Me Talk Pretty One Day (17 page)

Hugh and I returned to Normandy the following summer, and I resumed my identity as the village idiot. “See you again yesterday!”
I said to the butcher. “Ashtray! Bottleneck!” Again I hid indoors, painting and scraping until my knuckles bled. I left promising
to enroll in a French class and then forgot that promise as soon my plane landed back in New York.

On the following trip I sanded the floors and began the practice of learning ten new words a day.

exorcism

facial swelling

death penalty

I found my words in the dictionary, typed them onto index cards, and committed them to memory while on my daily walks to the
neighboring village.

slaughterhouse

sea monster

witch doctor

By the end of the month, I’d managed to retain three hundred nouns, none of which proved to be the least bit useful. The next
summer we went to France for six weeks, and I added another 420 words, most of them found in the popular gossip magazine Voici.
“Man-eater,” I’d say. “Gold digger, roustabout, louse.”

“Who are you talking about?” my neighbors would ask. “What social climber? Where?”

On my fifth trip to France I limited myself to the words and phrases that people actually use. From the dog owners I learned
“Lie down,” “Shut up,” and “Who shit on this carpet?” The couple across the road taught me to ask questions correctly, and
the grocer taught me to count. Things began to come together, and I went from speaking like an evil baby to speaking like
a hillbilly. “Is thems the thoughts of cows?” I’d ask the butcher, pointing to the calves’ brains displayed in the front window.
“I want me some lamb chop with handles on ’em.”

By the end of our sixth trip to France, the house was finished and I’d learned a total of 1,564 words. It was an odd sensation
to hold my entire vocabulary in my hands, to look back through the stack and recall the afternoon I learned to effectively
describe my hangovers. I kept my vocabulary in a wooden box built to house a Napoleonic hat, and worried that if the house
caught fire, I’d be back to square one with bottleneck and ashtray and would lose the intense pleasure I felt whenever I heard
somebody use a word I’d come to think of as my own.

When the cranes arrived to build a twelve-story hotel right outside our bedroom window, Hugh and I decided to leave New York
for a year or two, just until our resentment died down a little. I’m determined to learn as much French as possible, so we’ll
take an apartment in Paris, where there are posters and headlines and any number of words waiting to be captured and transcribed
onto index cards, where a person can comfortably smoke while making a spectacular ass of himself, and where, when frustrated,
I can lie, saying I never wanted to come here in the first place.

A
T THE AGE OF FORTY-ONE
, I am returning to school and have to think of myself as what my French textbook calls “a true debutant.” After paying my
tuition, I was issued a student ID, which allows me a discounted entry fee at movie theaters, puppet shows, and Festyland,
a far-flung amusement park that advertises with billboards picturing a cartoon stegosaurus sitting in a canoe and eating what
appears to be a ham sandwich.

I’ve moved to Paris with hopes of learning the language. My school is an easy ten-minute walk from my apartment, and on the
first day of class I arrived early, watching as the returning students greeted one another in the school lobby. Vacations
were recounted, and questions were raised concerning mutual friends with names like Kang and Vlatnya. Regardless of their
nationalities, everyone spoke in what sounded to me like excellent French. Some accents were better than others, but the students
exhibited an ease and confidence I found intimidating. As an added discomfort, they were all young, attractive, and well dressed,
causing me to feel not unlike Pa Kettle trapped backstage after a fashion show.

The first day of class was nerve-racking because I knew I’d be expected to perform. That’s the way they do it here — it’s
everybody into the language pool, sink or swim. The teacher marched in, deeply tanned from a recent vacation, and proceeded
to rattle off a series of administrative announcements. I’ve spent quite a few summers in Normandy, and I took a monthlong
French class before leaving New York. I’m not completely in the dark, yet I understood only half of what this woman was saying.

“If you have not meimslsxp or lgpdmurct by this time, then you should not be in this room. Has everyone apzkiubjxow? Everyone?
Good, we shall begin.” She spread out her lesson plan and sighed, saying, “All right, then, who knows the alphabet?”

It was startling because (a) I hadn’t been asked that question in a while and (b) I realized, while laughing, that I myself
did not know the alphabet. They’re the same letters, but in France they’re pronounced differently. I know the shape of the
alphabet but had no idea what it actually sounded like.

