Foreign Tongue

by Vanina Marsot

  I drank a large glass of water. I waited, then knocked on her door. There was no answer. I knocked again.

  She opened the door and looked at me, her eyes glittering. She slid her dress strap off one shoulder. The fabric fell to a puddle at her feet. She stepped out of it, dripping nakedness. I loosened my tie. She stepped away, removing the pins in her hair. As we stared at each other across the bed, the air became charged, almost too thick to breathe…

  As he read, Bunny’s reactions flitted across his face: a frown, a smirk, raised eyebrows, pursed lips. He turned the page. His hands were large, with thick knuckles and neat, broad fingernails. I knew how the skin on his cheek felt, I’d kissed it often enough: soft and papery. Perhaps to compensate for his height, he tended to stoop, but he moved gracefully. Just because he was old enough to be my father and I didn’t want to sleep with him didn’t mean he didn’t have a sex life. Despite myself, I wondered what he was like in bed, and suddenly sensed he’d be nervous and kind and surprisingly adept. I shook the thought away.

  Bunny shifted in his seat, and the corners of his mouth twitched. He’d gotten to that part: the short but graphic sex scene. He put the pages down, nodding.

  “Is there more?”

  “Nope. That’s chapter one.” I felt pretty pleased with myself and reached over to nab the square of dark chocolate off his saucer. He finished his coffee.

  “It’s a bit clinical—” he began.

  “Believe me, the original is worse,” I said.

  Nodding again, he looked at his coffee cup, then put it down, squaring his shoulders. “You’re going to have to do better if you want the job. The language is stiff and stilted. He doesn’t sound at all likable—in fact, you make him sound like a pompous—”

  “He is pompous!” I exclaimed.

  “—horse’s ass. Which may be the case, but he isn’t going to hire you for pointing it out.”

  “Wait. I’m supposed to pretty it up?”

  “Not the way you’ve done it. The way you’ve written it, it’s like a Harlequin romance. I hear they’re sexing those up.” His mouth twitched again as he tried not to laugh. Furious, I fumbled in my bag and shoved the original at him.

  “Read the French!” I said.

  “Look, I’m just saying—”

  “Read the original, goddamnit!” He read the manuscript while I fumed.

  He finished reading and put it down. “I apologize,” he said. “It’s a brilliant translation.” He signaled for the bill.

  “And?” I asked.

  “And nothing.”

  “Don’t play around, Bunny. It’s not nice.”

  He sighed. “Either you want to know what I think or you don’t.”

  “I want to know what you think. I respect your opinion,” I said, small-voiced.

  “Then stop biting my head off,” he said, glaring at me. “You’re not going to get the job if you turn that in,” he repeated, jabbing a finger at my draft. “It shows up every single pretension in his stupid prose and makes him sound like more of an imbecile than in the original, where a certain flowery elegance buys him some leeway, if not credibility. Here, it’s stripped down, literal, and”—he paused to push up his sleeves—“dreadful. I wouldn’t read any more unless I was being paid or had nothing else to do.”

  Stung and embarrassed, I looked down at my translation and the French original, trying to see what he saw, but the words blurred in front of me.

  “He-e-e-y,” Bunny neighed. “It’s not that bad.”

  I picked at a ragged cuticle. “What do I do?”

  “Do you want the job?”

  “Mmm-yeah. No.” I sounded sulky. “Maybe.”

  “Jesus, I hate it when women act like cats in front of an open door. In or out. Yes or no. Fish or cut bai—”

  “Oh, shut up! Yes, I want the job.”

  “Then you have to write it well. Not a literal translation,” he said. I shook my head, not understanding. Bunny cupped his fingers like he was holding a fruit. “If you translate literally, he sounds like a jerk, but he doesn’t sound like one in French. Maybe he’s not likable, but he’s not a jerk. Jesus, Anna, you speak both languages, you know you can’t do it literally—the aesthetics are different. Do a translation of what you could imagine it to be if it lost its pretensions and grew up one day to be a solid and intelligent citizen.”

