Although I've been living in Latvia for several years now, I'm ashamed to say that I barely know the language beyond a few handy phrases, such as "Piecdesmit grami snabja, ludzu," (fifty grams of vodka, please) or "Es ne saprotu" (I don't understand) or "No kuras pasaules tu esi?" (What planet are you from?) It's not that I don't like the language. True, it's the phonetic equivalent of schlager, but it's nonetheless a charming language in the right mouth.
The other day I went to my hairdresser, a lovely Latvian woman called Jana, who's been cutting my hair ever since I moved here. Jana understands the strange mass that is my hair like no one else. It's wonderful. I go there, sit down without saying a word, and she hacks it into hairlike shape.
I don't know how old Jana is. I ask her every time I see her but she refuses to tell me. My guess is she's about 40 or 45. She has a wild head of hair and is not your average hairdresser. Over the past three years I've seen her reading a range of good writers from Garcia-Marques to Sartre to Yerofeev.
Anyway, the point is that Jana is the only person who ridicules me for my lack of Latvian. "Shame on you," she says. "You've been living here all this time and you still can't speak the language." I know, I know, I say.
But we try to talk and sometimes we even manage to have something resembling a conversation. I have learned many things about Jana. She doesn't have a husband, children, pets or family. By all rights she should be miserable, but yet she seems remarkably peaceful with her lot.
Sometimes I bring her chocolates because I am so touched by the fearless way she tackles my hair. And I always generously tip her. One scorchingly hot summer's day I even thought about proposing to her, but I realized that the heat had gone to my head.
Many a Latvian has praised me for my grasp of the language, much to my embarrassment. Only the lovely Jana isn't impressed by my psitacism. How I look forward to our monthly meetings and her sarcastic snips.
As for my Latvian, sure, I feel a moral obligation to speak the language of the country I live in, but I also enjoy the state of idiocy that my feeble grasp of the language reduces me to. After all, what you don't know can't hurt you.