“Ahh.” The teacher went to the board and sketched the letter a. “Do we have anyone in the room whose first name commences
with an ahh?”

Two Polish Annas raised their hands, and the teacher instructed them to present themselves by stating their names, nationalities,
occupations, and a brief list of things they liked and disliked in this world. The first Anna hailed from an industrial town
outside of Warsaw and had front teeth the size of tombstones. She worked as a seamstress, enjoyed quiet times with friends,
and hated the mosquito.

“Oh, really,” the teacher said. “How very interesting. I thought that everyone loved the mosquito, but here, in front of all
the world, you claim to detest him. How is it that we’ve been blessed with someone as unique and original as you? Tell us,
please.”

The seamstress did not understand what was being said but knew that this was an occasion for shame. Her rabbity mouth huffed
for breath, and she stared down at her lap as though the appropriate comeback were stitched somewhere alongside the zipper
of her slacks.

The second Anna learned from the first and claimed to love sunshine and detest lies. It sounded like a translation of one
of those Playmate of the Month data sheets, the answers always written in the same loopy handwriting: “Turn-ons: Mom’s famous
five-alarm chili! Turnoffs: insecurity and guys who come on too strong!!!!”

The two Polish Annas surely had clear notions of what they loved and hated, but like the rest of us, they were limited in
terms of vocabulary, and this made them appear less than sophisticated. The teacher forged on, and we learned that Carlos,
the Argentine bandonion player, loved wine, music, and, in his words, “making sex with the womens of the world.” Next came
a beautiful young Yugoslav who identified herself as an optimist, saying that she loved everything that life had to offer.

The teacher licked her lips, revealing a hint of the saucebox we would later come to know. She crouched low for her attack,
placed her hands on the young woman’s desk, and leaned close, saying, “Oh yeah? And do you love your little war?”

While the optimist struggled to defend herself, I scrambled to think of an answer to what had obviously become a trick question.
How often is one asked what he loves in this world? More to the point, how often is one asked and then publicly ridiculed
for his answer? I recalled my mother, flushed with wine, pounding the tabletop late one night, saying, “Love? I love a good
steak cooked rare. I love my cat, and I love…” My sisters and I leaned forward, waiting to hear our names. “Tums,” our mother
said. “I love Tums.”

The teacher killed some time accusing the Yugoslavian girl of masterminding a program of genocide, and I jotted frantic notes
in the margins of my pad. While I can honestly say that I love leafing through medical textbooks devoted to severe dermatological
conditions, the hobby is beyond the reach of my French vocabulary, and acting it out would only have invited controversy.

When called upon, I delivered an effortless list of things that I detest: blood sausage, intestinal pâtés, brain pudding.
I’d learned these words the hard way. Having given it some thought, I then declared my love for IBM typewriters, the French
word for bruise, and my electric floor waxer. It was a short list, but still I managed to mispronounce IBM and assign the
wrong gender to both the floor waxer and the typewriter. The teacher’s reaction led me to believe that these mistakes were
capital crimes in the country of France.

“Were you always this palicmkrexis?” she asked. “Even a fiuscrzsa ticiwelmun knows that a typewriter is feminine.”

I absorbed as much of her abuse as I could understand, thinking — but not saying — that I find it ridiculous to assign a gender
to an inanimate object incapable of disrobing and making an occasional fool of itself. Why refer to Lady Crack Pipe or Good
Sir Dishrag when these things could never live up to all that their sex implied?

The teacher proceeded to belittle everyone from German Eva, who hated laziness, to Japanese Yukari, who loved paintbrushes
and soap. Italian, Thai, Dutch, Korean, and Chinese — we all left class foolishly believing that the worst was over. She’d
shaken us up a little, but surely that was just an act designed to weed out the deadweight. We didn’t know it then, but the
coming months would teach us what it was like to spend time in the presence of a wild animal, something completely unpredictable.
Her temperament was not based on a series of good and bad days but, rather, good and bad moments. We soon learned to dodge
chalk and protect our heads and stomachs whenever she approached us with a question. She hadn’t yet punched anyone, but it
seemed wise to protect ourselves against the inevitable.

Though we were forbidden to speak anything but French, the teacher would occasionally use us to practice any of her five fluent
languages.

“I hate you,” she said to me one afternoon. Her English was flawless. “I really, really hate you.” Call me sensitive, but
I couldn’t help but take it personally.

