Before the event I was thinking about bilingualism and what it means to my work. At first sight not terribly much. I muddle up the two languages and sometimes in an early stage of the writing process my text is a funny mixture of both Frisian and Dutch. On closer inspection, though, I notice that sections in Frisian sometimes seem to be a little juicier, probably because I am more aware of Frisian slang. When I use too many baroque words in Dutch I have the feeling I’m lying. On the other hand, precisely because of this, I’m very fond of the Dutch language. Perhaps it’s even a better vehicle for my prose poems. There’s a strangeness slipping into the words that underline the content of the stories. Sometimes I have the feeling when a Frisian is using Dutch language that he or she more or less imitates it, being a little bit formal. It makes me think of the way the late great Dutch writer Gerard Reve used his language, also formal and a little old-fashioned, with multiple layers of humour.

And now to end with something completely different: yesterday we had dinner with Katia in Café Elévé and at some point the situation in the US was discussed. She was asked if the future did look a little better with Obama as opposed to Bush. Katia’s answer: The future? At least he looks better.

DROOM

we lagen op twee tuinstoelen
tegen de voet van de terp

mijn tante en ik

het was vijf uur ’s middags en zomers warm
maar de lucht was donkergroen

ik was gevlucht van mijn eigen bruiloft
en sprak met mijn tante over de kinderen
die aan de andere kant van de terp een kuil hadden gegraven
en die hadden gevuld met water

na het geplons van de kinderen
die van de terp in de kuil sprongen

zagen we hoe mijn oma overstuur thuiskwam
er was iets met mijn opa

ik herinner me niet welke taal
mijn tante en ik hadden gesproken

maar het laatste wat ik haar vroeg
was zonder twijfel in het fries

is pake dea?

*

DREAM

we were lying on two garden chairs
at the foot of the small hill

my aunt and I

it was five o’ clock in the afternoon and warm like summer
but the air around us was a dark green

I had fled from my own wedding
and spoke with my aunt about the children
who had dug a hole on the other side of the hill
and filled it with water

after the splashing of the children
who jumped from the hill into the hole

we saw how my grandmother came home all upset
something was wrong with my grandfather

I don’t remember which language
my aunt and I had been using

but the last thing I asked her
was in Frisian without a doubt

has grandfather died?

www.tseadbruinja.nl

My most useful information about bilingualism was drawn not from “second language acquisition” literature but from a famous Soviet spy mini-series about the adventures of the double-agent Isaev working undercover as SS officer Shtirlits in the upper echelons of the Nazi high command during the last months of WWII. Here is the scene that I have in mind. Shtirlits comes to see his Russian agent Katia, my namesake, who is also located in Berlin. It’s a very poignant moment, because she is very pregnant. “You probably understand that you’ll be delivering at home,” Shtirlits says. “Why?” she asks, her German being as good as her Russian, she cannot think of any reasons why she couldn’t go to the hospital. “My German is all right. I speak without any accent.”

“Your German is indeed all right! But when in pain you’ll be screaming in Russian, dear child!” he says with a sigh.

That’s it. And that is exactly what all of us, bilingual people, need to know. The second language as well adopted won’t be the one we’ll be screaming in when in pain.

Here’s the proof. On the third day of the Rotterdam Poetry Festival, I decided to go to see Amsterdam in the morning. I’m not a big traveler, to say the least. On the day I was a bit nervous. Having a map and two sandwiches in my bag pack I left the hotel lobby braving my way to the Central Station. It took me a while till I found it though Lucy Pijnenburg, a festival coordinator, had spent minimum an hour giving me very detailed directions. Cunningly hidden between fences, cranes, working excavators, Central Station looked extremely agitated which added to my mood. As I walked toward it, people in bright orange t-shirts, orange hats, orange wigs, orange everything poured from all entances. On their chests were orange garlands and they were blowing orange horns. “Who are these folks and why are they dressed like that?” I asked myself, as I was beating my way through the crowds. Then a strange thing happened which increased my panic. I asked a couple of passers-by to show me where a ticket booth was and found out that nobody knew what I was talking about. Orange people looked at me and shrugged shoulders. Just yesterday everything was fine. Precious time was lost, my train left, I was still there wondering what might have possibly happened during one night that made Dutch people forget English. Somebody put a garland on my neck and placed a triangular hat on my head. In my new triangular hat I went out for a smoke and boom . . . it all became clear to me. All the time I was there I was speaking Russian, no wonder nobody knew what I wanted. “So what’s going on with all these orange costumes,” I asked a woman. She groped for words: “Denmark . . . Holland . . . A soccer game!”

Here is what I think about it now. It’s not only excruciating pain but isolation too that can burn an otherwise reliable second thesaurus that we keep in our brain, leaving in its spot an orange smoke. After I underwent a ten minute loss of bilingualism I thought: “It’s great that Rotterdam Poetry Festival brings together poets from all over the world and make them talk to each other. Not always but sometimes poetry is a soccer game of its kind, and as any game it needs other players.” Anyway, I didn’t go to Amsterdam. Perhaps it wasn’t such a good day for a trip.