February 2006 - Posts
At times, my occasional confidence gets the better of me. As I've mentioned already, there are frequent occasions when fear drives out comprehension. But when I'm relaxed and with friends, I'm quite articulate and can understand (and mis-understand) what's being said with some ease.
The other week, in the course of a long car journey (a great chance to brush up on French) five of us were discussing recent films at the Cinéclub. I'm not a film buff but had joined the town's Cinéclub as part of the plan to assimilate. In addition to showing some pretty good films, they offer a chance for the filmgoers to meet afterwards for a glass or two of Blanquette (Le Brut Original du Monde), nibbles and an informal discussion about the movie. Anyway, back to the car.
Marie and the two other French passengers were discussing a film they'd seen in the autumn. It was Korean and about some Buddhist monks in a monastery. They told us the story. "Si génial!" They clearly thought this was so gentle and humorous. They giggled and "Ahhh"d at their recollections of the film, so light and happy.
"What's the story about?" asked my partner whose French is not as good as mine.
"Well, its about these monks, see. Buddhist monks and they've got this monastery cat. They chase the cat and once they've caught it, they cut out it's heart, fry it and eat it."
"Eughhhh! Ce n'est pas très Buddhist!" exclaimed my partner in French clear enough to cause some puzzlement among our companions.
Benoît, whose English is at least as good as my French, explained the REAL plot-line. The monks did indeed have a monastery cat, that much I'd understood correctly. The cat liked to sit on the writing desk of the scribe monk. One day, by accident, the scribe took hold of the cat's tail instead of his caligraphy brush, and dipping it in the inkwell, found that it worked better than his brush, producing the most beautiful script.
I thought this version no less bizarre than mine. My interpretation depended upon a vile imagination and my mistaking the word "coeur" for "queue"(tail). And while it may not have been very Buddhist, I thought my story had lots more action than the original.
I suppose all of us foreigners have stories about almost-homonyms - similar sounding words which cause confusion. I heard recently about an Englishman of our acquaintance in a timber merchants looking for wood for some decking. He couldn't understand why the salesman started talking about dogs. The French timber merchant appeared equally non-plussed when the English guy responded with an anecdote about his own dog. Clearly, the words "chêne"(oak) and "chien" are too close for comfort in the English ear.
I still go to the Cinéclub but take greater care, when I return home, with my plot descriptions. And everyday I am thankful to be learning French which is NOT tonal, as opposed to Mandarin which IS tonal, and in which the word for "strict" in third tone becomes "castrated" when said in fourth tone. Against such dangers, the difference between heart and tail pales into nothingness...........unless you're the monastery cat!
This next few days is my choir weekend. This is another attempt to improve my French by jumping in with both feet. Though principal motivation was an opportunity for French conversation, I find I've been taken over by the music and the company.
I hadn't sung for thirty years till I joined a short singing course just before Christmas - two weeks singing, three hours a day, breathing exercises, technique etc, followed by a week of concerts throughout the region. All squeezed around a tight schedule preparing for our permanent move over to France. I enjoyed it so much that I was easily persuaded by one of the French singers to apply to join the Choeur Departemental. As usual with choirs everywhere, the choir was short of men. The CD's need and my ability to pick up and carry a tune (without dropping it) got me accepted.
I had my first weekend last month. Rehearsals take place over six weekends. A series of concerts will take place all over the Languedoc in May. Of the fifty singers about a fifth are Brits but as the rehearsals are in French from start to finish, English is barely heard. The conductor is a long-time English resident in France whose French is impeccable with only the occassional glimpse of a non-French accent.
So, all in all, my French improves by leaps and bounds. As does my Estonian and Latin thanks to the wonderful and rare music that we're singing. There is a Baltic theme to the programme - Polish, Estonian, Lithuanian. All of the music is new to me, so there's much to do.
The rehearsal time is strictly governed by Le Chef, so no chatter just enjoyable but hard work. The breaks are another matter. The brightest memory of my first month here as a permanent resident is of the Sunday lunchtime at the last rehearsal. I recall sitting in the courtyard of the Mairie, out of the slight breeze, basking in the January sunshine, sharing a glorious picnic lunch with four new French friends, warmed on the outside by the sun and company, and on the inside by a rich, gutsy Corbières. And speaking with an ease born of a glass of good wine. That's a memory that I return to often, on the days when the sun doesn't shine and when my tongue becomes leaden in my mouth.
C'est pour tout ça que je suis ici.
"My French seems to be improving." I announced, returning home last evening. I had had three 'good' French days in succession. So I really should have expected that something was about to burst my bubble of self-confidence and savoire faire.
The POP! occured on this morning's walk. I've got a dodgy back which I damaged while doing some heavy landscaping in the garden about ten years ago. As soon as I'm up, washed and dressed, I have to take a 15-30 minute walk to get my back moving otherwise the muscles of my lower back go into spasm.
I'm a creature of habit so my walk varies little. I stroll up past the lycee, "Le Collège Classique et Moderne de Garcons" (which now takes girls too) which is the largest and one of the most beautifully proportioned buildings in town, and then down to the old water mill, now used by EDF to generate electricity for a thousand local homes, and around the island bounded by the river and the mill race. I usually finish with a wander along the banks of the Aude then up through the Place de la Republique and then home. The Place is the heart of the town and has, among its restos, bars, and boulangeries, one of the best charcutiers/traiteurs in the region. Its my daily habit, without fail, to stop and peer through the window to see what's on offer. I recognise most of the dishes but for some others I'd need a dictionary. But it looks so beautiful. Its superb stuff and while we can't afford to shop there, I like to know what my neighbours might be treating themselves to.
Well, there I was this morning lost in wonder at the Choux Farcies and Pieds Persillés when I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I leapt out of my skin. "You're nicked, matey" was all I could think. I turned to see Madame V, le Charcutier's wife, who was smiling and talking at me in Martian. I froze. Blind panic. Time... I need to play for time! "Pardon, madame?" She repeated herself, slower, louder but still in MARTIAN! Why would she not speak to me in French? Its too early for this. Leave me alone. I don't know the answer. Don't even know my own...thing. All I can hear is my pulse.
"Nrghhhh. Pppardon. urmmmm. J'etais anglish. Nrghh. Arghh.ermmmm......Cmpris pas."
Before I could wipe away the dribble or apologise for my lousy Martian, she was off. I felt like an imbecile, and that I had forfeitted my right to live in France, in Europe, on planet earth even, because I had failed to respond appropriately.
I dragged myself back home, cringing under a pall of dark disgrace and despair. "Je suis lapin effrayé." I'm a startled bunny. I was so angry with myself and with the lovely Madame V. But she wasn't to know that I required notice before being spoken to. That I needed a context to aid comprehension. That 8.05am is not a good time for me in any language.
The other night au cinèma. From behind me "Monsieur, le film commence à quelle heure?" "Erm....twelvtyneufmoinshier." At least I understood the question but I was still like a rabbit caught in the headlights.
It seems that no matter how good my French is, I'm always going to be prone to SBS - Startled Bunny Syndrome. Symptoms include blind incomprehension, incoherance, uncontrolled drooling, rising panic, racing pulserate, amnesia and, in extremis, incontinence. Will I never be rid of SBS?
Perhaps a badge sown onto my coat would help. "Ade la langue française." Learner!
Even before I'd reached home her invitation became clear. As the flood waters of terror subsided, her words emerged:- "Monsieur, I see you here every morning. I'm quite sure you haven't an idea what you're looking at. Next time, come in and I'll tell you all about what we've got."
Dare I?