Alligator lessons

"Now, sadly, my alligator is very unwell."

"Excuse me?" I said, moving my elbows to the table and my ears halfway across it. "What is unwell?"

"My alligator. It's been terrible for years now."

"You have an alligator?"

"No, of course not. I studied alligators."

I had grown used to both bizarre comments and misunderstandings; otherwise I could have sworn that this man—currently tearing apart chicken feet with his chopsticks—was an aging PETA member intent on promoting animal-sensitive language.

"Where would one study alligators?"

"In schools of course. It was a major part of the curriculum in my day."

"What?"

"Yes, we all had to learn about alligators."

"Excuse me, sir, I'm a little confused. Would you mind writing down 'alligator?' I think I'm misunderstanding you a bit."

"No, you've understood perfectly. Today everyone learns English. You're learning Mandarin, and I learned about alligators."

"Why?"

"It was important for the Chinese-Soviet alliance. Man, did that go to hell." He took a shot of baijiu and hiccuped.

"You mean you learned RUSSIAN."

"Yes, that's what I said. ALLIGATORS." He pushed a bowl toward me, and threw some beans on my plate with his chopsticks. "Here, have some more."

"Spaciba," I said. "Do you want more baijiu?" I asked, pointing to the bottle on the floor.

"Mozhet bit," he smiled, his face a dark red.

For the rest of our dinner, I mentally blamed the misunderstanding on Mr. Wei's accented Mandarin. But as I walked home that night, I mumured in time with my footsteps: "èyú, alligator, éyǔ, Russian; èyú, alligator, éyǔ, Russian; èyú, alligator, éyǔ, Russian."

Recalling the man's voice in my head—and the context—I realized the mistake had been entirely my own.

Those damn tones.