by David Deans
YOU: DAS IST NICHT meine Golftasche!
HEINRICH: And here we have a Club-Pro Snoopy-Yellow Youth Hip-Pop golf bag for Inca hepcats containing a set of Ecstasy flight shafts and Day-Glo rotundities—
YOU (beside yourself, through phlegm-rich smoker’s cough, rediscovering the buried fruits of your night-class beginner’s German): Viefele kraz muss ich so sagen, DAS IST NICHT MEINE Golftasche!
Clearly your rusty dog’s-breakfast night-class German has been stretched to its limits. However, as the next bag’s description progresses, it seems your patience is about to be rewarded…
HEINRICH: Okay, Herr Hash, we’ll give it one last shot…. Ach. So, we have hier [sic] a Bennington pouch golf bag with a soft-brushed matte black leather trunk…
YOU: Ja?
HEINRICH:…a set of Dunlop LoCo 450cc woods with titanium-reinforced graphite shafts; a hook- and slice-reducing good luck mascot Deacon Brodie “spoon” with a persimmon shaft and blackthorn head…
YOU (hopes rising): Ja?
HEINRICH:…with a tartan sock for protection…
YOU: Ja, ja, das ist gut.
HEINRICH:…a full set of Wilson Deep Red irons (green approaches, rough management)…
YOU (imagining your one-armed bandit practice shot chip over a short Brazilian landing strip of fairway and—with satisfying kerplunk—land straight into the hole: auditory hallucination of polite, rippling Open applause muted in benevolent verdancy): Ja. Das ist sehr gut!
HEINRICH:…in the left-hand zipper pocket of the bag itself there are half a dozen brand-new apostolic dimpled Precept D-Force guttie 392 octahedron-pattern golf balls with velocity-enhancing ionomer cover and patented in-built Bergsonian time-warp effect…
YOU (with great fluency, growing certain): Jawohl!
HEINRICH:…in the right side pocket I see a Footjoy stay-soft golfing glove with advanced, long-lasting, performance-enhancing leather grip…
YOU: Jawohl! Jawohl! Natürlich!
HEINRICH:…in the central upper pocket (or sporran) wir haben ein [sic] assortment of Brush T wood professional tees in a variety of handsome impressionist’s pastels together with several impressively birdie-rich scorecards…
YOU (blushing modestly): Ja. (And after a short Teutonic pause) Und?
HEINRICH: Und?
But it seems Heinrich has come to the end of his on-the-spot inventory.
YOU (persisting): Aber, der ist nicht ein Tintenfisch?
After some more zipping sounds and rattling of golf clubs on the other end of the line, Heinrich regrets to inform you that there is none.
YOU: Ein kleine bissen Tintenfisch hast du finden nicht? Bist du sicher?
Heinrich assures you that this golf bag is devoid of the merest fragment of Tintenfisch.
YOU (spluttering, incandescent): DAS IST NICHT meine Golftasche!
Following this rather exasperating final exchange, thank Kirstie, the pretty Prestwick attendant, for the use of her apparatus. Kirstie, who has been following your phone plight, conveys to you the news that your Golftasche has meanwhile been traced aboard Flight DF 46, and is currently flying from Lima to Wellington, New Zealand, from where it will be duly forwarded (like an Olympic Flame) on to Prestwick via Sydney, Singapore, and Heathrow, thus circumnavigating the entire globe.
YOU (phlegmatically): Gott im Himmel!
Then, in a more conciliatory tone, you ask, “Können Sie mir auf der Karte zeigen wo meine Golfschläger sind, machen Sie schnell!” Kirstie nods her head with a world-weary expression, taps a rustling, unfolded map with a blind, carefree finger.
“The funny thing is that just a few days ago there was another gentleman—also called Mr. Hash, incidentally—who, item for item, was in an identical fix!”
