Lost in Translation

I turned to my boyfriend Luc. “I don’t understand. Why are they talking about me so much and giving me so many dirty looks? And why do I keep hearing the word baby? My French can’t keep up with what they’re saying.”

We were gathered in the living room – Luc, his parents, Sophie, Juliette and me. I don’t know why Juliette was part of this Martin family drama involving me, but nonetheless, there she was. I really didn’t understand what was going on. I gathered that some sort of family meeting had been called and it had something to do with me, but what they were talking about, I wasn’t sure. Were they about to tell me I had overstayed my welcome? Had I offended them somehow with my rude, boorish American behavior? I couldn’t imagine what I had done. I had tried my best to be unfailingly polite. I had brought wine and flowers as a hostess gift. I made up my couch bed every morning and straightened the room where I slept. I had helped clear the table and offered to help with the dishes, an offer that Luc’s mother had refused with a resounding “No.” At every opportunity, I tried my best to be a good house guest.

At least, I finally had my wish and everyone was speaking French. For this, I was secretly glad. Luc’s parents were somewhat old fashioned and didn’t like speaking English, but everyone else always stopped me from speaking French. I had heard that there was a movement in France to keep the language pure and fight against the bastardization of the language, to stop American words from slipping into their vocabulary – words like “weekend”, “parking”, and “shopping.” I did my best to speak French correctly and purely, even if it was in a terrible accent. Maybe they should welcome my poor attempts to embrace their language and culture.

But what was happening? I really didn’t understand. I looked at Luc in confusion. We had only been dating a short time, but had fallen head over heels for each other. Or at least, I had; sometimes I wasn’t sure about Luc. Still, I felt like I was living in a fairytale. This young American girl studying abroad had fallen for the handsome ski instructor who lived with his family in a remote village in the French Alps, near a popular ski resort. It was where we met when I had taken up skiing with friends.

Falling head over heels was how it began on the ski hill as well. Luc, my gallant knight, had rescued me from a snowbank where I had crashed on my skis most ungracefully. I had never skied much before in my suburban Chicago hometown. Luc, however, was very patient with me, working very closely with me on the bunny hill to perfect my technique. In a few weeks, I was skiing with the best of them. I no longer had anything to be ashamed of on the ski hill. Surprisingly, I had turned into a quick learner, at least when it came to skiing.

Every waking moment of my rapidly disappearing time in France was spent in Luc’s scintillating, skiing presence. I had never met anyone like him. I always believed that French men were short, but he was tall, dark, and handsome – a lithe, athletic presence on the monster ski hill, cutting a swathe down the mountain with breathless ease. Every time I saw him skiing or even just approaching me at the ski lodge, my heart gave a careless flutter and my palms sweated. I felt unaccountably nervous and excited at the same time. I was the walking, breathing embodiment of all the tired metaphors – butterflies in the stomach and falling head over heels, both on the ski hill and in real life.

Learning French was the real reason I was in France, however, as French immersion was the best way to learn a language. Unfortunately, both for my language skills and my love life, my time in France was rapidly drawing to a close. I would soon be returning to the states, a fact which broke my heart. Luc also, from what I could tell, looked crestfallen at the thought of me soon returning to America. At least it appeared so to me. If he was not heartbroken, he gave a good imitation of it, fooling me with his melting gaze and seemingly heartfelt words spoken in accented English.

I had found that most people in France spoke much better English than I could ever speak French. It was very disheartening. Every time the French heard my fledgling attempts to speak French, they quickly started speaking English to me. I begged Luc, however, to speak only to me in French, telling him that I really would like to learn the language. Besides getting practice in my French comprehension skills, when Luc spoke to me in French, it was much more romantic. “Je t’aime” sounded much better than “I love you”. “Ma cherie” or “mon petit chou” sounded much better than “honey” or “sweetie”.

I coveted all things French – the language, my boyfriend, the beautiful country. I was even thinking of extending my stay and getting a job as an au pair, either during my summer break from college, or upon graduation the following year. I wasn’t quite ready to leave the country or Luc. Besides my yearning for romance, I was young, footloose, and fancy free. The world was mine for the taking. Why not let our relationship run its course? However it was going to end, it was much too soon to say goodbye. I was definitely not ready to return to boring America.