After being singled out as a lazy kfdtinvfm, I took to spending four hours a night on my homework, putting in even more time
whenever we were assigned an essay. I suppose I could have gotten by with less, but I was determined to create some sort of
identity for myself: David the hard worker, David the cut-up. We’d have one of those “complete this sentence” exercises, and
I’d fool with the thing for hours, invariably settling on something like “A quick run around the lake? I’d love to! Just give
me a moment while I strap on my wooden leg.” The teacher, through word and action, conveyed the message that if this was my
idea of an identity, she wanted nothing to do with it.

My fear and discomfort crept beyond the borders of the classroom and accompanied me out onto the wide boulevards. Stopping
for a coffee, asking directions, depositing money in my bank account: these things were out of the question, as they involved
having to speak. Before beginning school, there’d been no shutting me up, but now I was convinced that everything I said was
wrong. When the phone rang, I ignored it. If someone asked me a question, I pretended to be deaf. I knew my fear was getting
the best of me when I started wondering why they don’t sell cuts of meat in vending machines.

My only comfort was the knowledge that I was not alone. Huddled in the hallways and making the most of our pathetic French,
my fellow students and I engaged in the sort of conversation commonly overheard in refugee camps.

“Sometime me cry alone at night.”

“That be common for I, also, but be more strong, you. Much work and someday you talk pretty. People start love you soon. Maybe
tomorrow, okay.”

Unlike the French class I had taken in New York, here there was no sense of competition. When the teacher poked a shy Korean
in the eyelid with a freshly sharpened pencil, we took no comfort in the fact that, unlike Hyeyoon Cho, we all knew the irregular
past tense of the verb to defeat. In all fairness, the teacher hadn’t meant to stab the girl, but neither did she spend much
time apologizing, saying only, “Well, you should have been vkkdyo more kdeynfulh.”

Over time it became impossible to believe that any of us would ever improve. Fall arrived and it rained every day, meaning
we would now be scolded for the water dripping from our coats and umbrellas. It was mid-October when the teacher singled me
out, saying, “Every day spent with you is like having a cesarean section.” And it struck me that, for the first time since
arriving in France, I could understand every word that someone was saying.

Understanding doesn’t mean that you can suddenly speak the language. Far from it. It’s a small step, nothing more, yet its
rewards are intoxicating and deceptive. The teacher continued her diatribe and I settled back, bathing in the subtle beauty
of each new curse and insult.

“You exhaust me with your foolishness and reward my efforts with nothing but pain, do you understand me?”

The world opened up, and it was with great joy that I responded, “I know the thing that you speak exact now. Talk me more,
you, plus, please, plus.”

“A
ND WHAT DOES ONE DO
on the fourteenth of July? Does one celebrate Bastille Day?”

It was my second month of French class, and the teacher was leading us in an exercise designed to promote the use of one,
our latest personal pronoun.

“Might one sing on Bastille Day?” she asked. “Might one dance in the streets? Somebody give me an answer.”

Printed in our textbooks was a list of major holidays accompanied by a scattered arrangement of photographs depicting French
people in the act of celebration. The object of the lesson was to match the holiday with the corresponding picture. It was
simple enough but seemed an exercise better suited to the use of the pronoun they. I didn’t know about the rest of the class,
but when Bastille Day eventually rolled around, I planned to stay home and clean my oven.

Normally, when working from the book, it was my habit to tune out my fellow students and scout ahead, concentrating on the
question I’d calculated might fall to me, but this afternoon we were veering from the usual format. Questions were answered
on a volunteer basis, and I was able to sit back and relax, confident that the same few students would do most of the talking.
Today’s discussion was dominated by an Italian nanny, two chatty Poles, and a pouty, plump Moroccan woman who had grown up
speaking French and had enrolled in the class hoping to improve her spelling. She’d covered these lessons back in the third
grade and took every opportunity to demonstrate her superiority. A question would be asked, and she’d race to give the answer,
behaving as though this were a game show and, if quick enough, she might go home with a tropical vacation or a side-by-side
refrigerator/freezer. A transfer student, by the end of her first day she’d raised her hand so many times that her shoulder
had given out. Now she just leaned back and shouted out the answers, her bronzed arms folded across her chest like some great
grammar genie.