35
My own participation in the noble pastime of golf in fact predates the regular nine-thirty tee-off slot on Saturday mornings that I have now inherited—along with his wife and full range of credit cards—from amateur athlete and internationally renowned Mr. Comedy of Errors himself, Bob T. Hash III. As aficionados of the sport will well know, there is a small but immaculately trimmed nine-hole twin-round municipal golf course located on the outskirts of Belmont. In the Popular Hobbies and Pastimes section of the seventh edition of Forward with English!, Comenius can be seen there, politely perched on the putter head of an Odyssey Flash—protruding from a soft pouch Tai-Ping golf bag.
That nine-thirty tee-off slot (Sats.) I now share, as Bob once did, with a regular trio of buddy colleagues: Chester Cash from accounts, Larry Bickwick from research and development, and swanky Hank Redford, arch retiree from the fourth edition, thumbs in his suspenders, puffing on a cigar.
And what better place to put the finishing touches to a business deal than Belmont municipal inland golf links! Few places are better to bask in the quiet success of last month’s sales figures than under the intimacy of an open sky. Where better to muse on a wide range of topical topics—global warming, the widespread abuse of syntax, the road to world peace—not to mention certain burning questions of metaphysics and personal identity. (Though they did say if I didn’t stop shouting “fore” when they were putting—I’d not get invited again.)
36
Customs and Mores: “Think Globally, Act Locally”
You are a management consultant on a business trip and have just arrived at the airport in Prague, Golden City of Spires, on a cold and foggy February morning. A taxi is now taking you from the airport to your hotel in the center of town and has just turned onto Wenceslas Square, where you observe a burly, mullet-headed gentleman permitting his dog to defecate with impunity upon the sidewalk. Though he is standing not five paces from a municipal poop-deposit bin, it is clear that the man has no intentions of removing the nervous little turd. You ask the taxi driver to execute an emergency halt and to put the meter on hold for the duration of this exercise.
Student’s task: Getting to know the locals!
Wind down your taxi window and inform the indigenous sausage dog owner—in English—that his charge has just paid an unscheduled visit to the restroom. Explain to him how the offending stool can be scooped up and deposited in the appropriate poop bin, which you indicate without having to leave the comfort of your taxi. At first, no concession should be given to the possibility that the gentleman may not in fact speak English with native fluency. (LANGUAGE TIP! A raised, imperious voice may work wonders in these kinds of situations.) Where the subject proves less than cooperative, and till his English (not to mention that of the taxi driver) improves, you may wish to make use of some of your level three Czech. As you reenact the scenario above, try to use as many of the following native Czech words and phrases as you can. These you will find in the pocket phrase book that the taxi driver, rabbit-from-hat style, has now produced from his glove compartment for his passenger’s convenience:
ahoj, nejde otevrít okno = ahoy, the window won’t open
(as ice breaker) prominte, mue se zde parkovat? = excuse me, is it possible to park here?
ahoj, muete mi zkontrolovat pneumatiky? = ahoy, can you check my tires?
ano, mluvím s tebou = yes, you, I am speaking to you
slavíte neco, muj starý okurkový kamaráde? = are you celebrating something, my old cucumber friend?
jste v Praze poprvé? = is this your first time in Prague?
prominte, jak se dostanu na Hlavní nádraí = can you tell me how to get to the central station?
bohuel, tyto okurky mi (moc)nechutnají = I (don’t) like the cucumber very much, unfortunately
(to bystander—that hot dog vendor, for example) prosím vás dosvecíte mi to? = excuse me, can I call on you as a witness?
bez okurky, prosím = without cucumber, please
proc jsi to udelal = why did you do it?
já okurky nebudu= for me no cucumber, thank you
tento drevený panácek je delaný rucne = is this wooden puppet made by hand?
jaký je vlastne nyní tvuj handicap v golfu = what i
s your golf handicap these days, by the way?
cítím se mizerne jako papoušek = I feel as sick as a parrot
ahoj, nemeli byste neco proti nevolnosti? = ahoy, have you got something I could take for nausea?
myslím e, operní sezóna zacne za dva týdny = I believe the opera season begins in a fortnight
lepši vrabec v hrsti, neli holub na streše = better an egg today than a hen tomorrow
príjemnóu cestu! = enjoy the rest of your stay!