But I digress. Back to the matter at hand, the talk of a baby and this strange family discussion that somehow was all about me. It all started when Luc took me home to meet his family. I had noticed that unlike the states where most young Americans were yearning to leave the nest and get their own apartments and dorm rooms, most young French people still lived at home with their parents. Luc was no different. He lived with his mother and father and younger sister in a little house in a small village high up in the Alps.

His village was breathtakingly beautiful, located close to the ski resort, but not quite a tourist town. A lot of resort staff lived in the village, but it was not frequented by foreigners. Like in a lot of tourist areas, the residents were grateful for foreign visitors, to whom they owed their livelihoods, but also resented their presence. Luc’s village was no different. The villagers subtly discouraged foreign visitors, who generally just stayed overnight at the ski lodge, only venturing to the village for food, drinks and to soak up local color. The village was definitely insular and self contained, or at least it felt that way to me.

The epitome of this dichotomy between tourism and insularity was his sister Sophie. We were the same age and had a lot in common, since we both adored Luc. Try as I might, however, to befriend her, she seemed to resent my presence. Every time I tried to get close to her and have a pleasant conversation, she seemed to look down her nose and sneer at me.

She always made me feel my French skills were subpar. Everytime I tried to speak French, she wrinkled her nose in distaste and immediately switched to English. Her English was flawless, while my French probably sounded to her like it came from a demented toddler.

I was becoming rapidly discouraged – both by her attitude and by my impending departure. Even though I knew Luc cared for me, he was careful not to press me to stay. I wanted to hear from him some kind of undying declaration of love. “I can’t live without you.” “Don’t go, I don't how I’ll live without you.” My romantic school girl’s heart conjured up countless romantic scenarios – ones you would see in any good romantic movie. I was definitely a sucker for love.

Like in any good romantic movie, I also had a romantic rival – the quintessential girl next door and long time friend of the family who also saw herself as heir to the throne, or queen of the kingdom of Luc. She, of course, was also the beloved best friend and longtime cohort of Sophie. My rival’s name was Juliette.

Juliette was a tiny wisp of a girl with long dark hair and the careless elegant sophistication that seemed inbred to French women. I, on the other hand, was a tall, large boned, dirty dishwater blond. I wasn’t fat by any means, but I had a well fed, long legged healthy American look that contrasted sharply with the small French women surrounding me in Luc’s household – his mother, sister, and Juliet, all barely topping five feet tall. I stood a whopping five foot nine and often felt like the jolly green giant, living in the land of the munchkins.

Juliette and Sophie were always whispering in rapid French and looking my way when I was near them. Luc’s parents had invited me to spend the weekend at their house. I wasn’t brave enough to sleep with Luc, however. Instead, I slept on the couch in the living room just outside of Luc’s bedroom. I dared not complain, however. I was just grateful that they had welcomed me grudgingly into their home, simply because Luc had asked them to.

“Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” I turned to Luc again, looking for clarification. What was happening?

For some reason, his face was beet red.

“I don’t know how to say this.” He spoke first in French, followed by English, to ensure that everyone understood him. “They think you are pregnant.” He said the last sentence only in English.

Like most foreigners, he spoke formally with no contractions. They think you are pregnant, rather than they think you’re pregnant. The words sunk into my consciousness. Pregnant. Regardless of the grammar, one word stood out.

“Pregnant?” I squealed uncomprehendingly, my voice sounding unaccountably squeaky.

“Oui, enceinte,” his mother nodded, giving me an accusing stare.

“Pourquoi est-ce que vous croyez que je sois enceinte?” I spoke carefully, trying to get my verb tenses correct. Croire meant “to believe” followed by the subjective tense for being pregnant. Subjective tense or not, what did it matter? Why did they believe that I was pregnant?

“I heard you,” Juliette spoke with a sneer. This time, she spoke in English. “You told Luc you were with child.” She looked at the others for approval. They all looked at me in cold condemnation.

“I did?” I said confusedly. “I said that? When did I say that? Why would I say that?” I was dumbfounded. How had this misunderstanding come about? I didn’t mean to turn this into World War III, but I needed to fight this unfounded accusation. I was definitely not pregnant, nor had I ever said I was.

No one spoke for a moment.

“I’m not pregnant!” I cried. “Je ne suis pas enceinte.” I said it in both languages for extra emphasis. I had tried so hard to be polite to this family, but now the gloves were off. I wasn’t going to stand accused of something which was blatantly untrue.

