4 minute read
Grumpy Oldie Man
The cleaning lady says I’m a genius
One word of Portuguese and she thinks I’m fluent matthew norman
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Not for years, if not decades, has any sentient being shown a slither of faith in my ability regarding any known sphere of human endeavour. This makes sense. If the traditional male-ranking system runs from alpha to omega, for me the Greeks are gonna need a bigger alphabet.
A prangless two-minute car ride elicits shocked gratitude in the unharmed passenger’s eye. The successful exchange of one light bulb for another inspires pangs of disbelief. Loved ones react to the smooth transportation of a tray from one room to another with the awe once lavished on the conquering of Everest or the first footstep on the moon.
You will picture my bemusement, then, at finding myself taken for a man of staggering talent by Erasima, my parents’ septuagenarian cleaning lady.
This splendid Brazilian concluded a while ago that I am fluent in her native Portuguese, and nothing will disabuse her of this.
How she reckons I came to master her lingua franca – whether through osmosis, or quasi-Mozartian, natural-born genius – feels like a futile area of speculation.
What can be stated is this. Erasima is irrevocably sure that I speak her language as well as, if not better than, she does herself. For several minutes at sporadic intervals each Wednesday and Saturday, she talks to me in rapid-fire Portuguese, in the unquenchable – if as yet unrewarded – belief that I will reply in kind.
Before we go on, let it be officially noted that – and not to overdo the self-deprecation – I speak one word of Portuguese. That lone word, the residue of Algarve childhood holidays, is obrigada, which of course translates as ‘thank you’.
Reflecting on the origins of this confusion, I blame my deployment of the word some ten years ago. One afternoon, as she departed my parents’ home, I bade waggling her fingers in a downward motion to convey the drippage of water.
In a tough, no-nonsense counterstrike, I have taken to locking the washroom door, to prevent her removing the clothes from the dryer before I’ve had a chance to give them the extra hour’s spin they so palpably need.
This rumbling dispute apart, we are the friendliest of below-stairs colleagues – until the moment when, at random intervals, and never for a discernible reason, she jettisons the miming in favour of the verbals.
At first, I would patiently listen to 20-30 seconds of quickfire Portuguese before offering the ritual pidgin ‘No comprende, Erasima’ that would entice a knowing nod before the barrage resumed.
After several dozen reiterations, I resorted to the Google translation software, politely interrupting her with ‘Erasima, eu não falo Português. Nem duas palavras. Obrigada.’ (‘Erasima, I do not speak Portuguese. Not two words of it. Obrigada.’)
At this, she clasped her hands together in triumphal ‘Aha, the penny’s dropped’ recognition, before resuming, a shade faster than before, in Portuguese.
Perhaps it was my awful accent, or some small but crucial dialectic distinction between her mother tongue and its Brazilian variant, that caused the misunderstanding. Whatever the explanation, the twice-weekly one-way conversation, punctuated by protests that go ignored, persists to this day.
And yet, despite any mild frustration, I am honoured by the thought that there is something about me – some dazzling intelligence in the eyes – that she alone of all humans can discern; and that deters her from entertaining the idea that Portuguese and I are not on speaking terms.
Blind faith being in scant supply in this godless age, I offer Erasima a rousing obrigada from the bottom of my heart.
Erasima a cheery ‘Obrigada.’ From that deceptively modest display of Lusophone know-how, she appears to have extrapolated to and beyond the nth degree.
Until recently, the problem flared up only very occasionally. For the last few months, however, since I took up residence owing to my beloved parents’ immobility, it has represented a continual challenge.
In this household, I flatter myself that I am the senior domestic servant; that, in The Remains of the Day terms, I am Mr Stevens, Anthony Hopkins’s butler, to Erasima’s Miss Kenton (Emma Thompson’s housekeeper).
Our working relationship, though by and large bereft of the crackling sexual tension that fuelled Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel and the film adaptation, is equally cordial and prey to turf warfare.
Erasima and I smile at each other continually, and communicate amicably through gestures. Since she has twice as much English as I have Portuguese (her brace of words: ‘OK’ and ‘Mister’), it is through the art form of mime that we swap thoughts.
She will squeeze her middle finger in an upward direction, for instance, while circling her hand, to requisition fresh supplies of toilet-cleaner. I will sweep a flattened hand from side to side, much like an umpire signalling a four, to guide her gently towards the iron.
It is over ultimate control of the washing that the strife creeps in. She has repeatedly accused me of inadequate tumble-drying by miming the wringing of clothes with interlocking fists, and then
