Games without frontiers... ou L’Auberge espagnole (or the Spanish Inn)

Greg feeds the fire. And he kills the flies.
Fire and Flies.
Linda says “We will call him “Luciole”.

At the dinner table, Shelley introduces us to a ritual celebrating the Jewish New Year. We start off with apples dipped in honey: “Pour que l’année soit douce”. “So that the year will be sweet.”

Leanna from Toronto, translates into French to Serge Boucher what Philippe Ducros - a French-speaking Montrealear - is recounting in English for the benefit of Shahin, originally from Iran - via Halifax.

Now there’s a version of the Babel Tower that works for me...

Philippe Soldevila is from Spain. I come from Egypt. And in a mixture of French and English, we all compare Arabic, Spanish or Yiddish words and talk about their origins. A subtler way of talking about ourselves. We also try to think of a favourite word in another language for which we’ve never been able to find the “mot juste” (right word) in our own.

Philippe S. – dit Le Catalan - is leaving tomorrow. We all pretend to have voted him off the island... just because we’re not too happy to see him go. Something we will never admit to. His departure also acts as a harsh reminder of that day we will all have to leave Bill’s warm nest and his generous legacy to us.

À la table du petit-déjeuner, Philippe D. explique à Philippe S. la situation au Moyen-Orient. Pendant que Shahin travaille à son ordinateur. Tout le monde chuchote ou murmure. Non pas pour entretenir des secrets ou exclure les autres, mais tout simplement pour éviter l’envahissement territorial. Mais au fond, je crois que c’est tout simplement parce qu’on s’est rendu compte que le chuchotement fait comme une caresse à l’oreille. C’est notre façon d’être doux les uns envers les autres.

At the breakfast table, Philippe D. explains to Philippe S. the situation in the Middle East. While Shahin works on his computer. Everyone murmurs or whispers. Not to talk about secrets or exclude the others, but simply to avoid invading each other’s territory. But in the end, I believe that it is simply because we are aware that whispers are like caresses to the ear. It’s our way of being gentle toward each other.

Soir après soir, Lise et Linda nous nourrissent. L’une, de ses plats riches en saveur et en parfums évocateurs. L’autre, d’histoires tout aussi riches et savamment assaisonnées. Les plats comme les histoires sont dévorés goulûment avec une avidité peu commune. We always come back for seconds.

Night after night, Lise and Linda feed us. One, with rich flavourful platters and evocative smells. The other, with stories, also rich and cleverly spiced. The dishes, like the stories, were devoured greedily with an extraordinary eagerness. We always come back for seconds.

Everything takes place either at the dinner table, in front of the fireplace, or on the lawn in the first rays of sunlight.
Light and warmth seem to guide our days.
Untrue.
Everything happens wherever we find the others. Those people we didn’t know a week ago and with whom we share our days - du réveil au coucher (from waking up to going to bed) - as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

It might take years to translate into our individual lives the full extent of the human experience we’ve shared, but I doubt that it will ever run the risk of getting lost... in translation or otherwise.

The Actors – Les protagonistes :
Serge Boucher, Leanna Brodie, Philippe Ducros, Greg MacArthur, Shahin Sayadi, Philippe Soldevila, Shelley Tepperman & Maryse Warda; Nurtured by Linda Gaboriau and fed by Lise Gauthier.
And of course the everpresent Bill Glassco.

Maryse Warda
Translator, Bye Bye Baby
Tadoussac Playwrights' Residence 2006