"La Beaute". By Charles Baudelaire. Sounds harmless, doesn't it? Like it'd be something lovely, something you'd like to hear read to you by a lover, or as you were drowsing on the bank of a slow-moving stream some warm spring day ...
It is SO not. It is a terrifying and torturous piece of French rhyme that was clearly designed for no other purpose but to drive me insane. First, however, before I commit myself to the tender mercies of the state mental hospital and shock therapy, I have to READ this poem (poeme, I guess), OUT LOUD, to a room full of people. Why did I agree to this, you might ask? Well, I thought I could handle it. How hard could it be to read a poem, in French, out loud - this is what I thought to myself as I blithely answered, "why not?" when the question was put to me. I received a joyful smooch on the lips and a delighted, "Really? You'd like to?" in reply, and THAT prompted me to really throw caution to the wind and say, "Of course! I've always wanted to do something like this!!" In reality, I've NEVER wanted to do something like this, and as tomorrow evening gets closer and closer, I feel more and more hunted and unsure.
I have practiced this dreaded piece - not a whole lot, but enought times to have two- and three-word phrases popping up in my mind at completely strange times. "Je suis belle, O mortels!" and "...jamais je ne pleure et jamais je ne ris ..." don't really have a lot of relevance in my daily life, so if I utter them aloud, people stare at me like I'm one of those weird homeless people who mutter to themselves in what sounds like it could be another language (maybe it's French poetry, who knows?) as they walk around with their shopping carts ... and so I just let the words wash around in my head, and hope that some divine power hits me before tomorrow at 9pm and enables me to suddenly, without hesitation, pronounce strange foriegn words with complete confidence and correctness.
I agreed to this so blindly, never considering that the last time I used French on any kind of a day-to-day or even weekly basis was when I was still in college (!), and that was entirely too many years ago for me to rely on the experience now. Sure I have the French boyfriend, and have spent countless hours since I've met him happily listening to conversations between him and his other French-speaking comrades, but I don't actually use the language myself, beyond an insouciant "Oui?" or "Quoi?" when asked something directly. I'm tickled enough when I can spend ten minutes listening to a conversation and manage to get the gist of it without having to put the "I'm the dumb American" look on my face so that one of them will see it and translate the words into English for me. I am proud of my renewed recognition of vocabulary and idioms I never thought I'd actually hear come out of real people's mouths (I never considered the voices on those tapes in the language lab to be from real people - they were definitely language robots). I am proud of my grasp of my own native tongue - English - and my ability to read aloud in that language. I am scared breathless, however, of speaking aloud in French, especially in front of the native French speakers I know will inevitably be there.
If the French were not so universally eloquent-sounding and stylish, I think I could just brazen it out. But I am simply terrified of being seen as "the bumbling American", and I think I need to get past that, if I'm going to avoid wetting my pants tomorrow night. Simply said, I would do anything reasonable and within my power (and even some things that were UNreasonable and NOT within my power, perhaps) to help Patrick or make him happy. And me saying yes to this proposition makes him really happy. Therefore, I will get up on that stage and embarass myself, and you know, I don't think he will even notice. He will just see me doing something to make him glad, and then I will indeed BE glad because he is glad and ... hunh. That's not really working. Still nervous. Slightly happier because I wrote Patrick's name, and he makes me happy, in general, but definitely no happier about the beastly poem.
Hmmm. I think I will just go by standard public speaking rules, then: go slowly (people will think you're speaking from the heart and from knowledge if you slow down & space out your words - but not in a slow-motion/creepy way - I hope this works in French!), make eye contact with your audience as much as you can (makes you seem trustworthy and interesting), and, of course, imagine that everyone there but you is in their underwear (but like their I-haven't-done-wash-in four-weeks-so-this-is-my-absolute-last-pair of ratty-briefs-and-tatty-undershirt underwear, so you can giggle about it inside your head as you speak). Plus, the damn poem only has four short verses, so I probably won't expire before I finish. If I fumble a word, I fumble a word. I will bravely march on, and try not to mangle the poor poem's meaning too too much.
If anyone in a beret sneers at me, though, I'm chucking a baguette at their head. Then I will calmly finish my poem, pull a cigarette out of my pocket, and light it with a flourish. Smoke will pour from my nostrils as I silently challenge the audience to taunt me. I will then slouch my way to a corner and nurse a glass of red wine while others read. I will look haughty and bored. I will drape myself artistically over my chair and the table, and make sure I seem to have stepped from the pages of an avant-garde fashion shoot. I will, though, abandon my psuedo-French demeanor when someone else finishes reading - then I will clap enthusiastically, like the bumbling American that I am, because I know how it feels to get up there, and I'll be proud of anyone else who attempts to do the same. And then, I'll go home with Patrick, and there will be hugs, and kisses, and, well - you know (and I'm not French, so I don't have to talk about it), and he will tell me he is proud of me, and I will tell him I'm proud of him, and we will both be silly and happy and all will be well.
I'd say it's worth it.
A demain ...
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