Themother tongue in Foreign lands
Anna Rúbioi Fandos
It’s a traditional song with sad and melancholy lyrics.
It is interpreted slowly and in a sentimental way.
In my country, people don’t cry. We can’t. But our ancestors treasured drops of sadness in some sounds. And thus, when we pronounce them, we can feel the taste of tears.
I didn’t mind not crying when I left my country. I filled my pockets with all the words thatI wouldn’t be able to say far away from home. I left; my heart beating with excitementto see that foreign land whichwas offeringme a fairjob. I left nobody behind me. I walked forward.
I do not regret my decision. However, I am having a hard time blending me in. I still can’tdistinguish the soundsin this cheerful and colourfullanguage that is taking me in. So, for the moment, communication is a mystery for me.
In my country, people turn smiles into laughs. We can’t help it. This is because our ancestors treasured the softness of feathers in some sounds. And thus, whenwe pronounce them, they tickle us to laugh.
I’ve been living here for a week now. Every morning I take the bus to go to work. People talk. I envy them. I had never realized the importance of telling things to another person. I see their body language. Their voices and faces help me make up a conversation of my own. Willing, yet unable to talk, I start a chat with the silence.
A group of noisy teenagers jump on the buscreating a little chaos thatpuzzles me.I look at them. They are telling jokes and their laughter fills the bus. I want to join the group, share gigglesbut I can’t. I find it impossible to put a smile on my face. While I am trying to understand what is happening to me, they burst into tears of laughter. Seeing them laugh and cry at the same time makes me envy them deeply.
I would give anythingto laugh as people laugh in my country, to drop a tear as everybody does in any foreign country.
I take a deep breath and breathe out slowly. I close my eyes. I wrap myself up with laughter. I try to smile again. I cannot. I take another breath. There is joy in the air, the jubilant joy of youth. I want my heart to pump blood enrichedwiththat joy.
But not being able to talk has made my heart frozen.These days it is only giving me monotonous beats. Secretly, I take those tickly words out of my pockets. I eat them as if they were candies. And I wish their feathers could caress my heart.
However, my poor and lonely heart turns this breath of feathers into a sorrowful nightingale, and instead of sending me laughs, it sends me back a petenera. In a strange land my heart has learned how to cry but not me. And I have lost my smile.
In my country, people do not say ‘I love you’. We can’t. But our ancestors treasured the melody of caresses in some sounds. And thus, when we pronounce them, we turn the exhaled breath into a sweet love song.
I get off the bus to head to work. I watch a couple split up their hands and walk in opposite directions, but occasionally, they look back to tell each othera sentence I do not understand. I don’t care. I know they mean ‘I love you’.
I keep walking with the flame of that ‘I love you’; while inside me, the nightingale that dwellsinmy heart, is still trilling the petenera.
The gentle breeze pushes me to work. Everyone greets me with theirheads. They are friendly. I get to my little white cabin. I am about to spend eight hours speaking the only language that I share with this land: numbers.
I work for four hours. And then, there is a half-an-hour coffee break. I sip my coffee slowly, letting the steam stroke my face. It fills me with bitterness and warmth. I want to talk about that ‘I love you’. But I realize I’m forgetting words. So I have to takesomefrom those I carry in my pockets. The first that comes out is “loneliness”. I let thecoffee steam wrap up that word, so that it gets a littletender. I want to give it a bite, as if it werea chocolate. I just don’t dare. It is a cold word. What if it freezes me down to the core? Even though it is a little softer now, I hideit back in my pockets. I pick up other words. Simple words: some prepositions, adverbs and all the cheerful adjectives. And with mychest full of unspoken words, I go back to work.To my numbers.Tomy silence.
In my country, people whisper their sorrows. We can’t help it. This is because our ancestors treasured the melancholy murmur of the breeze in some sounds. And thus, when we pronounce them, our breath creates a soft hum.
I get back home exhausted. I snuggle down in a corner of the dining room, leaning onto the wall. I want to tell it all to the wall. I want to talk about the steam of the warm coffee, the numbers, the ‘I love you’that no one says to me...
In my land, this is when my mother tongue would give me the comfortof a whisper. But here, in a foreign country, every sentence I pronounce takes a higher pitch than the previous one. I stop just when I am about to scream. I take a deep glance within myself lookingfor thatwhisper, but I only find a bird whistling a petenera. Melancholy runs through my veins, pumped by the blood, reaching my fingertips. I stroke the wall to give part of my sorrow to it. I lick my fingers, one by one, to feel the taste of tears on the buds of my tongue, butin vain.
I tryto whisper sad wordsagain, but I can only let screams out. I feel them getting more and more furious. I scare myself. I decide to keep silent. I keep on stroking the wall sadly. After a while, I take the solitude out of my pocket, crumpled by the steam of the coffee, and I stare at it. We look at each other. Meanwhile, the melody of my body echoesthroughout the place, filling my house with the sad song of the nightingale.