I looked over at Luc’s mother. Of everyone there, I most wanted to impress upon her and Luc’s father the truth. Whatever scheme Juliette and Sophie were cooking up, Luc’s parents were the important ones. I didn’t want them to think ill of me.

Luc’s mother looked relieved and confused at the same time. “But why did you say you were?” she asked in French.

I knew exactly what she had said, even if each French word was not quite clear to me. Her confusion was evident.

“I never said I was pregnant.” I was too full of confusion and righteous indignation to speak French. And what did it matter anyways? No matter what I did, I couldn't seem to find favor with this family. Not only did they think my French sucked, but now they thought I was pregnant and somehow trying to trap their beloved son.

This time it was Luc’s father who spoke. He turned to his daughter and spoke in a perplexed voice.

“What is this all about? Why did you tell us Mademoiselle Nelson was pregnant?”

“We heard her say it very clearly,” Sophie insisted.

“Yes,” Juliette chimed in. “It was late last night. You two were on the couch in front of the television”, she turned to Luc and I accusingly. “You said to Luc very clearly in French ‘Je suis en pleine.’”

“That’s right, “ Sophie said. “I remember. I heard it too. We were listening, because we wanted to make fun of your French. For example, who would say ‘Je suis en pleine’?” She said mockingly.

“Yes,” again Juliette backed up her friend’s words. “Everyone knows that’s a very rude and vulgar way to announce a pregnancy. Usually, those words are only used to say animals are pregnant, not people!”

I was thoroughly perplexed. “I don’t remember saying that,” I defended myself. “Luc and I had just finished a pizza with anchovies, and I remembered telling him how the pizza was delicious and I was full.”

I blushed. I had lied about one thing. I hadn’t really cared for the anchovies, but Luc had really seemed to like them, so I had pretended to like them also. I thought maybe anchovies were a French thing. Feeling my face redden, I hoped I didn’t look guilty of some infraction.

In full disclosure, I decided to come clean. “I didn’t really like the anchovies,” I admitted, “but I told Luc the pizza was delicious.”

“That’s right!” Luc said in dawning comprehension. “And now, I know why you thought Kate said she was pregnant. She said she was ‘en pleine’”. He paused for a moment. “She was saying ‘Je suis pleine’ to mean she wasn't hungry anymore. Not pregnant. Also,” and here Luc stopped for a moment.

He looked for a moment like he was trying hard to convey a complicated topic. He then continued speaking. “She paused for a moment before saying the world ‘pleine’. She then let out this cute little growl that must have sounded like the word ‘en’”. I think she was trying to think of the French word for ‘full’.”

I was suddenly embarrassed, but realized I had nothing to be ashamed of. I had done nothing wrong, other than not speaking French very well.

“Yes, he’s right,” I said self consciously. “In English, when we are thinking of a word to use, we often say ‘um’ instead of ‘eh…. which can sound like ‘en.’ A friend of mine told me that ‘um’ sounded too American and that if I wanted to sound French, I should use that word deep in my throat that is ‘eh’ …”

“Oh yes,” Luc was now excited. “Mystery solved. I remember you telling me that your French professor told me that your accent was terrible, the worst in the class, he said, and that you should practice speaking in front of a candle flame because you always spoke with too much puffy air. He said that when you spoke French, your breath would blow the candle out, and you should learn to talk without extinguishing the flame. You had told me at the time that ‘um’ was a puffy thing to say compared to ‘er’ and that you were trying to talk like the French – more from the throat, with much less hot air!”

“So, to summarize,” I concluded, “I said “Je suis pleine’ or 'je suis en pleine'. Whatever. I obviously didn't know that meant being pregnant.”

“And Luc?” I continued laughingly, “Thanks a lot for saying I am full of hot air!”

“Well, it’s better than being full with a baby!” Luc defended himself. “At least for now!” he amended.

Luc’s parents couldn’t help but laugh. They were now looking at me in warm admiration.

“Pardon, Kate! We are very sorry for this false accusation! Baby or not, welcome to the family!” Luc’s mother said.

By this time, even Sophie and Juliette looked chagrined. “We are sorry,” Sophie said. “My biggest apology.”

Juliette gracefully bowed to defeat. “My apologies as well. Sophie and I, we will teach you to speak French properly. Before you know it, you will be a real French woman!”

“Thank you so much! But, I like being American!” I felt the sudden need to defend my country. “Hot air, pregnant or not!”