Diego Marani - The Last of the Vostyachs

‘This too is a language, my dear Jarmo. Not one pronounced using the larynx, or the palate. Not one you write, or read, or need to learn, yet spoken the world over.’ She raised a foot, finished off the vodka and continued:

‘Indeed, maybe you Finns invented the sauna for this very purpose. Because, when all is said and done, it’s only in a sauna that you can start to relax, to speak. With your bodies, not with words. A language like yours, which has so few liquids and occlusives and not one single palatal-fricative, does not exactly send the senses reeling; it does not put fire in your bellies.’

Wearily, Aurtova sought the right words to rebut this claim. That was how it had been throughout the evening — linguistic bickering. They’d been incapable of broaching any other topic.

‘No, Olga, that’s not true. For the Finns, the sauna is a place of utter chastity. Besides, we’re not like you Russians, who hurl yourselves at anything that moves!’ said the professor distantly, sipping his cold water.

At those words, casting all modesty to the winds, Olga looked up and adopted a less than decorous pose. The professor tried to avert his gaze from the crease that was all too visible between her wobbling thighs, but some malign force was keeping his gaze trained masochistically in that direction.

‘For us, seduction means being able to talk to one another. For us, emotion is paramount; and nothing can stir our emotions more powerfully than well-chosen words. For Russians, don’t forget, God is a verb,’ warned Olga solemnly.

Aurtova was having trouble breathing. The heat was taking his breath away, draining him of all emotion. He had thought that he would be able to put the finishing touches to his plan with an unbearably hot sauna, but now it was he himself who was suffering. Defiantly, he threw a bucket of water on to the brazier, unleashing a burst of sizzling steam.

‘We on the other hand are a people of few words. But our words have remained permanently frozen, like the arctic ice. Perhaps that is why we’ve managed to stand up to you, why we have never been drowned out by the Slavic tide: by using our sounds sparingly, transmitting them intact from generation to generation, honed by use. Your sounds on the other hand are blunted and round, like stones in a river. They have become shapeless, and your mouths skitter over them, unsure as to how they should be pronounced!’ exclaimed Aurtova, waving a finger as though making some ex-cathedra pronouncement.

‘Your language has never known the dizzying heights of universality. No one studies it, and all you can do is to repeat it among yourselves, because it tells of a tiny country no one knows. To communicate with the rest of the world you have to learn another one, you have to venture out among words which are not your own, which you have borrowed from others. Like second-hand clothes, they are not tailormade for you. They are too loose, or too tight, faded from use; they turn you into perpetual refugees. Whereas our language can tell of the whole world, and we can speak it from here to the Pacific. Thousands of foreigners study it, and in doing so they become steeped in our thought; the sounds of our language stamp the mark of our minds on theirs, conquering them as they do so. Our language is translated into a hundred others. A hundred other peoples want to understand us, and invent words in their own language which express our truths.’

Waving her arms around in her enthusiasm, Olga’s face had turned scarlet. Aurtova was staring in disgust at the black bumps that were her nipples, at her sweat-streaked skin, at the locks of hair now sticking to her neck. He breathed in as deeply as he could, swallowing a mouthful of that moist, lifeless air, drenched with her cloying scent and sweat.

‘Translation causes a language to become soiled; like blood in a transfusion, which is gradually tainted by impurities. Your language is a phial of blood on a hospital shelf, a curdled mass of random droppings. Ours on the other hand is a young vein, full of life, the fruit of a single body. By being translated, a language picks up meanings which are not its own, which infect it and poison it, and against which it has no defences. It is like the native Americans, who were wiped out by European diseases. Today they are almost all dead, their languages so many unpronounceable relics, tangled heaps of sound which no alphabet could ever unpick.’

Olga raised her eyebrows in displeasure. Aurtova could make out the damp white blotch in front of him increasingly dimly in the cloudy air, and this at least afforded him some relief.

‘Easy now! Think twice before insulting the Indo-American languages: it might turn out that you’re related. Did I tell you that my Vostyach barbecues beavers without skinning them? Just as the now vanished Potowatomi used to do in Canada! As to your beloved Finnish, aren’t you forgetting that it is one of the few languages in the world without a future tense? And where can you hope to go without a future? Little by little, you’ll die out. Because one fine day you won’t even be able to tell each other what you’re doing tomorrow.’

Aurtova wiped away the sweat that was trickling down his forehead and returned to the matter in hand.

‘It is you who have no future! Just look at you, weary of yourselves and of the world, almost complacent about the rancid smell you give off. Too much history has worn you out. Tomorrow I shall prove that your Vostyach is just a mentally handicapped member of the Nganasan group with problems of articulation,’ he said, wagging a finger threateningly in Olga’s direction.

‘The force of his words will be my Vostyach’s most powerful defence. Did you know, in Vostyach powakaluta means “something grey glimpsed vaguely running in the snow”. That may strike you as funny, indeed it seems scarcely credible that a language should have a word for such a concept. We don’t even know what this grey thing is. But, when the Vostyach language disappears, powakaluta will vanish with it. Or rather, there will still be something grey glimpsed vaguely running in the snow in the Siberian tundra, but the word to describe it will no longer exist. And that is terrible, and certainly has something to do with God!’ said Olga forcefully, raising her eyes; and when she raised her arms as well, her breasts wobbled like jellies, then slapped back stickily on to her stomach.

Aurtova was panting with the heat. Now his whole body was beginning to feel inexplicably itchy, so that he had to tie himself in knots to scratch himself. He looked at the red blotches which had suddenly bloomed on his chest and stomach: all manner of hideous diseases came to mind. This waiting was beginning to take its toll. He felt a grim desire to hurl himself at Olga and pummel her into silence. But he managed to restrain himself, forced himself to relax and protested mildly:

‘Come on now, Olga, enough of these ramblings. When we came in here this evening we made a non-aggression pact, but you refuse to bury the hatchet. So don’t try telling me that I’m the Indian! Surely the idea was to move on from linguistics and talk about ourselves?’

Olga burst into genuine laughter. She pressed her knees together, took hold of the fir branch as though it were a bunch of flowers and settled herself comfortably, giving Aurtova an appeasing look.

‘You’ve always been extremely likeable, Jarmo. Handsome and likeable. That’s why everyone always forgives you for your loutish behaviour. Yes, you’re right: let’s talk about us! Tell me where your wife’s gone off to. This business about a relative in Sweden just won’t wash. Tell me why you brought me here this evening, why you wined and dined me and got me to take my clothes off,’ she said, with a sudden tenderness. But Aurtova was quick to change the subject.