NINTH CHAPTER, IN WHICH HE CONVERSES IN BULGARIAN WITH A BULGARIAN CONDUCTOR AND EXPERIENCES THE SWEET TERROR OF THE BABEL OF TONGUES
I have to tell
you this,"
I have to tell
you this," began
/////// Kornél Esti. "The
'''''''''''' other day, someone
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that they would never
travel to a country
where they couldn’t
speak the language.
I agreed with them.
Primarily, I’m interested
in people when I travel—
much more so than museum
artifacts. When I can hear
people speaking but not
understand them, I feel
mentally deaf, as if
watching a silent film
without music or explanatory
captions. It’s
irritating and
boring.
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But then, as I
reflected on this,
I realized the opposite
is just as true, as with everything
in the world. It can be devilishly
amusing to wander through a foreign
land, indifferent to the clamor of
voices around you, staring mutely at
anyone who addresses you. What an aristocratic
is just as true, as with everything in the world.
It can be devilishly amusing to wander through a
foreign land, indifferent to the clamor
of voices around you, staring
mutely at anyone who addresses you.
What an aristocratic solitude this is,
my friends—what independence,
what irresponsibility.
You suddenly feel like an infant
under guardianship. A strange trust
awakens in you toward adults, who
seem wiser than you. You let them
speak and act on your behalf.
And then, you accept everything—unseen,
or rather, unheard.
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Rarely have
I had such an
experience—for as
you know, I speak
ten languages—but
I did have one
singularly remarkable
instance when I
was passing through
Bulgaria on my way
to Turkey. I spent
only twenty-four
hours in Bulgaria,
all on a train.
It was during this
brief passage that
something occurred
to me—something
too good not to share.
After all, I might die any
moment—a capillary might burst
in my heart or brain—and no one
else, I’m certain, will ever
experience something like this.
It was nighttime.
Midnight had long since passed.
The express train sped through unfamiliar
mountains and villages. It must have been around
1:30 a.m. I couldn’t sleep and stepped into the corridor
to get some air. Soon, I grew bored. From the landscape,
I could only make out black lumps. It counted as an event if
a light flickered somewhere in the distance. Around me, all
the passengers slept the sleep of the just. Not a soul stirred
in the carriages.
I was just about
to return to my compartment
when the conductor appeared,
carrying a lamp—a stocky Bulgarian
with a black mustache. It seemed he
had just finished his nightly rounds.
He had checked my ticket long ago and
had no business with me, but he greeted me
amicably, flashing his lamp and his eyes
at me. Then he stood beside
me, evidently
bored himself.
I have no idea why
or how, but at that moment,
I decided to strike up a
conversation with him, come
what may—and not just a brief
chat but a long, hearty exchange.
I asked him in Bulgarian if he smoked.
That was the only Bulgarian phrase I knew,
having learned it from a notice on the train.
Besides that, I knew five or six other words—those
basic ones that you inevitably pick up on a journey,
like yes, no, and so on. But—and I swear this to you—I
didn’t know a single word beyond that.
The
conductor
raised
his hand
to the brim of
his cap. I snapped
open my cigarette
case and offered him one.
He respectfully took a
gold-tipped cigarette.
The conductor fumbled for
a match, lit the cigarette,
and muttered something in
his entirely incomprehensible
language, something that
sounded like an offer.
I held out my
blue-flaming
lighter to
him and
repeated the
word he’d
just said,
a word I was
hearing for
the first
time in
my life.
We both
smoked
enthusiastically,
puffing out
smoke
through
our noses.
It was an
encouraging
start.
To this
day,
I’m
proud
when I think
of it. It flatters
my self-esteem to recall how much insight into human
nature I must have had to lay the groundwork for this moment—how
much psychological understanding I had when planting that small seed,
which later grew into a great tree, providing me with rest and extraordinary experiences by dawn.
You must admit, my approach was
assured and flawless from the outset.
I had to make him believe I was a native
Bulgarian who spoke the language as fluently
as a literature professor at Sofia University.
Accordingly, I behaved somewhat nonchalantly and
noncommittally. Above all, I didn’t chatter—a trait
not entirely within my control, but that didn’t matter.
Foreigners are usually characterized by their eagerness
to speak the language of the country they’re in,
often to an overzealous degree, which quickly
betrays their foreignness. In contrast,
natives communicate sparingly, using
gestures, nods, and a few worn-out
phrases, avoiding elaborate or
literary constructions.
This restraint
makes them
appear
native.
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