I got to Oulipo HQ promptly for my first day’s class, almost an hour in fact prior to any of my pupils. My goal in so doing was to monitor thoroughly a spacious fourth floor auditorium in which I was to carry out my tuition—looking at its layout, its audio visual apparatus, lighting, flip chart pads and writing aids. I also had to find out if it had good air conditioning—I do occasionally sustain a touch of claustrophobia in such locations.
As for my tutorials, I had drawn up a basic format and a long list of topics to follow in my first class or two, an input which I could quickly modify and build on as I was going along, should I confront any snags or shortcomings in my approach. This coaching job was still an unknown world in which I had to amplify my skills and gain aplomb.
So it was with growing misgivings that I rang a big brass button on Oulipo’s palatial door on that initial occasion. It was quickly ajar, and I was shown in by a tall lordly looking African, whom I initially simply thought of as a doorman. But I rapidly got to know him as administrator in control of all of Oulipo’s scholastic activity—a kindly practical man with a fascinating background. Ahmadou was from Ivory Coast, born in Yamoussoukro and brought up in Abidjan, talking in Victor Hugo’s idiom from childhood, with dioula (a variant of bambara) as his main local patois. Study in a Catholic high school in Mons and sojourns in world famous institutions such as Harvard and Oxford had brought him imposing qualifications.
But Ahmadou was born with our common flaw—an inability for coping with that fifth sign. That said, communication in writing was no handicap for him and winning a major scholarship to study in Paris was his bid to find a solution to his faulty articulation.
Making our way up to my classroom, our approach to chitchat was thus basic, bi-lingual, but instantly full of good humour. Ahmadou would say an odd word in his old colonial diction (or occasionally in my own vocabulary or with a touch of franglais) using vigorous hand signals and I would try hard to talk back sagaciously in my national idiom, throwing in a word or two of local Parisian patois.
Arranging that auditorium to my satisfaction was quick to accomplish. As I was now simply waiting for my pupils to turn up, I was practising my tuition, with my Ivorian companion watching through a small oblong window up high in his control cabin, catching what I was saying, judging my didactic skills, grinning and giving a kindly thumbs up (or occasional thumbs down) sign during my solo dry run.
So I was in good spirits as my class was slowly arriving. It was surprising to find that I had almost thirty scholars in total, all plainly anxious to start improving any primary ability in using my way of talking. At first our mutual contact was a touch formal with much shaking of hands and habitual salutations passing among us in this or that idiom. To a cautious bonjour, j’ai pour nom… . François, I said a warm “good morning” or “hi! I’m Paul” or “glad to know you. I trust you’ll find our class fruitful”.
Introductions out of our way, with my stomach churning, I got busy with my first topic—basic colloquial vocabulary—by slowly voicing a list of straightforward groups of words for all to chant back in parrot fashion. To “crack any glacial H2O” with my group, I thought I would simply launch into my tuition with a short fatuous saying which, according to Ahmadou, was traditionally taught to young Parisian schoolboys and girls in a first contact with my idiom: “Will you all kindly say: My tailor is rich”
An occasional spot of giggling ran around as my class was intoning this absurd proposition. But most of my pupils visibly did not find such an introductory gambit particularly amusing. It was obvious that my initial contact was proving a humiliating faux pas. It was too soon for joking.
So I had to start again. In contrast, I would now try to build up a good rapport with my group by outlining straightforwardly how I was going to approach my instruction, both in this first contact and onward throughout forthcoming workshops. Luckily this frank clarification hit a right button. By its conclusion, my pupils had caught my mood and from that instant I found it plain sailing to focus on my list of topics for all to join in and commit to mind.
My first list of sayings was to do with going shopping.
“How much will it cost?” “Only four pounds fifty.” “That’s a bargain”.
All had a try at parroting this Q and A, but with such poor diction that I had to ask my group to try saying it all again. It was still mumbo jumbo:
“Aoo moosh vill it cost? Onlii foorr poondz fiifti. Zatz a bargayn”
It was a worthy shot but still way off track. Anyhow, accuracy in pronunciation was, I thought, not a crucial factor to instil in my scholars initially. It was basic communication that was important—to commit to mind a copious stock of valid groups of “good” words. How to actually say such words with accuracy could wait. So I took my flock back to “visiting Harrods”:
“On what floor will I find shirts and coats?”
“That’s too much. I am looking for a bargain”
“Do you stock anything similar in a dark colour, such as black or brown?”
“Can I pay you with a plastic card?”
“I will pick it up tomorrow morning. Is that all right?”
I quit this topic of buying goods by moving on to a broad array of handy phrasing in a multiplicity of situations, with my class by now joining in to mimic my diction with practically no inhibition.
“A pint of draught, a malt whisky and a small glass of Chablis, if you don’t mind”
“But your honour, I was only doing thirty along this road”
“I’m lost. Can you point out my position now on this map? Thank you”.
“What do you do all day at work in front of your PC?”
“No smoking in this bar I’m afraid, sir. You must go outdoors. Sorry!”
