To Beyhan, English was a pointless language. What use had he for someone who would live in Turkey for his life? Perhaps for love?

English was pointless. It was full of strange sounds and rules. Worse, it made no sense to Beyhan. Instead of the clean, organized structure of Turkish, English sounds were all over the place, going up and down and backwards and forwards. And the droves of words all meaning the same thing!

If asked about it, he would shrug and ask, “What possible reason would I have to learn it? I’m never moving to England, or South Africa, or the USA.”

However, in spite of his best efforts, Beyhan’s resistance to the International Language let some words slip. The occasional pretty face sometimes convinced him to remember a fun word or two. For the most part, though, these latter conversations were in the language of passion, a place where words seldom had value.

What he had learned proved insufficient on the day Emrullah came by his shop talking about the Amerikan.

“Is she beautiful?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

“Is she like Deniz Akkaya?”

“Nope.”

“Berrak Tuzunatac?”

“No.”

“Nursel Gurler?”

“Look. Prepare tea today. I’ll bring her by.”

“Why should I? She doesn’t seem interesting.”

“Just do it!”

Beyhan gave his best friend a shrug and went about the day. With every customer he had, his mind kept drifting back to this American. He wondered what she would be like, if she would be beautiful, or if she were just another shy traditionalist with the personality of a stone. He trusted Emrullah’s sensibilities but still, he had his doubts. Americans only spoke English, maybe Spanish; they never bothered to learn Turkish. Yet, being a good host, when the time came, he set out the tea and watched his storefront for his friend.

There he was! With a brunette. Long hair, with a snap to it as she walked. The two were conversing, he was saying something and she… laughing openly? How peculiar. This was Turkey. No woman ever did that. Tradition deemed it crass and too revealing. But here was this woman not just laughing, but doing so with an open mouth.

“Beyhan, this is Emily. Emily, Beyhan.”

“Hello,” he said with a welcoming smile, curious about whether she would be so counter-cultural again.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you!” she replied easily, taking his hand.

Sitting down for tea, they talked slowly at first, but then easier, freer, their words translated through Emrullah. Her voice was strong but nothing overbearing. Yet that smile of hers, so ready to explode outward and fill the corners of the room with her laughter. Beyhan was shocked to learn how little it took to bring out her bold expressions of entertainment; her laughter was always just hiding behind a stray thought or a mischievous statement. But for each secret she revealed, Beyhan found himself growing impatient: the uniqueness of her outlook was being filtered too much through his friend. It was like looking at a sunset through a veil.

As the evening wound down, they said goodbye to Emily and Emrullah turned to his friend.

“Well?” he asked.

“You’re too slow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don't understand where her laughter comes from when you explain it. Where does it come from? How can the world possibly bring her such humor? You're a horrible translator.”

Rather than take the scolding as an insult, Emrullah was smirking.

"What?"

“Shall I get bring you an English grammar book tomorrow?”

Beyhan flushed. His head tilted ever so slightly. “English can't be any more difficult than hearing your version of her experience.”