His Dad Is No Cyrano de Bergerac

Enlisting my father’s help in flirting with a foreign girl was about as pleasurable as a walk on hot coals.

But I had no choice. My father and I recently traveled in Ukraine, that lovely country of rolling wheat fields on the Black Sea, where we visited his relatives. And, as fate would have it, next door to my aunt in the city of Ivano-Frankiusk lives the prettiest girl.

Her name is Iryna. Tall, dark-eyed--all the history of Tatar invasions and Byzantine conquests seems captured in the exotic arch of her eyebrows and shape of her face.

And I was gaga at first sight.

The problem was, I had only a superficial understanding of the Cyrillic alphabet, which Ukrainians share with Russians. And so, my only hope was my father, a Ukrainian native.

If he were a little more like Cyrano de Bergerac, we might have riffed a nice variation on that famous story of how teamwork melted a woman’s heart.

But, you see, my dad’s not some aging swordsman full of French poetry. He’s a retired insurance agent. All those years of pounding the pavement from West Los Angeles to Torrance have instilled in him a practical philosophy of language--say what you need to, then shut up.

And that doesn’t agree with me, one of those former English majors who likes to be clever even when I’m giving street directions.

The first aggravation was, Dad decided to edit me whenever he thought I sounded too flowery.

One evening, we visited over coffee with Iryna and her mother. The conversation among the three of them had been lively and humorous as Dad described life in Southern California.

“Dad,” I asked him, “tell Iryna that the beauty of this country fills me with the kind of peace and quiet that Los Angeles just doesn’t have.”

Now, I wasn’t totally in the dark. I knew enough words to understand him. My father told her, “He thinks this is a nice country.”

I could feel myself frowning. What happened to the idea of peace and quiet? Or the contrast with L.A.?

Mother and daughter responded by sipping their coffee and nodding. Alas, I wanted to impress Iryna with my sensitivity!

It didn’t help that Dad’s translations were sometimes vague, either. For me, he asked Iryna what kind of job she has. I guess she spoke too rapidly for him because, a moment later, he turned to me with a puzzled look and said:

“Something with water.”

“What do you mean, ‘Something with water’?” I said. She watched us and I tried to hide my growing irritation.

“Ask her again,” I commanded. Too late, her mother had asked him a question and he forgot to help me. Today, I still don’t know exactly what Iryna does. When friends ask, I say “something with water” and then feel like crying. Could be an Olympic swimmer, could be a plumber.

Then, desperate, I tried to cut out the middleman by making my father directly translate my words. No improvisation, I ordered.

So, Iryna asked if I enjoyed classical music. I told my father to tell her, as I often say about things I’m fond of, “I’m crazy about it.”

I watched Iryna’s reaction. She pursed her lips and her dark brown eyes looked at me questioningly. I learned later that euphemisms don’t translate. Trying to be literal, on my orders, Dad had informed her, “My son is insane.”

My hope of making a positive impression plummeted. But later, as they left, Iryna said something that my father, thankfully, could translate clearly to me.

“She wants to know if we can join them for dinner tomorrow,” he said.

Another chance! Next day, we dined at a nearby hotel restaurant on stuffed pork chops with potatoes. Unfortunately, my contribution to the conversation remained nice and stupid.

“Food . . . good,” I said without Dad’s help. “Potatoes . . . very good.” I was Tarzan.

After dinner, the four of us walked in the city. They chatted comfortably, while I sank into gloom and silence.

At some point, however, Iryna and I found ourselves a block ahead of my father and her mother. Just the two of us. Panicked, I was about to look back when Iryna said my name.

“Mykola,” she said clearly, gaining my attention. I looked at her, and she pointed to a two-tiered fountain shooting water into the air.

“Fon-tann,” she said, smiling. Then, she pointed to a street light.

“Sveet-lo,” she said. My gloom was gone. I understood what she was doing. I reciprocated.

“Street light,” I said, and smiled.

I realized suddenly how this was probably what she wanted to do all along--see what things we could share on our own. But I was always dragging my father over for help, and she was too polite to object.

Later Dad caught up to us.

“Everything OK?” he asked.

“Perfect,” I said.

In fact, things went so well that Iryna and I decided to correspond when I returned home (writing letters is another story).

How did we manage to communicate this on our walk? Pantomime, sign language . . . you name it. There are countless ways to get a point across.

That reminds me of a bit of folk wisdom that goes, “Lubov uchet buti khetray,” which means, “Love teaches you to be inventive.”

Or, as I prefer to translate it, “You better find your own way or Dad may kill the romance.”