Having built up a good rhythm, I was by now tackling a topic that all of us Britons pass our days constantly talking about—actual or forthcoming climatic conditions. Normal folk would obviously sum it all up with a short common noun (starting with a “w”) which you could sing about as “stormy” but which nobody among us could possibly say out loud. Still, all of us could chat about it, in truth for hours, and launch into a thorough discussion of microscopic variations of what our Good Lord up in his sky could hold out for us on a daily basis.
“What a glorious warm sunny day—Not a cloud in sight”
“Strong north winds will blow, I am told, and snow will fall by tonight”
“You ought to bring a brolly. It looks as if it might rain. Don’t you think so?”
“Wrap up warmly if you go out this frosty morning and don’t slip on that icy road, will you?”
“It was said on TV last night that it could turn cold and foggy”
As by now my class had shown a fairly good grasp of my idiom, I thought I would pass on to a witticism which I had found through a bit of googling on my PC:
“Do you know that funny story about an Anglo-Saxon, an Irishman and a Scotsman?” No, my class did not, but was curious to fall for it.
“An Anglo Saxon, an Irishman and a Scotsman sit in a pub. This trio all hold a pint of stout, individually watching a fly land in all that thick froth on top of his glassful. Our British man in horror can only pour his drink away. Our Scotsman dips his thumb in his drink, flicks out that fly and sups his stout with gusto. But our Irishman picks up his fly, holds it by its wings on top of his glass and shouts at it: “Spit it out! Spit it out!””
Much chuckling and a round of clapping was grand acclaim for this frail opus.
Thus, although it had a slow start, my first class was a hit. From that point on, drawing up my scholastic syllabus was plain sailing. I had won sympathy and good will from my pupils. Follow-up tutorials (our plan was to run four such sittings twixt Monday and Friday, lasting an hour and a half) had a pot-pourri of formats—partaking in a vocabulary quiz, working in duos to talk about a particular activity such as “what I did last Sunday” or “what I plan to do tomorrow”, “my most amusing faux pas” or “my most unusual holiday”. Or to obtain input about family history—“a dish or two from my grandma’s cookbook” or “what my granddad did in World War Two”. With such voluntary participation, I got quickly into a gratifying and not too arduous rhythm and found that drawing up class formats was not at all difficult. Many of my pupils put forward proposals. In fact many did so by writing scripts for acting out amusing situations, saving any labour on my part.
In addition, my work was soon attracting plaudits from Oulipo top brass. I also had abundant congratulations from Doctor Smith who, told of my triumph, shot across a long congratulatory mail to my in-box, pointing out that my original approach to tuition was attracting substantial curiosity among important top brass in various official administrations in Paris.
I was always thankful to Ahmadou who was a constant aid in my activity. Insuring that I got fitting support from his board in all I did, this companion was happy passing hours staring through his small window at my antics, whilst guiding my activity by various signs of his big black thumb. In turn I was using various hand signals back to him, to solicit “lights on full”, “lights down” or “play that DVD again” and so on.
Tout à fait parfait! That is—until about a fortnight into my curriculum. Finalising a short dictation at about 4pm, I was to turn, without any warning, faint and slightly giddy. So I thought it was crucial to signal an “air con high” instruction to my collaborator. But on glancing up towards that small window, I had a mighty shock. An unusual physiognomy was filling that oblong in contrast to my African champion. It was a Caucasian man who had a most familiar look, which I thought I had caught sight of in many situations in Paris. Was it on TV? In journalism? Just who was this individual I was looking at? In an instant that mythical man was to vanish and Ahmadou’s dusky grin was back.
I had quickly drawn my class to a conclusion and as soon as I had said: “Mind how you go” to my last pupil, I was rushing up into our control box to ask Ahmadou who it was who was spying transitorily on my tuition. Ahmadou was fairly taciturn, not grinning as was his wont.
“I don’t know who that individual was—from a Ministry or an official scholastic organisation, I should think. I am not always told about our visitors. Our boss is constantly asking without any warning if I might allow this or that functionary or cultural authority to sit in for a short stint to monitor just how a typical syllabus of ours is run.”
“But Ahmadou, I am dumbstruck. I cannot think this was just any old sort of visitor. That man I saw staring just now at my antics through your window is famous. I know him. It sounds stupid to say it, but I would say without a shadow of a doubt that it was that man who is running this country”.
My companion did not flinch, maintaining a laid back look. “Calm down, Paul, you must try not to work so hard”, was his consolatory diagnosis. But it did not halt my confusion.
“You might think it was just a hallucination. Or that I drank too much Gigondas at lunch. And I am not on drugs. But you know that postal stamp you can buy today with its imposing portrait of Nicolas Sarkozy at his coronation—that’s whom I saw as plainly as anything on show through that oblong skylight. A spitting copy”.
Ahmadou took on a painful air and put his hand on my arm: “Voyons, mon ami. What you maintain is just ludicrous. Do you think for an instant that our national capo has any gap in his busy diary to run across town and spy craftily on a small class of loquacious misfits? I think, Paul that you should opt for a day or two off.”
In confusion, I was nodding in accord with my Ivoirian collaborator.
“As you will. I will not go on about it. It was not royalty, if you say so. I’ll start taking things slowly this Saturday and Sunday. But frankly, you could not fail to spot a distinct similarity, now could you?”
Ahmadou, closing down his audio visual unit, shot a knowing look my way, put his digit to his lips, adding a long conspiratorial wink.