  8

  Le français ne fut pas pendant plusieurs siècles la langue des cours d’Europe parce que ce serait la langue la plus précise, comme on a voulu le faire accroire, mais parce que c’est la langue qui permet d’être le plus précisément imprécis.*

  —PASCAL BAUDRY, Français et Américains: L’autre rive

  The day I printed out my much-revised translation of chapter one was sunny and cool, so I put on jeans and a sweater and walked to Editions Laveau. The cowbell clanged as I walked in. Monsieur Laveau, phone glued to ear, poked his head out of his office, scowled at me, and ducked back in. He raised his voice and slammed the door.

  The bookstore smelled musty and humid, old leather mixed with damp. I paged through a handsomely bound George Sand and ran my fingers over a twenty-volume set of Saint-Simon’s memoirs. I sat on a stack of dusty Revue des etudes napoléoniennes and took out the envelope.

  Laveau opened the door, plucked the envelope from my lap, gave me a five-euro note, and shut the door. I looked down at the bill. Was it a tip? Did he think I was a messenger? I turned it over in my hand.

  “Mais alors,” he scolded, coming out of his office two minutes later. “Vous êtes toujours là?” He fixed me with a pained look. He had no idea who I was.

  “Yup, still here,” I said, hoping English would jog his memory. He continued to stare at me. “Il me semble que vous me devez une petite somme d’argent,” I prodded, my voice squeaking. “La traduction.” Enlightenment dawned.

  “Ah, oui, c’est vrai. Entrez, mademoiselle, je vous en prie,” he said. I followed him into the office and stood, avoiding the evil club chair. I spotted my translation on the floor, on top of a pile of papers. In fact, the whole office was littered with small mountains of manuscripts and papers. It occurred to me that there were probably lots of us bilingual women running around Paris, looking to make some extra cash doing translation. I was probably one of many he’d hired on spec. “Tenez,” he said, handing me a check. It was for three hundred euros, more than the amount he’d said, and it was blank. So, he’d forgotten my name as well.

  I eyed the piles of paper again. His author probably didn’t read more than a page or two of our translations before he tossed them into the poubelle with a weary sigh. Monsieur Laveau ignored me, rifling through a file folder while I stood there, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I’d worked hard on that translation, and it didn’t matter.

  “Au revoir, monsieur,” I said. He nodded, not looking up. Because I figured it was the last time I’d have to deal with him, I added, “C’est bien dommage.” It’s a pity.

  That got his attention. “Pardon?” he asked.

  “Non, rien.” I shrugged. “Enfin, c’est dommage que personne ne lira ce que j’ai traduit. Le chapitre est nul, mais pas si nul que ça.” It’s a pity no one will read what I translated. The chapter is bad, but not that bad. I said it breezily, offhand.

  “Mais voyons, mademoiselle—” he began, his voice deep with reproach. The phone rang, and he waved at me to stay, but I didn’t feel like it. I didn’t want to wait obediently while he talked, I didn’t like being waved at, and I didn’t want to be polite.

  I yanked open the door and walked outside. On the sidewalk, I felt like a rebel, walking out on someone who reminded me of my disapproving French grandfather. The 96 bus approached the carrefour, and I chased it down, running like it was the last bus out of the Sixth ever.

  Even though the French claimed the summer exodus wasn’t as extreme as it used to be, by mid-August, Paris felt emptied of Parisians. Restaurants and stores closed, leaving hastily scribbled signs taped to their doors noti
fying customers of the fermeture annuelle. There were lines at the big museums, with double-parked tourist buses, their engines running to keep the AC on for one white-shirted driver. In less touristy neighborhoods, nearly all of the commerçants, including my boulangerie across the street, closed, and some drivers didn’t deign to stop at red lights.

  Bunny went to Lake Constance, somewhere in Austria, where friends of his had a chalet. Pascal went away again, to join Florian on the île de Porquerolles. Clara called from her sister’s place in Corsica, repeating her invitation for me to join her. Althea and Ivan sent me a postcard from the Dordogne, where, she wrote in green crayon, they were eating and drinking too much.

