Write Your Heart Out (L2.10)

"It's not fair, it's just not fair."

Lavinia was sitting on a terrace in the medieval part of Santiago, the casco vello. She didn't know the woman sitting there by herself with a glass of something unidentifiable but was a blond-colored liquid. There were other small dishes on the table at varying stages of being consumed. 

What Lavinia thought was that the person she'd heard had been sittting at the table for a while and was settled in to be there for a bit longer. Waitpersons didn't push you to leave after you had eaten and drunk your order. That was one of the most appealing features of Compostela which, Lavinia remembered, was Santiago's city yet could just as easily been named Susana de Compostela.

For her part, Lavinia was working on the creation of an itinerary around the casco vello for visitors who might be interested in the work of the photographer from the US, sent by the Hispanic Society of America to photograph Galician costumes. It was Ruth Matilda Anderson who had brought her to Galicia for her sabbatical project. Lavinia had discovered far more than she'd expected to, and a good deal of that discovery had been about herself. About what she didn't need and what she was looking for.

"I'm a bit mature to be living a coming-of-age story," she thought, but let the idea slip away. She had been learning things and finding things that she didn't want to know or still didn't understand, but did not regret her decision to put off returning to her university. Put off returning or simply to not return at all. She was working on designing the route for visitors because it made her feel as if she were doing something remotely educational and also because she had to do it.

Ruth had been forgotten by her own country, but was actually fairly familiar to many Galicians, although they knew her for her photographs, not for the book she had written about her time in two of the four provinces. She had been caught in a linguistic limbo, but her work, once a person came to know it, was unforgettable. Lavinia hoped her effort would be a good contribution to rectifying Ruth's oblivion, as she had come to see it.

Meanwhile, the woman sitting nearby on the terrace was still muttering, although she didn't appear to have any serious issues; she was just frustrated. The question was whether to continue to eavesdrop, to leave, or to go over and initiate a conversation. Leaving seemed to be the only good option, but Lavinia chose not to go. She would listen a little harder, then decide what to do.

"It's really not fair," could be heard, the tone of the woman's voice neither angry nor sad. Perhaps it was just frustration or some matter. Everybody complains about the lack of fairness in life at one time or another. Some people complain about that quite often, in fact. Usually there's nothing to be done about the supposed unfairness. It's also usually very personal, so listeners have a hard time feeling as upset as the person uttering those simple words: "It's not fair."

The woman sitting by herself looked up and saw Lavinia looking at her, then glanced away, as if she hadn't actually noticed she was being watched or she didn't really care. She was so absorbed in whatever it was that she was doing that her surroundings made little impression on her. A pity, because it was a perfect day in Compostela, whether one saw it as Santiago's or Susana's. Too bad to waste it on problems. Maybe she needed help.

Suddenly, despite not having finished her food and drink, the stranger stood up and simultaneously ripped up a sheet of paper she was holding. Her expression had changed and now made her look as if she were angry, or perhaps very sad. Was there a difference? Of course, but in this case Lavinia was unable to discern which. She did try to disguise her interest in the woman and kept her gaze as unfocused as possible. She didn't know how long she could keep up her ruse. Plus, the Ruth Route (as she'd started calling it) required her attention.

Obviously this situation was untenable and one or the other was going to have to change it. Just a bit longer, then Lavinia was going to make up her mind. Too late.

The other woman was already standing beside her table and her gesture as well as her facial expression indicated she wanted to sit down. Lavinia's decision was no longer needed, and naturally she agreed. She was not in the habit of approaching strangers nor of allowing them to approach her, but there appeared to be nothing dangerous in having a conversation with the person she'd been watching as they'd been sitting on the terrace by the Quintana dos Mortos. Just because that place in Compostela was named 'The Square of the Dead' was no reason to be silly about a simple opportunity for conversation.

The woman began to speak. Her accent was not identifiable as being from any place or country in particular. It was vague yet strong. She seemingly had a story to tell or at least questions to ask. Her first question was:

"Do you know Galician?"

She hadn't bothered to actually ask if she could sit with Lavinia, nor had she offered her name or any other information. Still, she seemed normal, just puzzled. Or frustrated. Lavinia replied:

"I do, but I'm really still learning. By the way, my name's Lavinia and I'm from the eastern US. How about you?"

There was no immediate answer, as if the woman were calculating the risk in revealing anything about herself, or how to go about it. Some people don't know how to provide that information, believe it or not. Finally she responded:

"You can call me Mary. I'm not from here."

Neither part of this reply answered the question. 

"You looked concerned about something. That's why I noticed you," volunteered Lavinia, still trying to get a foothold in the conversation before it faded off into a wave of the hand and walked away.

"I am. It's simply not fair," was the response, although it was hardly sufficient.

"What isn't?"

"The language."

"What language?" Lavinia asked, but was pretty sure she knew which one Mary was referring to.

"Galician. But you probably knew that. You look like you've been here a while." Mary was nothing if not observant.

"Yes, but not long enough to learn the language as well as I'd like," Lavinia informed her.

Mary thought it best to give her some examples.

"Look at all the words for snowflakes. But it doesn't even snow that much in Galicia, except in the higher regions. Why is that?" She started a monotonous list that Lavinia only partially followed:

felepa folerca folepa zarrapico falampo fausca ferrepa foleca follaca melendro zalopa pifarro pelerpo farrapo falopa zalopa fulerpa zalerpa fulerca...

