Regine et Clementine

I meet Regine while observing the the Monday afternoon English class on my second day of work. She is hunched over her notebook, furiously writing down everything the teacher says. When she looks up from her work, we make eye contact. I smile and she doesn't. Somehow I figure out that she's a French speaker, and after class I ask her name in French.

"Regina" she answers, with a small smile. I suspect she's added the "a" onto the end to make it more English.

She is from DRC and lives not far from the centre. As we slowly walk out the of classroom, we carry on talking in French, limited by the topics I know how to discuss. Somewhere on the stairs, Regine links her arm through mine and proudly says "my friend," rolling the "r" and accenting the "d." For a second I think she's flirting with me, and then I remember that this is not Oberlin and dismiss the thought. Outside the centre I meet Regine's sister-in-law/belle soeur Clementine. Both girls are perfectly dressed and made up. They clearly have style, and I imagine they are disappointed by my uninspired outfit, especially because I am American. The girls ask me if I'd like to come to their apartment for tea. I nod my head, "oui, oui!", and feel lucky.

Regine and Clementine don't understand any English, so if I am a decent person I will speak French with them. I ask how old they are, what they study. I cover units 1-3 of francais elementaire II. I am just getting to asking them their favorite movies (unit 4) when Regine puts me on the phone with her husband. She holds the phone to my ear the while we talk even though both my hands are free.

"Can you please teach Regine, please she needs to learn English. She needs it." His voice is deep and humble, and formal. I wonder why he can speak English and she can't.

"Yes, yes I can do that. Sure." At this point I'm still not sure in what way he means, but I'm eager for friends and company and I still have free time to fill.

Regine, Clementine, Pitchout, and several other family members live together in a small apartment on the 4th floor of the complex, called "Centre Ville." The walls are light pink stucco and there are many windows. It reminds me of a condo in Florida. I make more small talk in French, no English for today I decide. It's soon dark, and the girls walk me to the train station. I hug them both before I cross the street and some people stare from inside their cars.

When I arrive at the apartment for our second meeting, it's just Regine. She compliments my earrings.

"New York?" She pulls on her own gold hoop.

"Yes, New York." Technically not a lie, even though I probably got them at a CVS in Rochester.

"Nice, very nice." Regine arches an eyebrow and smiles without teeth.

We sit down to my cup of coffee and Regine turns on the TV. Oprah is on. It's a special on "America's Got Talent." A little girl singing prodigy gets interviewed as we name things on the coffee tray in English.

We've gotten through kettle, sugar, and coffee when Pitchout comes home from work. This is our first meeting face-to-face. He looks younger than he sounds; he and Regine both can't be older than 25. I stand, we shake hands, and he thanks me. I think he is staring at me, and for a minute I want to leave because the last thing I want to do is make Regine uncomfortable. Pitchout goes into the bedroom for a moment, then re-enters the living room, his face serious.

"Rebecca, is it ok if I take a shower? Will you still be here?"

"Yes of course, no problem!"

Why is he asking me this? My caffeinated imagination jumps to the wildest and most offensive possibility; I've agreed to be some kind of second wife to Pitchout! Oh my god, oh god! Damn language barrier.

"Regine, why is he asking me if he can take a shower?"

I make my voice even. She doesn't understand so I ask in French but then I don't understand her. Calm down, I tell myself. Pitchout brings the ironing into the living room, apparently so he can make sure we stay on task. Regine glances over at him periodically, clearly less comfortable with her husband in the room. I would ask him to leave, but we're not at that point, not yet.

We review parts of the body and Regine appears to forget we're being watched, until Pitchout crosses the room to the kitchen sink. He takes out a bottle of iodine, unwraps his bandaged fingers, and starts dabbing it on. Pitchout is a gardener. These must by work wounds.

It turns out Pitchout just wanted to be done in time to walk me to the train station. We have a pleasant stroll, Regine, Pitchout, and I. They come with me all the way to the turnstile. Regine asks Pitchout why, why all the way into the station?

"We have to make sure!" he tells her.