Language Barrier
At the giant grocery store in town, I met up with a woman who lives in the same holler as we do. She asked me how I was getting along so far.
“So far, pretty well, thank you,” I said.
“He’s Frainch, ain’t he?”
“He is.”
“He’s a right nice fellow. [pronounced ‘rat nass fella’. I’ll attempt to reproduce her accent from here on.] He he’ped us rise up a fayunce whan ars blowed dahn from thet flud – thet wuz prolly afore yore tahm.”
“Your fence?” I asked, just to make sure I was hearing her correctly.
“Yep, ar bob-wahr fayunce. We dun’t aksed him tew, he jes’ shown up and pitched on in. Steady fella. Wukked all affanoon inta th’evenin’.”
“He’s very helpful,” I said.
“Yew speak any Frainch yusself?” she asked.
“A bit,” I replied, “though I can’t really keep up if two native speakers are talking to each other.”
“Yew like Bottled-air?” she asked.
“Bottled air?”
“Yep, mah folks lef’ me some book o’ his’n, Ah dunno mebbe y’all’d like t’take it. Ah cain’t read a bit own’t.”
I racked my brain. Bottled air … bottled air … What could this woman be talking about?
“What’s it called?” I asked. “The book?”
“Flahrs o’ Evil, I thaink, in Ainglish.”
“Baudelaire!” I cried, in realization. “The Flowers of Evil!”
“Wail, shore! Whut’d yew thaink Ah sayd?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I laughed. “But sure, I’d love to have a copy of it in French.”
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