Lavinia could only shake her head - in agreement, of course. She knew what Mary felt and agreed, but didn't say it out loud, that it wasn't fair for a language to have so many words for something it rarely saw. She also knew that list Mary had read off from a list on a piece of paper in her journal that there were even more words that had yet to be collected.

Next were the words for foxglove, which is a rather common flower in Galician fields. Mary persisted in her complaint about excess lexicon, saying:

"It's just a flower most people don't bother with. Sure it has a substance that is used to treat heart problems, but nobody around here harvests or sells it much. Why give it so many names?" And she was off again, listing them:

alcroque dedaleira militroque belitroque soane seoane bilitroque alcornoz baloco croque cróquele palitroque herba de sanxoán chopo negro estraloque...

"Stop!" Lavinia ordered her. "I see your point. But what's the harm in a language having a few extra words for a flower?"

Mary looked at her. It was her turn now to shake her head at Lavinia, but for a different reason. The over-abundance of vocabulary was just too much to handle. Why have all those words if even native speakers didn't use them and didn't know them?

Lavinia was beginning to wonder who this other woman was and what she was doing in Galicia getting all upset about all the words in its linguistic landscape. 'Words will never hurt you', she thought, as the old children's rhyme came to mind. 

However, Mary was not ready to stop lamenting the situation. Lavinia thought maybe she considered words to be fattening, or sinful, or capable of wearing down the brain, dulling it until a person could only say two or three things, or say nothing at all. Mary went on:

"There's a real problem with words for mist or light rain. If we include fog, we're really in trouble. There's a whole mountain of vocabulary. I mean, come on, it's actually painful when you think about it."

Lavinia managed not to laugh, because Mary looked so serious, so upset, and she listened while the next group of words was read from the paper in the journal:

orballo babuxa froallo merada poalla lapiñeira marmaña cerzallada mocallo calabobos erballeira néboa mera brétema carrumba parruma nabueiro nebra nibueiro neboliro mexona malina barrufa brétoa...

"Hold it!" Lavinia broke in. "You're exaggerating, because that's a list for two things. A drizzlling rain isn't the same as dense fog, you know. So those words don't all refer to one type of precipitation."

Mary sighed, and explained:

"You tell me what's the difference between heavy fog and a light mist. I'm not sure even Galicians know, but for the heavy rain they of course have another shew of..."

Lavinia stopped her again. Mary was right, of course, but she wasn't interested in another litany of words. Then somebody else began to speak, quite softly, and the voice had no definition. It might have been a gust of wind turning the corner at the House of Andrade before entering the Quintana dos Mortos and swooshing up the steps to the Quintana dos Vivos, the Square of the Living. It was an odd sound, somewhere between transporter of syllables and teller of secrets.

"What about the imps? They're all over the place here. If you don't pay any attention to them, you're llikely to be asking for trouble."

The women exchanged glances and were puzzled. Lavinia wrinkled her nose at the rather infantile statement. Mary looked concerned, apprehensive. They both waited for what was obviously coming next: a list of words.

gamusiño traso tardo abelurio canouro diaño xas cachafello papón sumicio canduro deaño demo tarno trasgo cotofello cotovello cazarello biosbardo gazafello gurrumelo cocerello gozofello birbardo cozocha alpabarda...

This list was the worst of all and it was far from complete. Apparently imps were everywhere in Galicia and came in all shapes, sizes, and intentions. And the voice had disappeared as quickly as it had come to warn the two women to be careful about what they did and said. Poof! Gone!

Mary looked unconsolable by now, but Lavinia was no closer to knowing how to help her. She had only listened to tiny avalanches of words and observed her companion's growing dismay. There had to be something more, so she said:

"There has to be something more, Mary. It's unusual for a person to get upset over lexical issues. What's really bothering you?"

Mary hesitated, gulped, and said, "I'm in a competition to find the best Galician and if I lose, so much will be lost. However, if I win, so many good things will happen. I'm just a small part of the effort and I can't tell you any more than that, but I'm trying to collect all these words and all my journals, my notebooks, several boxes, even a few Tupperware containers are full and overflowing. I can't ever collect all I need. This language apparently is too big for our project.

"So you thought you could help, that being a translator would make you a good participant in the effort to promote the language?" Lavinia had not know what her companion's profession was until this moment, but she had figured out what it was.

"Well, yes, in a way. I just wanted to help, but I know I'm just one person and I can't even collect all the words I was assigned. I feel like I'm letting the others down."

"Who are the others?" asked Lavinia, a bit calmer now that she knew Mary wasn't crazy.

"I can't tell you now, but perhaps I can soon," was the response.

Silence, until Mary spoke agaiin, looking a bit sheepish:

"The other problem I have is that there are so many Galician writers and I can't keep up with all the books being published. As a translator, I have to know what's out there, but I'm always gasping for breath, hoping nobody will write another thing until I can catch up." Mary was sounding very distraught now.

"Not likely. That one is definitely out of your hands. Nobody can stop the production of literature in Galician these days. That's a good thing."

*****

Some time later, Lavinia or maybe it was Mary, woke up. She couldn't say if it was a dream or if the meeting had really happened. 

In any event, one thing was clear: it definitely wasn't fair. 

It wasn't fair that some people thought the Galician language wasn't good for much, or were ashamed to speak it. 

That they had let the words die out and had turned their backs when people were forced to leave rural areas to work in more urban ones.

That they hadn't resisted when people from other parts wanted them to forget how to think in their own language and to write things that if written, would have roots as far back as needed.

If nothing else, that weakness was not a dream. It was a nightmare that was not the fault of any imp, no matter what name one used for it.