CHAPTER 10: Reading Bernie's Mind

To live in Paris and not speak French remains problematic. Bernie and I probably speak the same amount of French. Like me, his first language is English. The difference is (and this is significant) no one expects him to speak French. With me, however, people make certain assumptions.

Those who see me every day -- shopkeepers and neighbors -- frequently think I must have picked up a smattering of French during the time I've lived here beyond merci beaucoup and Champs Elysee. So do friends and family in the States. And they are all wrong. I continue to rely on the kindness of strangers to help me navigate life.

It's that rr that sounds as if they're gargling. I've never been able to gargle and I can't do that rr sound either.

It's the dropping of the final consonants all over the place and the nasal a and o and e. It just zings out of the mouths of the French. When I try it, it twists into an embarrassing Midwestern twang. Even though I left Ohio when I was eight.

I have a theory that a facility with learning languages is directly linked to acute hearing. Neither Bernie nor I claim that.

Bernie, however, despite his encroaching deafness, is extrememly verbal. Especially at night. He grumbles and groans and yips and sometimes sounds like he's talking in his sleep. He twitches and pulls his top lip back in a snarl and his legs move in such a fast run that I'm afraid he'll fall off his sofa.

It's the March full moon tonight, also known as the Moon of Winds. The lost ones who live in the firefly fish in the Seine are  murmuring to each other tonight. And Bernie is so loud he wakes me up. I lie in bed, listening to the wind blow and the fish tell their stories and my dog talk in his sleep. And I realize he's speaking French.