Quoting the Latin adage tempus volat, advise the gentleman with the small incontinent dog that he should take up English lessons perhaps sooner rather than later, thereby avoiding this kind of unnecessary confusion in future. Explain to him, moreover, that you are an affiliated member of the animal liberation front and that you believe it is cruel to make a dog wear a muzzle.
Now tell the taxi driver to reactivate his meter and proceed to the requested destination!
37
Bringing up Directions again at this stage is a good way perhaps to check on our bearings, and serves as a way of testing both the student’s retention capacities as well as the general effectiveness of the Acme customized manual’s methodology. I am now in the happy position to declare that the forthcoming eighth edition of Forward with English! will be safe for general consumption.
Notice how the tow-haired, goatee-bearded, atelier-dwelling picture book artist has used none other than Bob as the model for the “management consultant” in question, his pocket stuffed with a taxidermist’s fat-cat wad of 200 Kc banknotes. In an early draft sketch (which I happened to find among his notes), Bob and the artist have the visitor (dashing jawline, bowler hat, decidedly undisorientated visage) shouting out from his taxi window if the man with the dog could tell him the way to Big Ben—and getting cross when he couldn’t. In my own upholstered version, that famous clock tower has been converted to the Astronomical Clock in Old Town Square with its parade of apostles. I use a well-loved parable from Kafka wherein a bland and hapless tourist (knapsack, plus fours, jackdaw, and a four-knotted hankie) respectfully requests directions to the castle. I do not use the dog prop. I do not involve taxis and I do not truck with turds. The castle’s jagged, serrated spires loom over the city and the gentle dogleg bend in the river…. “No, sir, I said tourists are not permitted to jump out that window.”
38
Social Conversations: Some Useful Small Talk
At the office party you find yourself cornered at the drinks table by Tushi Moto. Now onto his second glass of corporate punch, Tushi is keen to practice his English by discussing market strategies and to tell you about last weekend’s “subliminal sales training workshop for rapid market penetration,” which, due to unforeseen circumstances, you were unfortunately unable to attend in person. Here are some of the things Tushi might say to you and some excuses you might think of using to make your getaway and resume your tête-à-tête with Miss Green over at the photocopier. The excuses are of varying levels of tact: see which is your personal favorite!
TUSHI MOTO: Hi, Jack! Say, those new flip charts sure are a great improvement on the old ones.
YOU (refilling glasses in haste): Excuse me a sec. Miss Green seems to be having some difficulties with the photocopier. I’d better go and see if she needs my expert assistance…
TUSHI MOTO: Great party! They sure know how to lay out a good spread for the employees round here.
YOU (glancing theatrically at wristwatch with big exaggerated looking-at-wristwatch type gestures): That’s right, Tushi. Sorry, can’t hang around, that cloud looks like rain!
TUSHI MOTO: Our market share has improved, Jack—but I still say there’s always room for further improvement.
YOU (wineglass in either hand, one for you, the other for Miss Green, elbowing Tushi aside with office bonhomie): Excuse me while I fetch myself a drink.
TUSHI MOTO: Hi, Jack. Have you seen the latest sales report yet? Sales are up again, third quarter in a row. The way I see it, Jack, our trained sales force is the best!
YOU (author of said report, yawning loudly): I’m afraid the dog chewed mine to bits the other night. See you at the marketing convention….
TUSHI MOTO: At the training seminar they told us if you want to clinch that important sale, your ideal customer is the kind of person who looks over the fence into their neighbor’s garden and goes, “Hey, see that jet-stream hi-tech turbo-boost Bach monsoon carpet-splash sprinkler? I WANT one of those too!”
YOU (gesturing wildly toward party dips in the background): Sorry, Tushi, gotta run. Grandma’s not been up to snuff these days….
TUSHI MOTO:…and they were saying how the key to a successful, carefree lifestyle is to avoid words like “problem.”…Keep the tone upbeat and focus on the thing you want to sell…. The key phrase (if, say, you’re trying to sell sprinklers, for example) is “You look as if you’re ready to own one of our monsoon mimic garden sprinklers.”
