Kitabı oku: «Travels in an Old Tongue: Touring the World Speaking Welsh», sayfa 2

PART ONE Ewrob (Europe)
CYMRU (WALES)
Siarad to Speak

I have laryngitis. Not the low, burnt-sugar kind that people find so sexy, but the hissy, rasping kind that sounds as if I’ve been garrotted and just escaped with my life. No one wants to hear me talk for long in any language, which is a blessing.

We’ve decided to begin the trip in Wales after all, in hopes of tapping the Welsh diaspora at its source, which is doubtless the cause of my illness; any minute now someone’s bound to speak to me in Welsh, and since that’s precisely the point of this book it would behove me to respond in kind. I blow an inward kiss to my vocal cords.

It happens in the post office.

Tim Evans, the clerk at the far window, spies me and does a slow-motion doubletake. His eyes go as round as his face and blink in mock horror. I bat my lids a few times. This game has been going on since 1984. When my turn comes Tim’s window is free, and I steel myself for the inevitable.

‘Wel, wel’ – his voice is clear and sweet as jelly and rippling with amusement – ‘sut mae, ’te?’ Relief. He’s leading with a simple howdy-do that doubles as a tease and a welcome back.

‘Da iawn, diolch. A sut dych chi?’ I lie that I’m fine and inquire about him, exaggerating the ‘chi’ to show that I, too, consider this Welsh exchange a game between old friends. So far the pleasantries are a breeze, though mine sounds like a cat being strangled under a pillow.

Tim launches his eyebrows. ‘Laryngitis?’

I nod and explain in embryonic Welsh that I’m in Lampeter to do research for my book. Before he can reply I switch to English and hiss, ‘And to practise Welsh, of course. After my throat gets better. And I need to send these postcards.’

‘Psychosomatic, then, is it?’ He plays the syllables of ‘psychosomatic’ like valves on a trumpet: up, down, up, down, up. Tim and I go back to my master’s degree days, when I slipped into the unfortunate habit of mailing letters without stamps. That and my American accent earned me a high profile in the post office, as did the fact that I kept coming back. Most students leave Lampeter for good after graduation; not only did I return, I returned often, and from America. That was counted as odd indeed. After each two- or three-year interval I’d walk into the Swyddfa’r Post, as it’s known in this Welsh-speaking market town, and Tim would greet me with, ‘So, back again, are you?’ or, louder, playing to the populace, ‘Well, if it isn’t the crazy American.’ But since my intensive Welsh course in the summer of 1992, held across the street at the College, we try to speak in Cymraeg. In very short sentences. For very short intervals.

‘I want to make you a deal,’ I propose.

The eyebrows rise again.

‘I’ll buy you lunch if you’ll speak to me exclusively in Welsh for at least an hour.’ This is a bold move, as we’ve never met outside the post office before.

Tim is a big man, Pavarotti-size at least. And he’s a tenor as well, with two albums out on which he sings almost exclusively in Welsh. I figure food is a strong temptation.

‘An offer I can’t refuse, I see.’ He smiles and his features bed down on a cushion of dimples. We agree on a date for next week.

I’m procrastinating, I know, but hey, I’m sick.

Tim Evans is one of only a handful of townspeople I know in Lampeter, which is odd considering I’ve spent at least twenty-eight months of my life here. By ‘here’ I mean any one of the three Lampeters: the Town, the College – formerly St David’s University College, now the University of Wales, Lampeter – or the Concept. This last, when referred to with equal parts vexation, perplexity and grudging affection by an inhabitant of either of the former, usually means something like the gulf that exists between them.

Lampeter the town is primarily Welsh-speaking, and therefore officially Llanbedr Pont Steffan (six syllables, which together beat out the Church of St Peter at Stephen’s Bridge); the College is essentially English-speaking but for the Welsh Department. The town, with its two new traffic lights and three main streets (two of which describe the upper and lower ends of the same trajectory), is a regional hub of around two thousand people. One of the college porters once confessed to me that his wife, a local farm girl now in her sixties, has never gotten over moving to town three years ago. City folk, she claims, just aren’t as friendly. The College, meanwhile, thrives like anaerobic bacteria on its sense of deprivation. It was founded in 1823 to keep young Welsh lads bound for the Anglican church out of reach of Oxford’s corrupting pleasures. Today, however, most of its staff and students are English expatriates, who gather together as on a deserted island and yearn in maudlin drunkenness for Thai food and foreign films.

These disparities are contained within a simple geography. To the eye Lampeter is plain. The nose is a more reliable guide to its charms: the acrid shiver of coal smoke on damp mornings; an oily stench outside Jones’s Butchers that seeps into the pores; the rush of old beer leaking from the pubs; frying oil; the smell of the sea when the wind is from the west; fertilizer; wet wool; incense from the whole-food and hippie shops; fresh baked Welsh cakes; newsprint; cheap cosmetics. The only eye-marker in town is a bald hill behind the College crowned with a tuft of trees at the very top, like a perpetual, green mushroom cloud. From the crest a sheepscape of pastureland ribbons toward the horizon in all directions.

