Jonathan D. Steinhoff, 1996
We met at Shaglokvia, a foreign country. Neither one of us spoke the other’s language. No one even introduced us. We were looking at each other, captivated, and a man, noticing this, pointed at me, then at her, then at me, then at her. We were married the next day.
I was visiting her country in search of stones for an art collage that my mentor, the famous artist Lonnie MacDougle, was making. I was told that this country possessed stones that one could not find anywhere else. It certainly possessed a language that could not be found anywhere else.
We talked and talked that first day, not understanding one word that the other was saying, and loving every minute of it. I telegrammed Lonnie MacDougle that we were getting married, and within twenty-four hours he had already selected a wedding gift. The wedding gift knocked on the door of our wedding chamber, and I must regretfully add, at a somewhat inopportune moment.
“Who can that be?” I asked my bride, Masha, who didn’t understand what I had just said.
“Sposh mog trug,” she said, which I couldn’t understand.
“Were you expecting anybody?” I asked, which she didn’t understand.
“Trush lag kuurp,” she said, which I couldn’t understand. We laughed and laughed, as we very much enjoyed the fact that we couldn’t understand each other. But our curiosities gradually became aroused as our laughter subsided and I went to the door. I looked at Masha, and then slowly opened it.
On the other side of the door stood a well-dressed stranger. “Yes?” I said.
“It is I, Sam Wushka, your wedding gift from your mentor, the famous Lonnie MacDougle.”
“He wanted us to have… a Sam Wushka for a wedding gift? I’m so sorry, but I think someone may have, uh, already given us a, um, a Sam Wushka,” I said. Actually, no one else had. However, we were a little busy at the time, besides which I wasn’t entirely convinced that we needed one.
“I am Sam Wushka.”
“I see, um… Yes?” I asked, not quite sure exactly what I should say at this point.
“He thought you might need a translator,” said Sam Wushka.
“Honey, look what Lonnie MacDougle gave us,” I said.
“Pashka pashka poot,” Masha called to me. I don’t think she understood what I had said.
A short time later Masha, myself and Sam Wushka were sitting on the beach watching the sun set. Masha seemed a little downcast, and said, “Paloish ka-zoop.”
Sam Wushka turned to me. “She said, ‘Aren’t you getting cold? Let’s go inside.’”
“Tell her I agree,” I said.
Sam Wushka translated my statement, and she nodded. Sadly, if I’m not mistaken. We went inside.
For some reason, with Sam Wushka around, things were no longer the same.
A week later Sam Wushka was at the bottom of a well. “Have you seen Sam Wushka anywhere?” I asked Masha, who was unusually cheerful that morning. She had apparently woken up earlier than myself, and breakfast was already on the table waiting for me as I exited the bedroom.
“Slabosh washkashosh,” she replied, which I couldn’t understand. We ate breakfast. And what a breakfast it was, filled with love and laughter! It was as if the last few days of dispirited conversation, through our translator Sam Wushka, had never taken place. We spoke animatedly, not understanding one word the other said. “Haven’t seen Sam Wushka?” I would say now and then, but it seemed to make her laugh.
That afternoon we went for a walk. I started to hear a voice, faintly at first, calling with great urgency. As we got closer to its source, I could hear the words, “Help! Help!” A little closer, and I knew it was the voice of Sam Wushka at the bottom of a well.
“Don’t worry, Sam, we’ll get you out,” I called down the well.
“Sabska vap ak tob!” Sam called back, translating my statement for Masha.
“Yash op tallib,” said Masha.
She says, “oh my, look who’s fallen down a well,” translated Sam Wushka.
A kind gentleman approached, asking what we were doing. We explained the entire situation, or rather Masha did, and he volunteered to get help, explaining that this way we young newlyweds could stay with our translator. I never would have understood what he was saying, of course, if it hadn’t been for Sam Wushka, who, despite his situation, continued calling back translations from the bottom of the well. Masha and I waited by the well for help, but our conversation seemed flat, despite Sam Wushka’s energetic shouting out of his translations of everything we said to each other.
The following week saw poor Sam Wushka escape one life-threatening mishap after another. Each time, all he could remember was losing consciousness, and then suddenly finding himself in some terrible danger. A new bump on the back of his head could be found each time he regained consciousness.
Then, one evening I noticed Masha returning a large wheelbarrow to our shed, a baseball bat lying on the wheelbarrow’s bottom. “What were you using that for? That thing’s big enough to carry a horse!” I laughed. She laughed too, but hadn’t understood a word I said. Sam Wushka, once again, was nowhere to be found.
The next day Masha was taken into custody for the murder of Sam Wushka. “Shob dah mish! Shob dah mish!” she cried to me as they took her away. I couldn’t understand what she was saying.
And yet, sometimes, as I look at the strange art collage which my mentor, Lonnie MacDougle, made out of the stones I had found in Shaglokvia, which he gave to me as some strange kind of consolation after Sam Wushka’s murder, I wonder. Perhaps I did understand what my little Masha was trying to say. I only wish she had found another way of saying it.
The End
