.

 

Ludovic studied the tanks near the entrance with academic seriousness.

 

“You choose,” he told Embong. “I trust.”

 

“You just met me.”

 

“Yes,” Ludovic said. “But you are decisive.”

 

When the waiter approached, Ludovic began in careful English.

 

Then he switched, cautiously, into Cantonese.

 

“唔好太細。”
m4 hou2 taai3 sai3.
(Not too small.)

 

The waiter nodded.

 

Ludovic paused.

 

Then, without hesitation, he shifted into Mandarin.

 

“也不要太聪明。”
yě bú yào tài cōngmíng.
(And not too clever.)

 

The waiter froze.

 

Geoffrey frowned. “What did he just say?”

 

Embong exhaled.

 

“He told him not to pick a crab that’s too smart.”

 

The waiter laughed.

 

“Too clever is expensive,” Ludovic added.

 

Geoffrey stared. “You speak both?”

 

Ludovic shrugged.

 

“My grandmother would be disappointed if I didn’t.”

 

The waiter selected a crab with visible approval.

 

Plates arrived. Steam rose. Conversation loosened.

 

Ludovic laughed easily.

 

Grégoire observed more than he spoke.

 

Geoffrey watched the two of them navigate the room without hesitation — foreign, yet not uncertain.

 

Later that night, Embong accepted a friend request he had not noticed earlier.

 

Ludovic Fang.

 

The profile picture was sharper than necessary. The bio read:

 

Paris | Lyon | Sydney (temporary)

 

Under interests: food, film, family, language.

 

Embong hesitated only briefly before clicking accept.

 

Within minutes, a message arrived.

 

Next week — Malaysian again. I am building tolerance.

 

Embong smiled.

 

Later that week, Ludovic requested Malaysian food.

 

“Proper,” he said. “Not interpretation.”

 

They went to a small Malaysian restaurant in Haymarket, the kind that carried laminated menus and did not apologise for sambal.

 

Ludovic tasted first.

 

Then paused.

 

Then nodded with exaggerated solemnity.

 

“This,” he said, “is not gentle.”

 

Embong glanced at the waiter and said, lightly:

 

“Tambah sikit lagi. Dia masih hidup.”

(Add a little more. He’s still alive.)

 

The waiter laughed immediately.

 

Ludovic straightened.

 

“I understood ‘hidup,’” he said.

 

“That’s enough,” Embong replied.

 

Ludovic turned back to the waiter, attempting the pronunciation carefully.

 

“Tambah… sikit.”

 

The waiter obliged.

 

Geoffrey blinked. “You’re encouraging this?”

 

Embong shrugged.

 

“Malaysian food isn’t meant to be polite.”

 

Ludovic pointed at Geoffrey.

 

“He is sweating.”

 

“I’m fine,” Geoffrey said, voice steady despite evidence.

 

Grégoire passed him water without comment.

 

No one rescued him.

 

No one needed to.

 

Grégoire’s name surfaced more often after that.

 

“Grégoire thinks—”

 

“Ludovic says—”

 

It wasn’t deliberate.

 

Just frequent.

 

One evening, sitting across from each other at a café near Central, Geoffrey stirred his coffee longer than necessary.

 

“Does Grégoire live here now?”

 

Embong looked up. “No.”

 

“Feels like it.”

 

The tone was light.

 

Not unkind.

 

But not neutral.

 

“You could come,” Embong said.

 

“I don’t speak French.”

 

“You speak enough.”

 

Geoffrey looked away.

 

“Not enough.”

 

Silence held.

 

“I’m not replacing anyone,” Embong said carefully.

 

Geoffrey nodded once.

 

He hadn’t meant it like that.

 

But he had meant something.

 

The first dinner where all of them were present felt accidental rather than planned.

 

Hijau set plates down. Lachlan poured water. Conversation drifted toward Europe.

 

Grégoire said something quick in French to Embong.

 

Embong laughed.

 

“Subtitles would help,” Geoffrey said.

 

Ludovic tilted his head.

 

“We are speaking very slowly for you.”

 

Lachlan set his glass down.

 

“Ce n’est pas si compliqué,” he said evenly.

 

The vowels were careful, rounded — immersion-trained rather than inherited.

 

Grégoire glanced at him, mildly impressed.

 

“You went to France?” Ludovic asked.

 

“Toronto,” Lachlan replied.

 

Ludovic nodded.

 

“I survived French immersion,” Lachlan added. “This is recreational.”

 

Hijau nudged him. “Don’t show off.”

 

“I’m not,” he said. “I’m calibrating.”

 

The table settled.

 

No one competed.

 

But Geoffrey felt, briefly, surrounded by a language he did not own.

 

He did not resent it.

He simply noticed it.

 

A week later, the four of them sat at a café in Surry Hills.

 

Conversation drifted again into French.

 

Geoffrey leaned back, quiet.

 

Grégoire noticed first.

 

“Sorry,” he said mildly. “We are plotting world domination.”

 

“Should I be concerned?” Geoffrey asked.

 

“No. You are too dangerous.”

 

“You and him,” Grégoire added gently. “Since school, yes?”

 

Geoffrey nodded.

 

Ludovic smiled faintly. “Ah. The original.”

 

“He means you came first,” Grégoire translated.

 

Geoffrey exhaled.

 

“I do not compete with history,” Grégoire said.

 

The sentence landed without weight.

 

Something tightened, then eased.

 

Grégoire left Sydney at the end of the semester.

 

Ludovic had already passed through security, turning once to wave without breaking stride.

 

Grégoire lingered.

 

“Merci.”

 

The hug was brief but complete.

 

Then the cheek kisses — light, European, natural.

 

“Take care of him,” Grégoire said to Geoffrey.

 

“I always do.”

 

He nodded once.

 

Then he was gone.

 

“Jealous much, Geoffrey?” Embong asked lightly.

 

“That was diplomatic,” Geoffrey replied. “International procedure.”

 

After a moment:

“I could learn French properly.”

 

“You say that every time.”

 

Nothing had been resolved.
Nothing had been threatened.
But something had been measured.

 

Looking back, Geoffrey would understand that language had never been the point.

 

Proximity was.

 

And proximity, if it was real, did not fracture under translation.

 

It adjusted.

 

It made room.

 

It allowed expansion without erasure.

 

When change arrived next, it would not come in another language.

 

It would come as landscape.

 

And they would meet it the same way.

 

<< Back to Chapter 15 || CHAPTER 16 || Continue to Chapter 17 >>

 

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved.  Omar Onn