Babel

by R.F. Kuang

Robin sipped his wine, trying to match Pendennis’s listless affect. How did one make such a relaxed position look so elegant? ‘That’s what they call us.’ ‘What’s it you do? Chinese?’ ‘Mandarin’s my speciality,’ said Robin. ‘Though I’m also studying comparisons to Japanese and, eventually, Sanskrit—’ ‘So you are a Chinaman, then?’ Pendennis pressed. ‘We weren’t sure – I think you look English, but Colin swore you were an Oriental.’ ‘I was born in Canton,’ Robin said patiently. ‘Though I’d say I’m English as well—’ ‘I know China,’ Woolcombe interjected. ‘Kubla Khan.’ There was a short pause. ‘Yes,’ Robin said, wondering if that utterance was supposed to mean anything. ‘The Coleridge poem,’ Woolcombe clarified. ‘A very Oriental work of literature. Yet somehow, very Romantic as well.’ ‘How interesting,’ Robin said, trying his best to be polite. ‘I’ll have to read it.’