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The job began like most of my others do; with one of the pages coming into the
telephone cubicle, which sits few yards back from the library circulation desk, and
saying that they needed a Russian speaker up front. My Russian is such that I can handle
only the roughest sort of translating, but it is sufficient for library purposes. Ninety-nine
out of a hundred patrons want to order interlibrary loans, get books preparing them for
TOEFL, find out where their favourite novels are located, and get picture books
for their children. All very mundane, and handled with a minimum of fuss and
vocabulary.
My first surprise came when I tried to speak to the heavyset man who was
standing expectantly by the desk. "May I help you?" I said in Russian, and he laughed,
and then spoke in a voice that was pure Midwest. "Good lord, not me. It's my wife. She's
the one who needs help." He pointed to a thin woman standing by the staircase a few
yards behind him, smothered in a new-appearing fur collar, trying to keep a pink-jacketed
toddler in order, and oblivious to everyone else.
I went to her, but before I could ask her what she needed, her husband spoke
again.
"She needs some English novels for adults," he said. "She hasn't been here very
long, and she needs to learn."
I translated this for her, and she shook her head.
"Show me where the Russian books are," she said, picking up her daughter and
turning away from her husband. "I want only Russian books, and some tapes on learning
English."
"They're on the second floor," I said, pointing up the staircase. "I'll show —"
"What did she say?" said her husband. "Does she want English books?"
The woman was already halfway up the staircase, and I scampered after her,
feeling foolish. When we arrived at the top, she turned around, the pink-jacketed girl
clinging to her arm all the while, and in a teacher-like voice said "English tapes, please."
Her grey eyes were intelligent, direct and dismissive. She would issue not requests, but
commands.
I showed her the Russian bookshelves, and found several "English for Russian
Speakers" CD-ROMs. She took them from me without missing a beat; she was absorbed
in a row of those peculiarly Russian detective novels with bright blue covers and pictures
of busty blondes wearing chain collars and wielding pistols. A misogynist's dream, one
would think, except that most of their authors are women.
I stood there a minute, awkward, childish, wondering whether to broach the
subject of her husband's request again. "Do you know much English?" I asked at last.
"As much as someone four years old, perhaps. I could read a child's book, but not
the ones here," she said, not looking up. Her daughter whimpered for candy. "Shhh,
Natalia! We'll leave soon."
"I'm asking because your husband —" but a few panting breaths made it clear that
her husband had finally finished ascending the stairs, and was now just behind me.
"What the hell?" he said, taking in the row of Cyrillic-labeled books. "I want her
to read English."
"I'm sorry, she says that she can't read adult books in English yet. I could get her
some children's books, those help a lot when you're learning a new language, you know,
new vocabulary and less abstract —" I was stumbling, talking too fast.
"Miss, you don't understand. She's an adult. She'd be insulted if you gave her a
book for ten-year-olds. How would you like to go someplace and have them give them
give you something written for a kid? You'd be insulted, that's what. No, I won't allow it."
He shook his head, grieved by my unintentional rudeness to his wife.
She now marched up to us, grasping Natalia with one hand and with the other
bracing a pile of books and instructional tapes against her chest.
"You want other books," said her husband to her in English, very slowly. He
might have been talking to someone very young, or very deaf.
She did not answer him, instead turning to me. "I don't want those English books.
I will read children's books, if I may, but I cannot read anything more yet."
"What did she say?" said her husband. "What did she say?"
"She wants children's books," I told him.
"No she doesn't," he said. "Don't show them to her. That's insulting."
I'm not supposed to argue with patrons, so I said nothing. The wife looked me
over, her calm gaze turning contemptuous. Good lord, I wanted to say. I'm
on your side.
She must not have seen it that way. "That's enough," she said in Russian. "I don't want any English
books, or anything else. You can go now." I never heard her speak a
word of English throughout; her husband may as well have not been there.
I went downstairs, and after a few minutes I saw them come up to circulation to
check their books out. She had her armload of tapes and books, all Russian. He had
several English novels, the thick ones we call spine-stretchers - though whether it's the
reader's spine or the book's, I've never learned. I waved goodbye as they left, but only
Natalia waved back.
I haven't seen them since. But I worry about Natalia, caught between her mother
and her stepfather. Will she spend her childhood as a
translator for both of them, taking the heat of the anger they cannot explain
directly to one another? I hope not. But her mother, unable to find her way around in
English, will probably have to yield eventually if she and her husband are ever to have a
mutual language, and although it still belongs to the future, I am already sorry for her
surrender.
I should have stood up for her that afternoon.
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