Wei has slept three hours. Or maybe four. The flight from Singapore was eleven hours, and then there was the airport, and then there was the metro, and then there was the small apartment on the rue des Cinq-Diamants where she fell onto a mattress at four in the morning without unpacking. Now it is seven, and the sun is hard and white through the window, and she is hungry.
She walks down five flights of stairs that smell of coffee and old wood. The street is narrow. Across the road, a woman is washing the windows of a small shop. Above the door it says BOULANGERIE in gold letters that have been there a long time.
Wei pushes the door. A bell rings.
The woman behind the counter has grey hair pulled into a bun, and she is arranging croissants in a basket. She looks up. Her face is kind. Wei has rehearsed this sentence on the plane. She tries it now.
— Bonjour Madame.
Her voice comes out smaller than she meant it to. The woman smiles. She does not seem in a hurry.
— Bonjour ma belle. Tu es nouvelle, toi ?
Wei does not know all the words, but she understands the question. She nods.
— Euh… oui. Je m'appelle Wei.
— Wei. C'est joli. Tu viens d'où ?
— Je suis singapourienne.
The woman's face lights up.
— Singapour ! Bienvenue à Paris, Wei. Qu'est-ce que tu prends ?
Wei points at a croissant. She does not know how to ask for it properly yet. The woman laughs gently — not at her, with her — and slides the croissant into a small paper bag.
— Un croissant. Ça fait un euro vingt.
Wei pays. She has rehearsed this part too.
— Merci, Madame.
— Bonne journée, Wei. À demain.
Wei steps out into the morning. The bell rings again behind her. She walks slowly back up the rue des Cinq-Diamants, eating the croissant with one hand. It is the best thing she has ever tasted. She does not yet know that three other people, in three different parts of the city, are also having a first morning. She does not yet know that two hours from now, all four of them will be sitting in the same classroom.
The classroom is on the third floor. Salle 304. Wei pushes open the door at five past nine and three faces lift to look at her.
The first is a young woman sitting at the front, completely still, with three pens lined up on her desk in order of length. She has a notebook open. She is already writing, even though nothing has happened yet. This is Yuki.
The second is a man at the back, talking very loudly on the phone in a language that is not French. He waves at Wei without breaking his sentence. He is wearing a scarf indoors. This is Mateo.
The third is a woman sitting in the middle row, flipping through a magazine. She has long braids and a laugh that the others can already hear, even though she is alone. She nods at Wei without speaking. This is Amara.
Wei sits down two seats away from Amara. Nobody speaks. The clock ticks.
At nine ten, the instructor enters. She is small, sharp, and immediately at the front of the room. She places her bag on the desk and turns.
— Bonjour à tous.
Three voices reply: Bonjour Madame. Yuki and Wei say it carefully. Amara says it warmly.
Mateo, finishing his phone call at the back, looks up brightly and calls out:
— Salut !
There is a small silence. The instructor smiles. It is a patient smile. She walks down the aisle towards Mateo, slowly, and stops at his desk.
— Bonjour, monsieur. En classe, on dit « bonjour » et « vous ». D'accord ?
— Ah. Oui. Pardon, Madame. Bonjour, Madame.
Yuki, at the front, writes something in her notebook. Amara hides a smile behind her magazine. Wei looks down at her hands and tries not to laugh.
It is, all four of them later agree, the first lesson.
By the end of the morning, they have learned the alphabet, the days of the week, six colours, and five things the instructor will say to them every day for the next two months. They have not, however, said anything to each other.
At twelve thirty, the bell rings. Wei stands up. Yuki is already halfway out the door. Mateo is back on his phone. Amara is looking at Wei.
— Tu déjeunes où ?
Wei does not know how to answer. She smiles, helplessly. Amara nods, as if she had expected this.
— D'accord. À cet après-midi.
And she is gone.