Chapter 7: You're Nothing But a Smooth Talker

As someone whose soul hailed from the 2040s, Gu Cheng found language classes utterly uninspiring.

The main reason was that translation software in the 2040s was simply too amazing. By then, translation devices had reached the point of real-time simultaneous interpretation: two people could be on a call, each with a “phone” in hand—one spoke in Chinese, and the other instantly heard the conversation in a foreign language.

With the overwhelming convenience of these “phones,” language differences were no longer a barrier to human communication, and global migration skyrocketed. Moving abroad was as simple as a migrant worker crossing provinces for a job. With people of every language thoroughly mixed together, you could meet someone on the street and find yourselves unable to speak the same tongue, so even face-to-face conversations were conducted through the “phone.”

The only shortcoming left in translation software was perhaps the “elegance” within the triad of “accuracy, clarity, and beauty.” Thus, the last remaining translators in the future were almost all linguists specializing in literary studies—people who could write poetry, and whose translations of foreign literature aimed to capture the essence, amounting to a recreation in its own right.

So, Gu Cheng’s current language skills relied mostly on the original body—he could handle daily conversations in Yi and Fusang, with a bit more fluency in Yi from frequent use. As for English, it was no better than the basic college level.

…

Still, regardless of his inner complaints, Gu Cheng had to attend class.

The company’s foreign language teacher was Akemi Kobayashi, a slender woman in her thirties. Her lessons were always private. Since the other students were absent tonight, the company had pulled Gu Cheng in to practice with Quan Baoya.

Akemi Kobayashi was secretly troubled: she had no idea what Gu Cheng’s level was—how was she supposed to teach this class?

She massaged her temples and said, “Today, just practice your spoken language with each other. Don’t stray too far from the topic. I’ll correct you as needed.”

Which was essentially free conversation.

Quan Baoya was a bit shy, so Gu Cheng had to take the initiative and break the ice. “Why are you learning Fusangese?”

“Eh?” Quan Baoya was momentarily stunned, then realized: how cunning! This kind of conversation was obviously harder for the respondent.

“Um… the president wants to train me to be an ‘Asian songstress,’ so I definitely need to know Fusangese.”

Stumbling through her answer, Quan Baoya’s eyes betrayed a trace of irritation, and her pursed lips all but spelled out, “Try throwing me another tough one!”

The teacher slowly corrected a few pronunciation and grammatical errors.

Gu Cheng broke out in a cold sweat and quickly switched to an easier question.

“How long have you been learning?”

“For over a year—I even spent a summer in Fusang.”

This time, Quan Baoya answered smoothly enough, and Gu Cheng cleverly gauged her level.

“Still a bit green,” he thought. “Looks like I’ll need to guide her into asking more questions so I can answer. That’ll keep things manageable.”

He found a way to continue the topic. “If you want to be an Asian songstress, what good is just knowing Fusangese? At the very least, you need to know Chinese too.”

“Is… is that so? But the president says there’s no record market in Huaxia, and Fusang’s sales are five times that of Dongyi every year...”

There were too many technical terms in that sentence, and Quan Baoya’s response was a tangle of stammers.

“Good grief! Must you be so earnest? Just say ‘is that so’ and leave the rest to me,” Gu Cheng thought, exasperated by her innocent awkwardness.

“The piracy problem is only temporary. There’s no way Huaxia will never have a music market—after all, there are over a billion people there. And Chinese is far more beautiful than Fusangese. Even if it’s just to refine your own artistic sensibility, you should learn Chinese.”

Quan Baoya was instantly swayed. “Really?”

Excellent—the Q&A had been reversed. As long as he kept the “heat” focused on himself, he could coast through two classes without raising issues.

Gu Cheng began spinning tall tales with little sense of responsibility.

“Of course. I admit the Fusangese have made remarkable achievements in music. But have you ever wondered why their music is so strong? It’s precisely because their language is so ugly!”

The words had barely left his mouth before the teacher exploded.

“Nonsense!”