YOU (pointing dramatically out window, mock staggering backward and away from the probable trajectory of a falling quince): Crikey, Tushi, there’s a quince on that roof! Look out behind you. I think it’s going to roll off! (Student crouches, nips off toward the photocopying area. Tushi in confusion.)
TUSHI MOTO: I like to unwind in front of the television in the evenings.
YOU (a purdeaf [sic] botanist’s brow): I wonder if that spider plant by the photocopier is a real one or plastic? I must go and check…
Tushi’s voice tailing off behind you as you speed over toward Miss Green. Student might think of these expressions as adaptable templates where key words and phrases can be substituted to suit a variety of circumstances. It is worth learning a few excuses by heart—you never know when you might need them!
You got the right upbeat attitude there, Jack! You sure you didn’t sneak into the workshop last weekend when no one was looking?
39
Unfortunately for some of us, there can be no excuses for coming up with that sort of unhelpful exercise, with its trumped-up apprehensions on behalf of the quince, with its side-glancing sneer at training workshops, and its unwarranted employment of fast-track stereotypes.
On the other hand, it is perhaps fitting that the matter of office parties should come up at this stage—given the current infectious atmosphere of excitement now surrounding the announcement, next Friday, of last quarter’s sales figures. The signs, as always, are in evidence, with boxes of fizzy wine and a choice of jamboree dips appearing in the office kitchenette, and cartons of streamers and inflatable balloons stacked up beside the photocopier. (This quarter, one box has already been opened ahead of schedule.) How easy to get swept along by the buzz of excitement among staff, how easy to get distracted from one’s more sober literary endeavors, should one have such things. How easy to lose sight of a by-now-emerging threat to my position—a very great threat indeed.
As we can see, my little excursion as Bob T. Hash III’s stand-in seems so far to have been going very smoothly. If anything, things have been going a little too smoothly to be true—the coincidences falling just a little too generously, statistically speaking, in my favor: the effortless slipping into Bob’s shoes, the blossoming romance with his wife, Mr. Gleason’s happy acceptance of any (often quite drastic) reparative alterations made to the errant Forward with English!
That’s not to say I’ve not now and again wondered about what might have become of Bob after his secret rendezvous at the airport—picturing him and his russet consort against a variety of multiplex Dolby-sound wide-screen refugee backdrops. Apart from that poolside bamboo umbrella in Acapulco, I’ve imagined them cruising through red baked canyons at sunset in an open-topped fifties sedan. I’ve pictured a bemused, dune-crossing, camel-mounted Lawrence in the Maghreb, a be-veiled concubine Scarlett on the camel tethered to the rear; I’ve imagined them sipping champagne in an elegant dining car of a Trans-Argentinian rail wagon on a vast forgotten pampa; I’ve imagined them wrapped up in thick white pile towels at health spas. I’ve pictured
them on some low-season cruise to the antipodes, leaning over the deck rail to admire cute little penguins diving off a starboard-side ice floe into the sea.
Yet however geographically distant or exotically removed from Belmont I might have imagined them to be, I’ve not been able to quite shake off a sneaking sense that the dastardly duo are perhaps far less distant than I would like. In fact I’ve never quite been able to get rid of an ominous feeling that somebody has been, as it were, reading over my shoulder. And the further my worthy labor of de-obfuscation progresses, the more certain I’m becoming that I’m being shadowed, that my own moves are sometimes actually being anticipated by somebody else.
And it does not take a Pulitzer Prize for grammatical phrase books to work out who that someone might be.
40
Gondola Skit:
“Come in, Number Cinque!”—a chance to practice your Italian!
You and your wife are honeymooning in Venice. One late afternoon—after a somewhat extended siesta—you decide to hire a gondola for a trip on the canals. The skit begins toward the end of your voyage, with your rental time running out and the gondolier (a certain Ragioniere Brambilla) attempting to pilot the sleek craft back to its moorings. It so happens that Ragioniere Brambilla’s favorite association football team has an important match that will be broadcast live on television this evening. Since he is keen to watch it, he wishes to berth his vessel and retire for the evening with a somewhat uncharacteristic degree of promptitude. The game begins in less than an hour.