The Third Prophet

I'm so happy! I went to Prolog today and it was good.

No, the teacher was not a handsome male college professor in her mid-40s. She did NOT treat me like something special. I was not The Star. It appears I was too hard on myself in my previous post. It's not ego strokes I needed, but brain stimulation.

Today I did not (re)learn baby words I used to know, but vast Lego-like words I've never even seen (Wiedergutmachungsleistungen,* anyone?). In class we discussed not the first-day rituals of young schoolchildren, but the punishment of juvenile offenders in the German justice system. My homework is to research the Strafmündigkeit (age of criminal responsibility) in the U.S. and present two arguments for, two against. In Deutsch, so help me God.

The class was eight ladies, primarily francophone Swiss chicks. A 25-year-old lawyer sat to my left. Scarlet-haired Alice, lobes multi-hooped, lumbered in late (and promised to sell me her bicycle cheap). I recognized Naomi, a Brit with wavy lips, from the day my parents and I came by (she lives on my street, we discovered; she told me how to cut commute-time from one hour to three-quarters. "And ring my bell anytime!").

An unflappable Spaniard was, happily, my age. She told of asking her roommate for a piece of gum. "Yolanda, why?" he stuttered. "Because I want it!" "No," he said, "you don't." "Yes," she said, "right now!" "No!" She had, it turns out, truncated the correct word "Kaugummi" (literally, chew-rubber), asking for "Gummi" instead (got it?). Then she launched into another story, about telling a friend, "ich komme zu dir" (I'll come to you/your place). A simple error in prepositions ("ich komme bei dir") and her friend quickly protested: "No, Yoland, you don't mean that." "Of course, I do. Ich komme bei dir." "No, really..." (Read: I come due to you. Yes, that kind of come).

Our teacher quickly steered the conversation elsewhere.

I signed up for three weeks of daily three-hour Unterricht. Optional: Monday-night movies, Tuesday-night Stammtisch, Wednesday museum trips, and all-day Saturday outings. This weekend it's off to Leipzig.

It was enough to make me want to hunt down Aliou and get him to sign up.

Speaking of Aliou, I didn't give the boy fair play in that other post. A week ago Tuesday, for two whole hours, he was my friend.

Native of Senegal, Dakar. Doctorate student of poli-sci at Humboldt U. Twenty-fivish. Bachelors in Germanistik (that's all things Deutsch ever).

Small face, long arms. Dusty black, easy grin. Two front teeth yellowed, each tilting steeply away from the other.

Ah-lee-ooh, accent on the "ooh." A trio of vowels swooping skyward. It delighted me. I kept whispering it under my breath while R O S E M A R I E knocked her chalk around.

He really was Grammar King of the World. I do not begrudge him that. The most humble Grammar King of the World you have ever met.

After class last week, I told him I was U-Bahning it to Prolog, far off in Schöneberg. There, I said, was a true C1 class. Come with me, I said, we can take the test. See our options.

So he did. We navigated the three-train trip, speaking German all the while (his English poor, my French also; and my Wolof nonexistent). Every few sentences, I stopped to ask him: "Verheiratet or geheiratet?" "Dativ following vor?" It was like having a live Advanced Grammar handbook in my pocket. 

"Should I stay at Sprachenatelier?" I asked him. "I mean, I did learn stuff today. And I don't know grammar like you." I was more torn by the decision than I made out to be in that other post. I felt like I really should stay. Wasn't it fate, Sprachenatelier a mere three blocks from my pad? And, Rosemarie said the class was right for me. That's what had me spinning in place. The teacher said it... The teacher must be right. Remember, Teacher's Pet to the bone. That's the downside.

Sweet Aliou. You couldn't find a better listener. Patient. Unprejudiced. Or maybe he knew better than to engage with a stressed-out New Yorker dumping German angst all over him.

"It's going to be dumb," I said, "if you take the private class. Just me and the B2s." He gave me a guilty look. "No, don't feel bad! You should do what's best."

We found Prolog, took our test. For Aliou, the school seemed unlikely. More expensive. And a two-hour commute from his on-the-outskirts neighborhood. I wasn't sure either. Did I quit my job and move to Berlin just to be a Pendler all over again? 

Back on the U-Bahn: "Your German is good," Aliou told me kindly. "You're definitely C1."

"I love your name," I told him. "I think I might give it to a son." His eyes widened. "What does it mean?" I asked.

"He is the third prophet."

"?" Slowly comprehension dawned: "In the Koran..."

"Yes.

"Oh." I didn't want to be impolitic. But a Muslim name might not be the thing for me. Or the baby I make in Berlin.

Still. Aliou Patri. Would have been nice.

"Say something in Wolof," I asked him.

He leaned in close: Something something something. Each word was a bounce. Each sound bright, crystalline.

"Say something else!"

Something something something. His German had been a dry crumbcake; his Wolof was a clear, bubbling stream.

He spoke with a whole new mouth.

By the time we parted, I understood: I am FREE. There is nothing I should do in Berlin. If I don't want to go to a stupid language class, I do not have to.

Still, I almost showed up the next day, just to bump into Aliou. I knew he'd be there when we were done,  for his private lesson at 1:00.

But I didn't. He got off at Alexanderplatz. I haven't seen him since.

*compensatory activities as amends for wrongs done

Comments

[jess]

aliou sounds wonderful;the name and the guy. maybe you should bump into him again!? wollof is beautiful, huh? (i knew a bunch of senagalise guys via West African drum and dance.)

[Lilan]

Maybe I will go to Sprachenatelier and see if they have his email! And just make him murmur sweet Wolog nothings in my ear. It was indeed beautiful. I don't think Aliou drums or dances though! Thanks for commenting, dear.

[Julie]

sweeeeeeet.