[It's French, which is a rapid-fire language already. Add to the fact Polnareff himself tends to get overexcited and talk too quickly, and he's definitely not going to talk at full speed. But his tone and pace are far more normal as he says:]
I'm going to teach you food next. Not only because you're Italian, but because food is always easy to remember. Your favorites first: pasta, mussels, mushrooms. No sweets.
[There's enough of an overlap that Bruno can piece together the parts that he doesn't already know to make coherent sense of what Polnareff is saying to him in French. But with the closer-to-normal pace of speaking, Bruno's attention does dart quickly to Polnareff's mouth and then back again to track what he's saying.]
Pasta, mussels, mushrooms. No sweets, [he repeats back, a little slower than Polnareff said them.] What next?
[He says that mostly to himself, although props to Bruno if he follows that. A beat, and Polnareff reaches over, grabbing for a notebook and a pen. It's a notebook filled with doodles and old games of hangman and tic-tac-toe, for all those nights he and Jotaro can't sleep.
Flipping to a new page, he draws a series of crude but somewhat recognizable fruits: an apple, an orange, a banana, a lemon, a pineapple.]
He goes through each one, saying the singular and then the plural, letting Bruno hear the difference in articles between each one. At least Italian has the concept of grammatical gender; that won't be so strange to Bruno.]
[Bruno at least catches something about something being easier. So, he's not entirely sure what it is Polnareff's intending to do with the notebook he grabs until he's already drawn the first fruit. He leans a little closer as Polnareff names each of them, singular and plural, and repeats them back when he's asked to. All except for pineapple.]
I told you we have some words in common! I'm telling you, the more you study, the more you're going to find it's all down to just learning how to mouth the letters right. Which--
[He fixes him with a somewhat stern look.]
Stop rolling your R's. This is French, not Spanish.
[Bruno arches an eyebrow at the mention of Les Miserables. While he couldn't say exactly what Polnareff is saying about it, his tone conveys plenty. And yet, there would be zero disagreements out of Bruno. He might not be either well-educated or particularly well-read, but even he knows only a fool would read that for fun.]
I didn't read much before, [he admits, slowly, as he leans back himself.]
[A combination of a limited education and a significant lack of time.]
[He lets out a grumbling, wordless little noise. It's nonspecific, but suggests that he's a little annoyed a copy of the book is appearing in their house at all.]
If I find you a crime drama, are you gonna judge me for it?
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[It's French, which is a rapid-fire language already. Add to the fact Polnareff himself tends to get overexcited and talk too quickly, and he's definitely not going to talk at full speed. But his tone and pace are far more normal as he says:]
I'm going to teach you food next. Not only because you're Italian, but because food is always easy to remember. Your favorites first: pasta, mussels, mushrooms. No sweets.
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Pasta, mussels, mushrooms. No sweets, [he repeats back, a little slower than Polnareff said them.] What next?
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[He says that mostly to himself, although props to Bruno if he follows that. A beat, and Polnareff reaches over, grabbing for a notebook and a pen. It's a notebook filled with doodles and old games of hangman and tic-tac-toe, for all those nights he and Jotaro can't sleep.
Flipping to a new page, he draws a series of crude but somewhat recognizable fruits: an apple, an orange, a banana, a lemon, a pineapple.]
Right. Right, okay, so that's-- apple, plural apples. Lemon, plural lemons . . .
He goes through each one, saying the singular and then the plural, letting Bruno hear the difference in articles between each one. At least Italian has the concept of grammatical gender; that won't be so strange to Bruno.]
Try and repeat some back.
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Pineapple is the same in Italian.
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[He fixes him with a somewhat stern look.]
Stop rolling your R's. This is French, not Spanish.
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Duly noted.
[And certainly will never, ever come up again just to bother him. Nope.]
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[He leans back again, though, leaving the notebook between them.]
What do you read? What types of books?
[There's no television programs to listen to, which was how he'd picked up English-- but books, maybe, will help.]
I'm not going to give you Les Miserables. It's the French book, but you could kill a man with it and no book needs to be that thick.
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I didn't read much before, [he admits, slowly, as he leans back himself.]
[A combination of a limited education and a significant lack of time.]
So, I'm not picky.
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[. . .]
God, I bet there's only Les Miserables.
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If I find you a crime drama, are you gonna judge me for it?
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If it's riddled with inaccuracies.
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There's no way in hell I'd try to explain any of it to you in French.
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[He has faith in Bruno, all right.]
At least a little. I mean, you'd probably mispronounce it, but if the vocabulary's all there . . . Non, Jean, Italie fait cela différemment.
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Thank you for the vote of confidence.
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Beaucoup mieux. Now I feel properly supported.