Till now I’ve spent most of my time here speaking English among the academic crowd, the majority of whom find my smittenness with the Welsh language a little unseemly. Their Welsh, gleaned over decades of opening the campus’s bilingual doors and parking in its bilingual lots, is of the utilitarian or Dim Parcio (No Parking) variety. They’ve all picked up enough to know that Welsh actually has vowels – unlike those who express amazement at my wanting to learn a language composed exclusively of consonants – but that’s about as far as their skills go. I forgive them: they’ve got other things on their minds. No other group of my acquaintance, anywhere in the world, is as prone to divorce, alcoholism, suicide, murder, anorexia, romantic malingering, unwanted pregnancies, nervous breakdowns and hauntings as my pals in this academic, rural idyll.

Today I can’t walk across campus without exploding one emotional landmine after another. Coming toward me from the library is an acquaintance whose path since we last met has been crossed by murder, attempted suicide and divorce. I want to sympathize but don’t know how, so I duck back into the Canterbury building only to bump into an old friend whose wife, also a close friend, just confessed to me that her nervous breakdown is abating, but she still sees disembodied eyes when she’s tired. From him I learn that their marriage is on the rocks. Dinner at the Indian restaurant seems a hazardous idea, but I agree anyway.

In the library the talk is of Mr Ryder, the old librarian, who despite his death last month nevertheless continues to prowl the stacks shelving books.

This may seem callow, but I confess that Lampeter’s dark eccentricities have long been what’s lured me to the place. Everyone likes to be touched by lunacy now and again, and Lampeter is my source of the stuff. Its fecundity in the department of recklessness and whimsy is legendary: a friend of mine, on his first day on campus, was kidnapped by students in pith helmets and genially held hostage down a manhole. I spent my first week here locked in an old library with eight people I’d never met before, preparing an exhibition of incunabula: it was days before I learned that the word meant nothing more sinister than books printed before 1500. Naked man have been spotted chasing pigs down the main street, rugby players have been seen in make-up, and I, before I became sane, have been known to speed along country roads at night through barricades of mist with my headlights switched off, just for the hell of it.

Over time, however, whimsy has grown a sharp edge. I’m now an occasional visitor from across the sea, and find myself on the threshold of voyeurism. Acquaintances die in car crashes and friends have nervous breakdowns. Now it’s language that gives me my fix of loopy thrills. Welsh – a tongue few speak and fewer understand, with vowel sounds so rich I’d swear they have calories – is the grown-up corollary to all that attractive eccentricity and slight touch of peril. (The Welsh word for danger is perygl, testimony to the occupation of Wales by one Latinizing army or another – the Romans or the Normans, I forget which, both were liberal with seed vocabulary – and the nature of the words that followed in their wake.)

For me learning Welsh is a way of growing up, though few people may see it that way. I make appointments to meet with members of the Welsh department to discuss my book, grab Marguerite, who’s been in the library trying to avoid Mr Ryder, and head home.

Ymarfer to Practise

‘Home’ for now means Dolwerdd, my friend Rebecca’s bungalow on a sheep farm a mile or so out of town. It’s a little cube of a house set amid a wayward grid of vivid green sheep pastures, marked off from one another by dark windbreaks and low, shrubby hedgerows. The air smells of sweet earth and sheep. A hay-swaddling machine is busy in the next field over, snatching up Swiss rolls like a diabolical gift-wrapping device and imprisoning them in black plastic.

‘Looks like you got mail.’ Marguerite gingerly scoops up several envelopes lying in the hall near the birthing box of Rebecca’s cat, Usurper, who’s just had kittens.

‘Hey, you hit the jackpot. Someone named Ursula – look, she writes in green marking pen – invites you to stay with her in Tokyo. You’d better tell her you’re travelling with a friend.’

I nod.

‘What’s this?’ She shows me a letter with a red dragon on it.

‘Cymdeithas Dewi Sant Singapura,’ I rasp, ‘the St David’s Society of Singapore.’

‘… will be delighted to meet you. And it seems that a man named Lynn is picking you up at the Oslo airport, but you’ll be staying with a woman named Rosemary, who reputedly speaks Welsh “with music in her voice”.’

This is good news, but I worry that all the letters are in English. Maybe I won’t find Welsh-speakers out there. Then I worry that I will. Then I remember my growing fears about my Welsh comprehension ability. I decide to watch S4C for a while.

S₄C is Sianel Pedwar Cymru, Channel Four Wales; it is also work. For a learner the Welsh-language television station is about the farthest thing on earth from entertainment. I start to reminisce about watching the strong-man competition back in 1992, a prime-time show in which beefy guys named Davy and Hywel would hold a row of four bricks at arm’s length for as long as they could – not much more than a minute, as I recall – before they began to shake, sweat and drop them, but Marguerite shushes me and points at my throat.

