November 2003 Issue - Essay # 9
French,
the Hard Way, in the Haute Loire
By Nance Knauer
Blank face.
No English. Drat.
Erm ... Okay, I know 'manger' for eat, what was rabbit?
Lapin! Ok, so far,
'eat rabbit'. Not so good.
Carrot, carrot, ehhh, 'carut'?
What do I have to lose? "Lapin manger ton
care-roots?" That doesn't look like a
friendly expression. Make
soothing hand gestures. Like
a bunny hopping. There,
that's better, he's smiling. Ok,
now he's laughing. Joining
in laughter. Oh, this is
good, the universal language of humor.
Ha ha ha. Hee hee. Alright,
so far so good. Hey, enough laughter.
It couldn't have been that funny.
Really, you can stop now. Hmm.
Regroup. What was the phrase
for what's so funny? Let's
see. 'Rire' is laughter.
What's the right form of 'you.'
Are we familiar? I
see him every day in the garden as I pass by on my run.
He wears an ascot under a threadbare sports jacket and baggy
dress pants with rubber barn boots.
Oh yeah, and a very smart woolen cap.
I don't know, how familiar is familiar?
We've smiled and nodded for weeks. "Tu l'aime rire?"
That should bring us to a new level.
Uh-oh. He's not
laughing now. O-kaaaay,
we're not that familiar. Quick, say something you're sure about, even if
you can't pronounce it well yet. "Aujourd'hui,
il fait beau." Well
that confused the heck out him. Yes,
yes, I know it's pissing and pouring, but I don't know the word for rain
or doesn't this just suck, the fourth day in a row? So, I used the one
phrase I know you won't be offended by, just bewildered. Oh, no, he's speaking to me.
Please, no, not so fast. Wait,
'house,' I got that. Uh,
'cat dinner beer sport'? Shoot,
what's the phrase for I don't understand, or slow down, or what the heck
am I doing here? Oh, no, here comes his wife.
Wait, that's good, maybe she speaks English.
"Bonjour, Madame."
She is his wife, right? It
amazes me how the women dress for stall mucking.
Her print dress fits snugly around her middle, her kerchief made
from the same material, and the one concession to work, rubber boots.
My own shorts, t-shirt and running shoes feels ludicrous in this
landscape. Cripes, she's
handing me a bottle of something, looks like jam, oh, please tell me
you'll understand this. "Thank you so much.
You are very kind. Is
it currant preserves?" Nope, no luck on the English.
Just say hello and leave, oh, and thank you.
"Bonjour, merci. Very
merci. Hello."
Nodding, pointing like an idiot to the bottle, rubbing my stomach
and licking my lips, backing up wondering when I can turn around.
They're still watching. Now
they're pointing, they're hollering.
Jeez, was I supposed to take the bottle?
What's that smell? Plop,
squish. Oh nice, fresh
manure, ankle deep. Lovely.
I can turn now. I can
go home now. "I'll come with you,
Nick," I said. "Sure,
I speak French. No problem.
I'll pick up what I don't know quick as a bunny.
You'll see. It'll be
great," I said. I'm so full of manure. Merde.
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| Author's Biography Nance Knauer lives in a boreal forest of the northern US plains near a large, freshwater lake. A professional wool gatherer, she spends her nights knitting sentences together. She's
been published in several online journals including essays, fiction and
flash fiction in deadmule.com, smokelong.com and wordriot.org. She
writes to find her way home. |
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