The Family Law by Benjamin Law

obscenely, enviably beautiful. Their hands were manicured; they didn’t have pores. Looking at them made you feel as though you were bearing witness to the next stage of human evolution, a stage to which you hadn’t been invited.
    When they weren’t studying linguistics (him) or working full-time for an international public-relations firm (her), they modelled for television and magazine advertisements. (‘It’s more like a hobby,’ one of them told me.) Their international names, Sebastian and Claudia, broadcast loud and clear: We might have been born in Hong Kong, but our parents knew how to name us properly . Their parents had somehow avoided the Chinese tendency to give their kids jumbled, improvised English names like Daffy and Virgyna, Nester and Cornelium . They could understand Cantonese already – as well as Spanish, French and Norwegian – but had enrolled in the Cantonese class to get a proper grasp of the dialect’s structure. Or, as Sebastian described it, ‘the architecture of the thing.’ I hated him immediately.
    Our teacher, Linda, was a Hong Kong-born woman in her late forties, the same age and background as my mother. As a result, I felt acute, personal shame every time I let her down in class, which was often. At our first lesson, she asked us to introduce ourselves in whatever Cantonese we already had in our arsenal. Sebastian volunteered first, and told us not only his name and the undergraduate degree he was studying, but also about an upcoming holiday in which he’d be flying to Norway to meet his ‘very good friend.’ It was clear to me that Sebastian meant a boyfriend – a boyfriend who, I imagined, modelled for Versace when he wasn’t working as a foreign diplomat or training for the Winter Olympics.
    When it was my turn, I introduced myself and my Chinese name. ‘ Ngau-goh joong-mun-mehng hae … Yuk Nung?’ I said. My tones were all over the place. The statement came off sounding like a question.
    â€˜ Yuk Nung ?’ my teacher asked, peering over her glasses.
    â€˜ Hae ,’ I said. ‘My name’s spelt “yuk,” like when you’re disgusted by something, but it actually rhymes with “book.”’ Linda pursed her lips. I realised I’d been speaking in English when she’d specifically asked us to speak in Cantonese. ‘ And I am twenty-one years old ,’ I added in Cantonese, sheepishly. Then in English: ‘That’s all.’
    â€˜ Yuk ,’ Sebastian said, repeating my Chinese name. ‘ Yuk ?’ He pulled out a pocket translator. He punched in some buttons, and then passed it to Linda. ‘Is this the right Chinese character set?’ he asked. Almost miraculously, he’d conjured up the character for the first part of my name, the only Chinese script I recognised apart from numbers. Then he said the same character in Mandarin, to make sure he was correct. Linda clasped her hands together in delight. My shoulders slumped.
    As the weeks went on, the verbal and spoken assignments got harder. They reminded me of high-school drama examinations, in which poorly performing students had to be prompted for every line before being failed in front of the class. Some students became flustered and clumsy under the pressure.
    â€˜ Lae-seurng …’ Linda prompted.
    â€˜ Lae-seurng …’ repeated the student, a nervously smiling teenager who was the only person worse than me. ‘Um, what’s the next bit?
    â€˜ Mm-seurng …’
    â€˜ Mm-seurng …’
    The student paused again, biting her lip. She looked towards the rest of us frantically.
    â€˜Uhm, line?’
    Because the classes were so early, I’d sometimes catch myself falling asleep at the desk.
    â€˜Benjamin?’ Linda said. When she didn’t get a response, she switched to Cantonese and sounded chillingly like my mother. ‘ Yuk Nung. Are you awake? Why are