“How is it nonsense? Think about it: why were Bach, Haydn, Beethoven, Strauss, and Mozart all Germans? Why are there dozens of times more German composers than French? Because German is uglier than French! If a language is too poetic and melodious on its own, people get lazy—they don’t bother to study music. Only when a language is harsh, awkward, and unrhythmic do people have to compose music—that’s why blind men have keener hearing, and fat men are smarter. When God closes one door, He always opens another.”

Akemi Kobayashi shot back, “Who says Fusangese isn’t poetic? The Kokin Wakashū is full of waka—isn’t that poetry?”

“Waka counts as poetry? Do you even know what ‘Chinese poetry and waka’ means? Chinese is true poetry; Fusangese can only be called song. Fusangese pronunciation can’t manage rhyme, and even the syllable count per line is inconsistent—calling them lyrics is already generous.”

Akemi Kobayashi was stunned into silence, unable to retort.

In the future, with translation software so powerful, no one learned foreign languages just to communicate. The remaining language classes were mostly about “foreign cultural history” and analyzing the comparative advantages of various tongues—the final struggle of humanity’s last linguists to avoid being replaced by machines.

So even though Gu Cheng hadn’t studied much foreign language, if you wanted to debate the comparative merits of different languages, not even an old professor from Beijing Foreign Studies University could outtalk him.

Akemi Kobayashi, a practical oral instructor, was naturally defeated at once.

As for Quan Baoya, she merely needed to murmur the occasional “so desu ne,” feigning enlightenment, and the class couldn’t have been more effortless.

“One Chinese syllable conveys as much as two in English or French, and three in Fusangese. That makes Chinese the most concise language on earth. As computers advance and humanity enters the era of voice input, Chinese will utterly outclass all other languages…”

Gu Cheng didn’t care if voice input existed in the year 2000—he happily let his imagination run wild.

Even Quan Baoya grew worried that Gu Cheng would offend the teacher too much and couldn’t help but interrupt.

“What about our Yi language? Doesn’t it, like Chinese, have one syllable per character? Will it be the second-best language after Chinese in the future?”

“Yi language? No way,” Gu Cheng bluntly dashed her hopes. “Let me explain: have you noticed how Dongyi people, when they speak, tend to be more exaggerated in expression and tone, and love to interrupt?”

In reality, Dongyi speech was nothing like the orderly scenes in their dramas. It was more like a bustling marketplace, with everyone talking at once, interruptions and interjections the norm, and their expressions wildly exaggerated, as if their mouths were full of scalding water.

As soon as Gu Cheng pointed this out, both women realized it was true.

“So why is that?” she asked.

“Because when Yi language simplified Chinese characters into pinyin, it dropped the tonal system, so homophones became four times as common as in Chinese. If you spoke with the same habits as Chinese, ambiguity would be everywhere. So, it’s not that you want to interrupt—it’s that before you can finish listening to half a sentence, you have to interject to clarify, and only then can the conversation go on. In the era of voice input, its recognition rate would be pitifully low.”

Quan Baoya looked crestfallen at her native tongue being criticized so harshly. “Is Yi language really that bad? At least it’s easier to learn, right?”

“Sure, I won’t deny its simplicity, but that kind of blind simplification comes at the cost of precision.”

“So, apart from being easy, it has no redeeming qualities?”

Gu Cheng noted her expression—if he said it was truly worthless, she might cry.

Better to temper the blow with a little consolation.

“Well, it’s not entirely useless. Ambiguity in speech does have its advantages in some settings. For example, in variety shows you can use it for puns and jokes. Sometimes I think, if Dongyi people were to learn Chinese-style cross-talk, the results could be extraordinary—at least for duo routines. As for solo acts, that would be out of the question for Dongyi speakers.”

…

These two lessons were a nightmare for Akemi Kobayashi.

To encounter a student so glib, so full of wild theories—what a headache. As soon as class ended, she mentally blacklisted Gu Cheng, ready to report him to the company’s management.

But Quan Baoya had been deeply shaken.

Dragged onto the treadmill for a nighttime run by Miss An, her mind was full of Gu Cheng’s words.

“To compose music, I must learn Fusangese. For variety shows, stick with Yi language. For lyric writing, I should study Chinese.”

“Yes, that’s settled. If I want to be an Asian songstress, how can I not know Chinese? I’ll ask the company to hire me another teacher—to teach me Chinese this time.”