Each morning, at the sound of the knock, Jim, my cowardly husband, mumbled a few words about checking the whizgidget in the back room and hastened away, leaving me to deal with the gabby dowager. This seemed unfair, as Jim can speak pretty much any language he decides to. (That’s because he’s Irish.)  He first demonstrated this on our trip to Scotland. Admittedly, there, the language was English, but I couldn’t tell that. One day, in a Welsh castle, he had a lively conversation for about half an hour with a couple from Holland. The gentleman of the pair spoke Dutch and understood no English, looking to his wife for interpretation every three or four words. I chatted with her, in English, and had a tougher time than Jim did with the husband. Whenever I’d look over, he’d be laughing and nodding, tossing out comments willy-nilly.  

But, in Italy, my husband’s magical language abilities deserted him, so he deserted me--to Mrs. Lazarus. I tried squinting hard at him, shooting mental daggers at him, calling him back into the room through gritted teeth and a frozen grin, even engaged in a bit of chicanery, all to no avail. When he left the room, he wasn’t coming back.  So I struggled through those agonizing visits, only once catching a familiar reference when she spoke of Murano glass.  Or maybe she sculpted it with her hands. Whatever; I got it.  

Through the five days we stayed in that canal-side flat, the petite, ineffable Mrs. Lazarus never gave up. I ached to be able to visit with her over tea, or even over the door mat, but the language barrier put a stop to any chance of that. I could even hear disappointment in her footsteps as she climbed the stairs back to her apartment. I wanted to rip my English-Italian dictionary and phrase book into teeny little pieces for all the help it was.  

The last day, while gathering up the baggage, all ready to lug it to the boat depot--or whatever they called it there--the knock came, a bit earlier than usual. Jim and I looked at each other and groaned. We both had envisioned slipping out before she could make her daily round. I put on a pleasant smile and opened the door. There stood Mrs. Lazarus. She launched into her conversation. However, this time, I had no doubt what she was talking about. Miraculously, I knew she wanted us to stop by her apartment to join her for tea and pastries. (For me, food is the universal language.) We conveyed to her that we would be there in just a couple minutes, and we were.  

On her dining table sat an array of half a dozen beautiful Italian pastries and sweets. While munching one especially delectable goody, I was ecstatic that I’d finally understood Mrs. Lazarus. We smiled at each other, satisfied to have found our common ground.

Kate Ayers is a semi-retired court reporter in the great Pacific Northwest, honing her skills by writing short stories, book reviews and the occasional magazine article. 

In her free time, of which there is precious little, she attempts to train one irascible Shar Pei, tend her one-acre garden and play with all her friends, not the least of whom is her husband of nearly 20 years. 

Other works by Kate can be found at http://www.bookreporter.com , The Pink Chameleon and http://www.einkwell.com Archive.