On TV a shrill children’s programme is in progress. A loudmouth, shrieking maniac of a host is tossing kids into something that looks like a vat of unformed jelly. Beneath my comprehension, I decide with relief. Alas, Heno, a news magazine which means ‘Tonight’, is not. Most of it goes over my head. It’s followed by Pobl y Cwm, which has ensnared Marguerite although she understands not a word. From seven to seven-thirty we both stare fixedly at the screen, trying to crack the code. A blonde woman and her husband (?) seem perturbed by a delivery of coal. There’s trouble brewing at the hair salon, and someone’s in a funk at the estate agent’s.

‘Are those two supposed to be engaged?’

I have no idea but I don’t want to admit it. ‘Uh huh. But these people are terrible mumblers, so I can’t be sure.’ I’m feeling very discouraged.

‘What’s with that couple and the coal? Is it some kind of conspiracy?’

‘Who knows? Maybe somebody’s buried in it. Wait! That guy just said, “Come over tomorrow around three.” I understood that!’

‘See, you’re getting it,’ she says brightly. I don’t know if I’d call one phrase in half an hour cause for celebration, but at least I go to bed with the rhythm of the language pounding in my ears, beating time to the night rain. Mae’n bwrw hen wraggedd a ffyn. My brain chugs it out in nine counts, over and over and over. It’s raining old women and sticks.

Chwilio to Search

An odd thing sometimes happens to me when I’m walking in Wales. Without warning a chip breaks off the corner of my mind’s eye and goes careening up and away, faster and faster – I can almost feel the rush in the depths of my stomach – until it stops in space and turns back to show me myself as a dot on a tiny bump protruding from an island on the north-western corner of the map of Europe. It seems such a funny place for me to be.

I lose my gravity like this on the way to Irene Williams’s house. The sun is shining as if Lampeter were the bloody Caribbean. As ever, I’m the only one in sunglasses (my ‘most American’ affectation, according to Welsh sources). Wales, this land of tumultuous, messy clouds that bank around the heavens like airborne glaciers, is lazing today under a faultless blue sky. It bothers me.

This morning I’ve been hard on the trail of far-flung Welsh-speakers, gleaning addresses and telephone numbers. One is Hiroshi Mizutani – who’s also known by his bardic name, Hywel Glyndŵr – a former visiting professor at Lampeter who teaches Welsh at the University of Nagoya in Japan. Another is a Dutch woman named Effie Wiltens, a pilot and fellow Welsh nut, described to me for the second time in a month as a ‘real character’ who’s learned to speak Welsh like a native, and whom I ‘must meet’. This time, I realize, my unbidden bird’s-eye view has a purpose. It’s set up the board on which we’ll soon start playing global connect-the-dots for real. From what I understand, Irene Williams is what Hollywood would call a ‘major player’ in the dot game.

Mrs Williams comes recommended as a walking address book of the world’s Welsh. Her house is just out of town, past the Cwmann Tavern on the Carmarthen Road (‘Cwmann’, by the way, isn’t a typo; it relies on the perfectly respectable Welsh vowel ‘w’ to give it the sound ‘Coo-man’). Mrs Williams is a lively sprite of a woman in her seventies, wearing striped trousers and a seed necklace. I whisper an apology for my laryngitis as we take seats in her torturously sunny solarium, and tell her I’m hunting foreign Welsh-speakers and expatriates.

‘So, dear, you’re American. Pardon me for asking, but I’ve never understood why your country won’t forgive Cuba for those old missiles.’

This is unexpected. I explain that I haven’t been able to understand it either, but forgo putting my sunglasses on. They suddenly seem way too American. Instead I winch my eyes into slits and begin to leak little tears.

Irene’s husband is Professor of Theology at Lampeter, and she acts as a kind of godmother to the curious lot of foreign students who show an interest in learning Welsh. Takeshi Koike, a student of Hiroshi Mizutani’s, is one of her favourites. She waves his Christmas card at me and I copy the address.

‘He was here for ten months and when he left he was fluent in Welsh. It helped that he played guitar at church. Every Saturday night he’d come over and we’d practise Welsh hymns. He even appeared in all-Welsh theatre productions. Are you all right, dear?’

I think I’ve groaned involuntarily, remembering Mark Nodine. Irene brings me a piece of spice cake and I thank her in Welsh, which is wilfully reckless, but the Takeshi story nettles me. There’s a pause. Will she simply say, croeso – you’re welcome – or launch into the old tongue in earnest? She takes a middle course which requires a few, simple exclamations on my part before she eases back into English. I don’t know how to take this. Is it too painful to hear me croak and struggle for words simultaneously? Am I incomprehensible? God, is she being nice to me?

Irene gives me a number of leads, including one in Poland, which cheers me, as so far nothing has come of my missive to Gdansk. Before I leave we determine that her daughter-in-law, Glesni, is best friends with Rosemary, with whom I’m to stay in Oslo.

‘She called Glesni a few days ago asking about you, and here you are!’

An itchy, small-world sensation tweaks me between the shoulder-blades. I have a feeling I could probably write this book if I stayed long enough on Irene Williams’s sun porch. Instead I thank her and walk away through a tunnel of hedgerows to the tiny village of Cellan to hire a car.