  I visited the smaller museums—the Jacquemart-André, Nissim de Camondo, Cernuschi, even the Musée de la Chasse, with its stuffed deer heads. At the Fondation Cartier, I toured a room with nine oversize black-and-white photographs of the Namibian desert. The shadows of the sand looked like flesh: the dip of a belly button, the back of a knee, the hollow of a neck. I thought of Eve, the author’s description of her skin. After ten days of no real conversation beyond slip-thin exchanges of pleasantries, I was a little bored and counting the days until la rentrée, at the beginning of September.

  Another day, after holing up at the Action Christine for a Jean Gabin double feature, I went to the Musée de Cluny to visit the Lady and the Unicorn tapestries, which I hadn’t seen since I was a kid. I wandered through the medieval garden and followed an elderly couple with matching gray haircuts and tracksuits down a flight of stairs to the ruins of the Roman thermal baths.

  It was cold and quiet in the frigidarium, and I looked for the mosaic mentioned in the information pamphlet. It was eerily quiet, and the city seemed far away. I scraped my feet against the stone floor and admired the carved arches. There was something intriguing about the place. In the stillness, I could feel, well, if not an ancient hush, a respectable age.

  The elderly couple spoke, and the sound bounced off the walls. I couldn’t tell where they were, but they had English accents.

  “You know, I’d rather like to get back,” she said, playfully.

  “Hungry already? We’ve only just had tea.”

  “Richard. Think.” Then a shuffling sound.

  They were in their seventies, and they were kissing behind a wall when I bumped into them. A flurry of embarrassed apologies ensued. We flew in opposite directions, like repelling magnets.

  I kept seeing them kissing, eager to get back to their hotel: her hand, grasping the shiny, nylon waistband of his pants, his arm around her shoulders, nose pressed into her cheek, awkward and hungry. Timothy and I had kissed under an archway in Venice, as passing car headlights striped us with light.

  I stood in the Roman bathhouse. I was a lonely person in an empty town.

  I walked back through the winding streets of the Fifth, away from the bustle of tourists in the Quartier Latin. I walked around the Arènes de Lutèce, down behind the Jardin des Plantes, and I had no context and no contact. I might as well have been a ghost, wandering through streets where real people lived. I felt immaterial, disembodied, incapable of making an impression: if I’d walked through mud, I wouldn’t have left prints.

  At home, I ran a bath with water so hot I had to ease into it. A thin line between bathing and braising. The air was steamy, and my toes turned red in the water. I bent down, reached my hands in for balance, and lowered myself into a sitting position. The contrast between hot water and cool air made me want to scratch my skin, and I watched the waterline itch its way up my knees as I straightened them. Tiny bubbles clung to my stomach. I gave them a nudge and they floated away. My breasts floated on the surface like buoys, the nipples puckered and pink. Heat licked off the water, and I felt groggy and still, suspended.

  The phone rang, and I had to duck the stupid and impossible hope that it was Timothy, but it was just Pascal and Florian, back in town and asking me over for dinner.

  I got dressed and walked across the grands boulevards to their little two-floor courtyard house in the garment district, le sentier. A set decorator, Florian had created a jungle of greenery with potted plants around the front door. Inside, Pascal was cutting up a melon when I kissed him hello. The décor had changed since the last time I’d been there, two years ago, the old zebra stripes replaced by sage green suede furniture with brown leather pillows.

  Florian came downstairs as I was wrestling with their ancient sharpei, Butch. Except for the tan, he looked the same: ruddy skin stretched across sharp, raw-boned features, long, thin nose, big ears. We sat down to a dinner of melon de Cavaillon with jambon de parme, followed by pasta primavera and a big green salad, all of it washed down with rosé. Florian, eyes twinkling with an almost malevolent delight, wasted no time in firing the opening salvo in that national sport, the argument.

  “There is no such thing as good American television,” he declared.

  “That’s not true. There are lots of good shows on American TV,” I said, finding myself in the dubious position of defending something I rarely watched.

  “Oui. Alerte à Malibu,” he scoffed, using the French title for Baywatch.

  “Give me a break,” I scoffed back, helping myself to more salad. “That’s like me saying there’s no good French music and backing it up by citing Johnny Hallyday.”

