Flash fiction: Language misadventures

Posted as part of the Language>Place blog carnival.

Language misadventures

The scorching heat meant crowds, shops emptied of water and beer, and above all, it meant good business. It was the Saturday in July just before the Metalcamp started. Vera had never cared much for music, but she was also not judging people with different taste. In this business, you couldn’t afford to be narrow-minded. This didn’t mean she wasn’t wary of strangers, but if her next guest was pierced all over his face, wearing black leather vest with a heavy chain pulling his pants down over his protruding hip bones, that didn’t make his money worth any less.

“You have a room?” he asked and pointed to the board outside her house that advertised she was letting two rooms, including breakfast and free use of her back yard where the quiet and shade made it as close to paradise as was possible in this heat.

“Ja,” she nodded. Yes. When she went to school fifty years ago, they didn’t learn English. She frequented a seminar on English for beginners this past winter, but while she knew all the correct answers in the classroom, she had difficulty remembering the right words when faced with a situation in real life.

Just as she was about to reach for the keys for the single room, a woman in her late twenties pushed open the door, pulling a large bag behind her, and spoke to the man in another language. She was a shorter, thinner version of the man. Even her hair was as short as his and if anything, she had more piercings and a large tattoo on her neck.

“For two?” Vera asked, holding up two fingers, proud that she remembered that one. Although she wasn’t quite sure how they would know that she meant ‘for two’ and not ‘four two’. Foreign languages could be very confusing.

“Ja, to,” the man agreed.

She raised her eyebrows. What was he on about now?

“Two people,” he said and pointed between himself and the girl. “’To’ is Danish for two.”

Vera was still staring. Letting her rooms meant good money especially in the summer, but it was hard work getting it out of people.

“Danmark?” he said.

“Ah, Danska.”

He smiled, nodded and raised two fingers. “To.”

“’Dva’, in Slovene.” Vera repeated his gesture.

“Dva.”

“Girlfriend and I … looking for a room.”

Vera pulled a frayed notebook from the drawer in her desk. She held up her hand, “Pasaport?”

He nudged the girl to hand him her passport while he dug his own out of his vest pocket. Vera entered their names and addresses in her notebook and then asked them to sign it.

She led them down the hallway and opened the door to their room. It was a nice room for a couple, she thought, with a queen bed, bright striped curtains, a side table with fresh flowers, and a TV – an old set but with plenty of channels to choose from.

“Nice,” the girl said, but when Vera just stared back, she – Freya, said her passport – gestured to the room, lifted her thumbs as a sign of approval and smiled widely.

Vera blushed. “Hvala.” Thank you.

Then she walked to the French window, opened it and gestured for them to follow her. She spread her arms with pride glimmering in the sheen of sweat on her face. She pointed at them and then at the garden. “Lahko ga uporabljata kadar koli,” she said. You can use it anytime. They understood without understanding.

“Tusind tak,” Freya said, while Jens kicked off his sneakers and socks and ambled barefoot on the soft grass, kept green only by watering it every evening. The lawn was framed with flower beds and bushes to the right and a vegetable patch to the left, with a herb bed in between.  It was there that Jens now walked, stooped down, caressing the fresh buds of basil.

“Herbs,” he said like anyone needed explaining.

When Vera approached him, he pointed to a rich green bush. “Rosmarin.”

“Yes, yes,” Vera said, excited that she understood. “Rožmarin.”

Jens grinned, showing his uneven front teeth. He plucked a leaf of basil, crushed it in his fingers and smelled it with his eyes closed.

“Basilikum.”

“Bazilika,” Vera said like an echo.

“Lavendel.”

“Lavanda.”

“Salvie.”

“Salvija,” Vera replied more and more enthusiastic that they finally found a subject they could both understand even if speaking in different languages.

When he stopped with “Persille,” and she said, “Peteršilj,” he already held a large bunch of herbs in his hand.

As she watched him speaking, Vera wondered whether the ring in his upper lip didn’t hurt.

“If you …” He looked at Freya for help, but she shrugged.

“If I use your kitchen, I cook fantastic pasta.”

Vera thought she understood the word ‘pasta’, but why was he talking about paste?

“Kitchen?” he repeated and shook the herbs in his hands, rising up from the grass where he had been kneeling.

Vera shook her head, her brow furrowed.

He tried with Danish. “Køkken?”

“Kuhati?” She imitated stirring.

“Ja!” He enunciated the words like speaking to a child. “I” – he pointed at himself – “cook” – the stirring gesture – “you” – pointing at Vera – “fantastic” – kissing his fingertips – “pasta”.

Although his s’s sounded more like sh, Vera laughed. “Ah, pašta. Špageti.”

“Yes.”

Their satisfaction at finally coming to an understanding was interrupted by Freya chuckling behind them. They had completely forgotten about her. She was now lying on her back on the grass, the ankle of one leg propped up on the bent knee of the other, smoking a cigarette and staring at the cloudless five o’clock sky.

She lifted herself on her elbows. Her lips were turned up in an amused expression. She pointed at Jens and said in rough-sounding English, “You are Danish, she is Slovene. You talk Italian.” She gestured wildly like a Sicilian taxi driver and giggled.

Jens and Vera laughed. Bodies were so much easier to understand, Vera thought. Pierced or painted, or just a bit more rounded like hers, making a rude gesture or hugging someone, you didn’t need a seminar on interpreting. Food was the same. A good gravy smelled delicious in any language.