I’m the one on the library floor, piled around with books, flipping through Tolstoy again and again so I can keep eavesdropping over to the other side of the stacks. Three weeks in a row now it’s been the soft-spoken man from the Congo, rehearsing his English for the middle-aged tutor with the low, ringing voice. First week, an essay; the topic his choice, so two stumbling yet graphic paragraphs on the proper slaughter and preparation of a rattlesnake as food. Can you not read it, he asked once over a very lengthy pause, Oh I can, she hesitated, I just don’t think I like where this is going. Second week, conjunctions; third week, caught up in the pronunciation of the word ‘work.’ Try it in a sentence, she offered, “I like my work because ______.” An unnaturally long silence. Do you understand? Another silence, then the careful answer, picking for the right words, What if I do not like my work because of anything?