Read Online Almost French by Sarah Turnbull - Free Book Online Page A

French properly, I tell myself. And this is true, of course. But instinctively I sense that language isn’t the only problem. Although everyone had been very pleasant, I’d felt totally out of place at the dinner. Fitting in and making friends might be harder than I expected. It seems my first dinner party is a portent.

The long days in the apartment begin to take their toll. After six weeks, my faxed story proposals have elicited either no response or negative ones. Being on my own for so many hours with nothing to do is proving more testing than I anticipated. Although I try to fill my head with upbeat thoughts, I feel lonely.
    Realising I’m craving company, Frédéric calls regularly from work and often we arrange to meet near his office for lunch. One day at about one, he turns up unexpectedly at the apartment with some guys from work and a couple of takeaway pizzas topped with runny egg. On their way back to the office after seeing a client, they thought they’d stop and have lunch with me, he explains.
    After we’ve finished eating, Frédéric pats his coat pocket, his eyes skimming the room, searching for something. This is a familiar routine. I now know that when Frédéric told me in Bucharest he was ‘maniac’ he meant he was obsessively tidy. Keeping everything in perfect order—shirts stacked in a colour-coded pile, the bed neatly made each morning—is his way of restraining his natural disorderliness. But it’s as though he’s still surprised by his tidy habits. Frédéric can never recall the thoughtful places where he puts things away.

    I think I know what he’s looking for—one of his pipes. ‘ Tu veux une pipe? ’ I ask.
    It takes less than a split second to realise that my question is not quite right. Not right at all, in fact, judging by the four male faces which freeze in surprise before cracking into hooting, helpless laughter. Without even meaning to, I have been fabulously funny. This is my first joke in French—the first time since my arrival that I’ve managed to make an entire table laugh—and it seems a bit unfair that I don’t get it.
    ‘Where can I find an Australian girlfriend?’ wheezes one guest, appreciatively.
    The French language is full of double entendre. Although toilet humour is considered poor taste in France, sex-related witticisms are acceptable in virtually any social setting. Sustaining linguistic volleys of naughty innuendo is a national sport. Sometimes these word games are subtle and sophisticated. But often the banter is ribald and silly—a bit like Frédéric’s joke about peeing off the Pont des Arts. ‘ Pipe ’ is the sort of word which ping-pongs across dinner tables. Although it shares the innocent English meaning, in French it also has a more risqué definition. Had I said ta pipe— your pipe—it might not have been so funny. But as it is, I have just offered Frédéric a blow-job.
    Linguistically, let’s face it, the relationship is challenged. Progress is measured in small but significant steps. With much practice, Frédéric learns to say SAR-ah, with the stress on the first syllable instead of pronouncing it the French way with even emphasis. But the two ‘r’s’ in his name are problematic. My throat can just about raise a respectable roll for the first but for some reason can’t manage it for the second ‘r’. ‘They’re too close together,’ I growl ungraciously, as if the consonantshave conspired to trip me up. Frédéric becomes Fréd.
    Until now we’ve been speaking mostly English together because my French is limited to conversations I learnt by rote from school textbooks. Thus, I am brilliant at answering the telephone, as long as it is Philippe Ledoux calling to compliment my new red car. I’m also good at flattering someone in a skirt— mais quelle jolie jupe! Regrettably, opportunities to use these engaging lines are rare. When it comes to constructing my own sentences—stringing nouns, verbs and adjectives together