Living in Montreal involves communicating in a mix of both French and English, affectionately known as ‘franglais.’ Most residents understand a smattering of both languages, at least at the daily conversation level. But I suspect it’s more than a convenience. Some words simply feel juicier in their native tongue, so we sprinkle them in like a condiment:

• “Check ça” (“Check this out” usually said with pride)
  
• “Gotta run to the dep” (dep = dépanneur = neighbourhood convenience store)
• “Put it là” (there)
• “En tout cas, we need a plan” (In any case, we need a plan)
• “Elle est en burn-out” (She’s on extended exhaustion leave from work)
• “C’est scrappé” (“It’s scrapped” often used to describe a machine that has just died)

Taxi drivers are fantastic sources for these gems: “Oh, come on! Colisse the traffic, c’est focké today!”

Dinner with my Québecois relatives provides more of the same. My brother in law will be rattling along in French, relaying the story of a near altercation between him and another guy, and while I don’t catch every word, it’s clear that tension is escalating.  Then suddenly he’ll burst out with, “Eh woah, c’était too much! Pis j’ai dit dat‘s it, man!” (“Hey, woah, that was too much, so I said that’s it, man!”)

The kids are even better. They have a way of twisting things beyond redemption.

• “Check moi ben aller!” (“Watch me go!”) Usually yelled two seconds before delivering a spectacular dive-bomb into a pool.
•  “Stoole moi pas!” (“Don’t rat on me!” Stooler is a franglais verb, wildly extrapolated from the English “stool pigeon” You can thank Hollywood for that one).

And of course, everyone swears in their non-native tongue: somehow it sounds less offensive to the elders, yet still gets the point across.

Plus, it just sounds cooler.

Yvette was asked by a Californian acquaintance to be the translator for a 3-way conference call between some event organizers and a performer that they were considering bringing to Quebec for a concert. Yvette is bilingual but not a professional translator, let alone a simultaneous interpreter. Still, she understood they were in a bind, so she reluctantly agreed and the call was set up for 8pm on a Thursday night.  I thought this was awfully considerate of her, since Yvette usually crashes around 9pm every night.

As it turned out, the organizers were a couple of women from a spiritual center.  One of them runs a crystal shop. The musician, whose professional name is Gentle Lightning (I kid you not) performs “musical healing sessions” using what sounds like a souped-up xylophone. Now, I don’t know if you picked up on this, but Yvette is not a terribly spiritual person. Next to myself, she’s probably the least spiritual person that I know and generally has no patience whatsoever for anything new age. She’ll read her horoscope if she’s really bored, but that’s about it. However, she’d said she would do it, and she always does what she says she’ll do, so she resigned herself to the task. Naturally I insisted on witnessing this.

I sat on the sofa pretending to read while she took the call. I could hear small snatches of the conversation now and then, and was astonished at how she was able to retain so much info before translating. They seemed to be dancing around the subject of fees and what was included, etc. At one point I heard Yvette say —with nary a trace of irony in her voice— “Saraswati says that her energies are moving a lot lately, so she may be driving up North soon.”  I mouthed the words “energies?”  Yvette glared at me, then smiled and rolled her eyes.

Little by little I realized she was letting them waffle on and on, and then just translating the bare logistics. Having graduated (apparently) from the Piss-or-Get-Off-the-Pot Institute of Translation, Madame had decided it was in all their best interests to simply cut to the chase. She was clear and concise about what fees were required, what the bottom line was, dates, etc but left the sentiment to them to deduce from each other’s tone of voice.

I drifted off into my book but was yanked back when I heard “Oui, le base est $2000.”  My jaw dropped and I nudged her with my toe. I silently screamed, “Whut?!! Two thousand dollars?” She nodded slowly with raised eyebrows.

Wow. Nice work, if you can get it.

By 8:45pm, I knew she was getting tired. She started to pace back and forth with the phone, still (miraculously) maintaining a calm voice. Every now and then she would look up at the ceiling, as if searching for friends, and take a deep breath. I couldn’t believe how well she was doing. (Then again, she does work in corporate IT, so she’s developed amazing powers of bile suppression.)

And still they waffled on about the transformational experience, the healing power of nature, yada yada yada. She tried to wind up the conversation and started to walk over to where the phone cradle sits, but no, they were not quite done. There were other options, such as a private concert in someone’s house, which came with another set of fees. After explaining all that in French, Yvette asked if there were any other questions. She got up and moved towards the phone table again, but no, no, Gentle Lightning was not done. She launched into a long-ass description of a private healing session, which consists of her playing improvised music “to speak to the soul” on her xylophone/harp for an hour and a half while the person laid on a mat and “absorbed the healing of the journey.” And on it went.

Finally, at 9:20pm, after a lengthy 10 minutes of fare-thee-wells and warm fuzzy feelings, they were done. Yvette said goodnight and thank you and hung up. She sank onto the couch and closed her eyes.

– “Why’d you say Thank you?”
– “She’s sending us a CD of her music.”
– “Oh. Lovely. Will it speak to your soul?”
– “No, it’s just a general one. But you know ‘ow much dat private ‘ealing session cost?? $200 bucks!”
– “Wow. That’s one expensive nap.”
– “Well, she gives dem a CD of da session after.”
– “Oh, well then, that makes it all worthwhile.”