He who has a Tongue Goes to London

He who has a Tongue Goes to London

Unlike the wolf, trotting all day to find his own meat, I make my
living with the help of my tongue teaching a language recognized
as English by my English-speaking collegues, though I had learned
and then taught it behind the iron curtain. I tried to compensate the
lack of language environment by reading books in the original.
Sometimes I managed to listen to “enemy voices from the rotten
west”.
During the so called years of stagnation I happened to talk to
native speakers only once. By that time, I had just graduated from
the university.
My husband and me went to an exotic Caucasian restaurant in the
suburbs of Sochi. We travelled there by a two horse carriage
through a curved mountain path. Despite the heat the coachman
wore a national fur coat and a fur cap. A waiter also dressed in
Caucasian clothes escorted us to a small hall designed like a
saklya (a stone home of highlanders). There was a folk song and
dance ensemble around the fire in the middle of the yard.
When I was trying to deal with a tough and spicy shish kebab and
thinking about a poor elderly sheep that had given its life for this
doubtful gastronomic pleasure, I suddenly heard vociferous roar of
the crowd and was pleasantly surprised to identify some English
words in it. Looking around, I saw foreigners, moving to a
neighboring “saklya”. Unlike Russian accent of the guide the
tourists’ speech constituted real Queen English familiar to me by
London lingua-phone course. What a rare chance to realize my
secret dream and to apply my speaking skills in a natural speech
situation! Unfortunately, there was an insurmountable obstacle on
my way. My husband worked at a research institute where all
contacts with foreigners were strictly forbidden. In my mind eye
appeared a picture of a fierce woman with a finger pressed to her
lips above the slogan: “Loose lips sink big ships”.
Meanwhile English tourists started dancing around the fire. When
one of them ran out of juice, he sat down on the step near the
entrance to our “saklya” and I saw an elderly gentleman with red
hair streaked with a line of grey. He had an elegant light suit on.
Under his typical Forsyte chin, on which, according to Galsworthy,
one can hang a kettle, there was a burgundy bow tie. The
Englishman looked exactly like a warmonger painted by Soviet
cartoonists. Only a top-hat with a pound sterling on it was missing.
Delighted by picturesque ethnical entourage he exclaimed: “Wow!
Such a fun!” and noticing my curious glance, asked: “Do you speak
English?”

At this very moment my English broke loose like a stallion
anguishing in the stable too long. And it blindsided my interlocutor
with a wealth of complicated grammar constructions and idioms.
He praised my pronunciation, but it was beyond him to understand
why educated Russian couldn’t speak plain English. I was trying to
do my best and overdid it. Besides, I had deeply plunged into the
atmosphere of good old England created by classic writers and
had no connection with my English contemporaries. Then the
gentleman inquired looking at my husband’s tense face: “Why is
your companion so nervous? Is he jealous?
Let me talk to him and I’ll allay all his fears”. I was just stunned still
and the foreigner reminding the image of an enemy from the pages
of Soviet newspapers approached my husband, offered his hand
and introduced himself: “Frederic Fry. You may call me Freddy”.
And then Mrs. Fry, a graceful grey-haired lady, who had just shown
up, joined our conversation : ” Freddy! The moment I turned away
you are already sweet- talking to a pretty girl”.
Now it was impossible to escape communication. Mr. fry
introduced his wife Alice and gave us his vising card, where it was
written that he was the president of a corporation, consisting of
three firms and lived in London. Then looking at our surprised
faces he said with a self-satisfied smirk on his face: “Yes, I’m a
capitalist, “a shark of imperialism” as they write in your papers”. In
reply I informed him, that I was a member of a communist youth
union,” representing red danger”, as they used to write in theirs.
Then I confessed that he was the first capitalist, I saw in our
country alive. This ordinary remark was taken by the Fries for witty
banter and caused raucous laughter. During our talk Alice took
notes to bring examples of Russian humour to Foggy Albion. I was
afraid that it could be taken for information transfer and advised
them to start acquaintance with Russian humour, reading
Chekhov. Besides, I explained, that I couldn’t represent Russian
people, as I was a daughter of Jewish people. “It explains
everything. Jews are famous for their paradoxical sense of
humour, which they kept in hardships, they had suffered through
centuries”, - said Mr. Fry with an unexpected excitement in his
voice.
We were deeply touched and thanked him for these words. In the
end he invited us to visit them if we happened to be in London. At
that time “to happen to be in London” was even more fantastic than
to go to the Moon.

But a quarter of a century later we did travel to the capital of
Great Britain from Israel, where my English not only helped to get
in touch with people, but also to find a job.
When I found myself in the language surrounding I didn’t miss
any opportunity of talking to Londoners. I was asking the way,
turning to policemen and strangers, though I could easily use a
map, talked to hotel workers, shop assistants, museum rangers
and market sellers. From the barman of “Cheshire cheese” I
learned, that Dickens and Carrol had been regulars of this bodega
and the cat with a famous smile was named after it.
In London Tower my talk with a guard wearing beefeater’s doublet
was interrupted by cawing of a crow, sitting on his shoulder, and
ringing of the phone in the pocket of his doublet put an end to it.
In a picturesque park near the old castle my eye caught a
horseman wearing knight’s armor. I asked him to hold his horse so
that I could take a selfie and speak English to boot. But what a
surprise! The “knight” raised his helm under which there was barely
placed his huge Jewish nose. On learning that I was from Israel he
spoke Hebrew to me.
When I found myself in Hyde Park Speakers’ corner, I couldn’t
resist a temptation and having climbed a box made a short
improvised speech about the roots of xenophobia.
But I didn’t call on Mr. Fry, though I had taken his visiting card just
in case. Even if he had happened to be a centenarian he would
have hardly remembered that long-standing, fleeting meeting in the
former USSR.