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.