In my country, people do not kiss. We can’t. But our ancestors treasured the warmth of fond lips in some sounds. And thus, when we pronounce them, they caress the skin of the beloved one.
I go to the bathroom. I turn on the tap. I look up. I see my reflection in the mirror staring at me. I tell her, “Look, the tap sobs unlike me and you.” As I am speaking, I takea look at myself watching me. Watching me speak. I finish but she doesn’t answer, she has no voice.She only vocalizes, teasing me when I speak. And when I stop speaking, there issilence between us. I ask, “Tell me.” She stares at me,mockingly, mouthing me, and silent while I am doing the same thing.
I notice that the tap keeps crying. I want to close it, but a second before I grab a handful of water and throw itat the mirror. The image looks at me, half angry, half surprised. I regretit, I stroke her cheek, but when my fingers touch the mirror, theyonly find glass and water. I look at her. Water beads trickle down the mirror around the eyes of the reflection.
The image in my mirror has learned how to cry in a foreign land. But I still haven’t. Moreover, I’ve lost drops of sadness, tickles and whispers, too. I do not have anyone to say, “I love you.” “I love youuuuuuu!”I shout out. I make the “u” last very long. Then, on the other side, my reflection sends me a silent kiss.
In my country, people keep silent to listen to themselves. We can’t help it. This is because our ancestors treasured waves, that come and go, in some sounds. And thus, when we pronounce them,they are carried away with other words. But they immediately come back to make us listen to our voice, our words and our language.
I slam the door and walk, unknowingly, down the path behind the building where I live. The path leadsto a vast expanse surrounded by mountains. The soft windstrokes my face and clears up mymind.
A few minutes ago,I was at home hitting the mirror with my hands. I wasconvinced that if my image had learnt to cry and kissit was because it lived with people who understood her. I was convinced that behind the mirror there was a world where I could communicate. I’ve hurt my hands with the mirror. But I’ve got nothing buta piece of glass that broke offfrom a corner. Seeing it fall down on the floor, I decide to escape. I grab the piece and flee to find a place to listen to my voice from the outside.
And here I am, walking through the field. I get to a beautiful spot; all full of flowers that swing around me. In front of me there are the mountains. If I madea hundred small steps, I would be able to touch them. But I do not. I stay where I am, listening to the song of sorrowwithin me. I try to let it out and fill it with sounds. I cannot pronounce any wordthough; I have been losing some, I’ve eaten some others, and the rest few wither inside my pockets.
The idea that I am being left with no words hurts so much that my soul sends off a deep groan.Oh, oh ohohohoh, oh ohoh… The melody that abides within is becoming silent. I keep on gaspingoh, and it starts to get stronger and stronger, greater and greater. When I eventuallylet go a profound and burdened moan; it smashes against the mountains and makes them tremble. I fall silent, exhausted.
Then I hear it: the mountains send my moan back. A few seconds ago I wanted get rid of it, butnow I extend my arms to embrace it. I haven’t lost the echo yet. I'm not all alone. My sighs and oh’swrap me up and caress me. I sway my hand in the air trying to grasp the sound. I close my fist slowly and feel the echo moving. I take itup to the heart. I breathe. I look around. The wind massages the flowersplayfully. Not too far a couple of trees look at me solidly, while their leaves flirt with the wind. Everything looks peaceful.
The echo beats inside my fist. I start to understand. To belong to this land, I need to grow roots. And not to lose my language, I need to sow it. I do not doubt now. With my free hand, I dig a hole where I treasure those weary and frightened little words that I still carry in my pockets. "I will not let you die. I will fertilize you with my echo and I will water you with my blood", I explained to them.
I put my tight fist in the middle of the words. With my other hand,I cover them up with soil, letting it cover my skin too. I open my fist carefully so that the echo won’t slip away and let the words germinate with the sounds. With the other hand,I continue adding soil. I slowly takemy fist out of the hole. I take the glass out and cut my palm with it letting the blood drip and water the soilwith my words buried in it.
I am now done with covering up the hole. I wonder where the nightingale and its petenera might have gone. I can’t hear them anymore. I suppose it took flight with my oh towards the mountains. Itmust have made up its mindto flap away from my heart. On the one hand I yearn it, though on the other, I wish it goodluck.
The lights and the gentle evening breezecuddle me. I know I have to go back home. But I keep ongazingat the placewhere my words will bloom. The silence embraces me. I want to talk to it and murmur, “A part of me will grow roots in this land.”
And a tiny smile appears on my face.
Silence.
Anna Rúbioi Fandos
Correct by:
-Anna Osipyan
-AssumptaMesseguer