  “Name one good TV program,” he said. Before I could, he added, “It’s all crap, designed to pander to the lowest common denominator and sell useless products to your consumer culture while the masses starve.”

  “What masses? We have poverty, no doubt, but no starving masses,” I protested.

  “Of course you do. As does the rest of the world.”

  “But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about TV, and there are good shows, you just don’t know about them because they’re not on French TV—”

  “Laisse tomber,” Pascal murmured, urging me to let it go. I ignored him.

  “Like The Office, or Lost, or The Daily Show,” I continued.

  “Paid for by powerful media conglomerates whose only real interest is making money,” Florian retorted. “What do you have, six media companies? Six?”

  “But that doesn’t mean the shows aren’t good!” I said. “Stop changing the subject!”

  “That is the subject,” he said.

  “No, it isn’t. The subject is whether there’s anything good on TV,” I said.

  “Oh, les Américains,” he sighed. “Toujours premier degré. So literal.”

  I turned to Pascal. “Aide moi!” I pleaded, but he shook his head and took a drag off his cigarette.

  “He pisses me off!” I exclaimed. Florian smiled, little shark teeth gleaming. “Yes, you,” I said, glaring at him. The French consider a meaty, messy argument good, clean fun for the whole family; moreover, they like to go off on tangents and dart around the issue like it’s a soccer ball to be kicked around a field. Florian dropped a kiss on the top of my head.

  “Allons, I’ll buy you an ice cream,” he said. “It’s my turn to walk the dog.” I kissed Pascal good night, and Florian, Butch, and I walked down the rue Montorgueil to Amorino, the gelateria, where we stood in a line stretching out onto the sidewalk.

  “Alors, dis-moi. Pascal told me a little bit. Comment vas tu?” Florian asked.

  “So-so,” I said. “Some days are better than others. Today wasn’t one of them.”

  “It is very important to be faceful,” he said. His English was good, but sometimes he struggled with the “th” sound, especially when he was tired. “You know, I am in love with Pascal, and Pascal is in love with me. It is the most beautiful thing: the man I love loves me.” I bit my lip as he spoke. “And in the gay community, it is much harder to be faceful,” he added, his big, round eyes solemn. “Alors, this Tom—”

  “Timothy,” I corrected.

  “Bah, Tom, Tim, it’s a name for a pet. A black Labrador. N’est-ce pas, Butch?” He bent and scooped the dog up in his arms. “He was no good,” h
e concluded. I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “It’s the truce,” he protested.

  We got our cones and walked outside. Half a dozen American senior citizens, all wearing flag pins, stood on the sidewalk, comparing flavors. Florian grinned and shouted, “God bless America, and vote Democrat!” He’d started saying it after 9/11 and hadn’t stopped.

  9

  Rien ne résiste à l’arrivée de l’inconnu. Un homme qui arrive dans un bar vaut tous les hommes avec qui l’on vit depuis vingt ans.*

  —MARGUERITE DURAS

  The novelty of la rentrée faded, and by the end of the first week in September, the city shifted into regular speed. Despite the fact that I’d had to transfer more money out of my savings, I continued to live as if I were carefree, on vacation. I woke up late, lounged around, checked e-mail, saw friends, explored the city, and shopped for food, one of my favorite activities.

  On my way to the rue de Buci market street across the river, the smell of charred sweet corn wafted over from a makeshift brazier fitted into a supermarket shopping cart on the corner. I bought my weekly Pariscope at the kiosk, and the elderly man with gold-rimmed glasses who’d never acknowledged my existence beyond returning change smiled and wished me good day.

  Startled, I felt my dry lips stick to my teeth as my voice hiccuped over the polite “Vous aussi.” It was the first time my larynx had formed sounds that day. I had to remember to talk to myself over breakfast in the future; I smiled at the thought of behaving like a crazy person in private in order to prevent the appearance of such in public.

  A hefty butcher in a bloody apron, unloading large pieces of beef from a van, roared, “Vous voyez? C’est beaucoup mieux quand vous souriez!” You see? It’s much better when you smile. He slid mottled, pudgy fingers down his chest, as if he were looking for suspenders to tuck his thumbs into.