It seems an awful long time since I was immersed in a family home in Normandy, brushing up and adding to my French (best achieved by avoiding the man of the house, an Australian in need of serious tuition on his own account) before moving to Paris. A lot of water has flowed sous les ponts since then, and I now feel almost as if I am starting all over again ...
A little knowledge is not always dangerous, but can be misleading.
My French, once serviceable though I have never claimed fluency, has been coming back to me in the two or three weeks since I returned.
But as a function of age, any time spent away from everyday practice takes longer to make up. In 18 months in Abu Dhabi, I spoke it so rarely that I sometimes wondered if I’d even be able to order a meal in France again.
I was barely comfortable again in the language before I needed to move temporarily to Britain. That need has now passed, but I’m acutely aware that if my French were a car, it would no longer be described as a bit rusty; whole bits have begun falling off.
In time, the words and phrases I require will re-establish themselves in my consciousness. But I must be careful to avoid giving the impression of greater fluency than I have, since misunderstanding is the inevitable consequence.
Wanting something done at the house, I left a message for Philippe, the man who’d do it. That evening, Philippe in turn left a message on my phone. A cursory listen told me he’d arrive towards noon the next day. I promised myself to play the message again, to ensure I fully understood, and promptly forgot to do anything of the sort.
As noon approached with no sign, I rang the number from which Phillipe had made his call. The speaker was driving but hastily confirmed he was a only few minutes away.
When there was still no show, I assumed he had been sidetracked. Friends were staying with us and had by then been joined by relatives. I had to send them off to the restaurant without me.
As lunchtime turned to mid-afternoon, I called again. “Where are you, Philippe?” I asked.
Back came the mystified reply: “We’re just leaving the restaurant.”
Philippe, it dawned at last, was my friends’ cousin; he just bore the same name as the man I’d been expecting. Philippe, l’artisan, had taken no part in any of the conversations. He had left no messages. He was enjoying his weekend off and had no intention of attending to my needs until it was over.
What a blow to the self-esteem. I went back to Philippe’s first call, as intended much sooner; all, retrospectively, became clear. It was cousin Philippe who had called on the Friday evening, confirming his arrival time for Saturday. His was therefore the number I dialled next morning. It was he who had been minutes away.
I took comfort from the knowledge that if only I had relistened to the message, I’d have realised it was from another Philippe. I took none from hearing my friends and their kin talk enthusiastically about the meal they’d enjoyed.
* Taken from my East/West column in The National, Abu Dhabi.
** Perfect you bad language with Merde: The Real French You Were Never Taught at School
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