“These people from Lisbon move up here and think they can do whatever they want”, my neighbor was saying to me. “Their sons arrived, dropped off those two poor dogs, then they all drove off together.” The neighbor was referring to the howling, shrieking, barking and crying happening next door at the house between her own and the house where I am dog sitting this month while another neighbor in the village visits family in the United States. The hysterics had been going on for over three hours at that point, without stopping. As I am writing this, it has now been seventy two hours, and it is no longer incessant, but intermittent as the dog is hoarse and exhausted. Neither the rudeness of our mutual neighbor nor the poor treatment of animals in Portugal is what I am concerned with at the moment (though I am disturbed by both). Rather, I am, telling you this because the neighbor and I discussing the noise were conversing exclusively in Portuguese. She speaks no language other than her particular dialect, and while everyone in the cities understands Lisboeta—the official dialect, the language I have been studying for the last three years—once you leave the city, the chances to understand anything said to you, and to be understood whilst speaking decrease dramatically.
Portuguese, as a Romance language, is grammatically closer to Catalan, Occitan and Italian than it is to Spanish or French—or even Galician—its closest relative. In the late 13th century, as the language was officially recognized by King Denis as the language of the realm, Portuguese had already become the popular language in western Iberia for poetry and song. It is possible that this is why the orthography was specifically based upon Occitanian—the language of the Troubadours. Portuguese, like all languages, is influenced by the languages indigenous to the area prior to outside influence—in this case, the languages of the Celtic Lusitanian tribes that inhabited the area prior to Roman conquest in the 3rd century BCE. When the Roman Empire collapsed at the end of the 8th century, the Germanic Visigoths, Suebi and Buri arrived, leaving behind—as their own kingdoms fell apart or were absorbed into the rise of newer kingdoms that sprang up in the Middle Ages, kingdoms that would ultimately become the modern nations we know today—their own lasting influences. Portuguese is a musical language—and a deeply, deeply complicated one; some of the complication is in the language itself—the rest is in the Portuguese people.
“That is not a Portuguese word!” This was shouted at me by B—, with whom I will be completing tomorrow a ten week conversational course of study. Every Wednesday we have met at 2 pm to discuss various topics: Portuguese literature, the Salazar dictatorship, the snap elections in January, the system of government and functions of the various chambers and assemblies, legends, the end of the monarchy and current affairs. Many times in our conversations I have had to politely explain that a word I am being told is not Portuguese, I learned in a book written by a Portuguese writer, published here by a Portuguese publisher—and that I had to look the word up in a dictionary—also published by an indigenous publishing house (in this case, Porto Editora), leading me to believe that they have at least some credibility where their native language is concerned and that, yes, this is in fact uma palavra Portuguesa. This is a common experience—there are two to six words for nearly everything, and one must, on many occasions, use all six until the Portuguese person with whom one is speaking either comprehends, or corrects you—leaving you with a seventh word you must now remember. A few months ago I was asking a man from the village who delivers our firewood if he was available to plough our fields. First I used the verb arar, as it is most closely linked to the tool used to perform this task: arado. I was met with a blank stare. I tried again, this time with the verb sulcar, which was met with another blank stare. Third time’s a charm, I thought as I restated my question using this time the verb fender, which elicited a third blank stare. I then asked if he could cut the earth in our fields with the teeth behind his tractor. “Ó—frisar!”, he said. “Sim”. When I asked him quando, he rattled away at a pace and in a dialect I barely understand—I had to grasp at any essential word I could make out: some weeks—after rain—will call.
I have my own theories about this particularly Portuguese characteristic—this quirk in a country no bigger than the state of Indiana. Until the end of the dictatorship in 1974, the Portuguese did not have much opportunity to travel or to attain much education. Literacy rates were dismal—roughly 40%. Women in general had little access to much, if any education past primary school. B—’s mother, she told me as we discussed literature, was illiterate well into late middle-age—that is when she decided to at least learn the basics. She can now, in her 80’s, read the labels at the supermarket and short messages sent in greeting cards—but has no chance with newspapers, let alone any of the many wonderful novels, books of poetry, essays or history available in her native language. B— herself received a full education, but based on our first conversation, seems not to have read a book since finishing university. As in any language, the more you read—the more literate you are—the larger your vocabulary. As in any society, the more you get around and meet your compatriots, the more you are exposed to other dialects, accents and demographics of people, hence—the more you will be able to understand. I have on many occasions in the United States had to translate the American English of someone from, say, Maine to someone from Texas, and vice versa. In every such circumstance, the people involved were only just beginning to travel outside their own regions, and other than occasional films, had no exposure to any dialect or accent other than their own.
Learning a new language in and of itself is a rewarding endeavor, and having an entirely new literary word open to you is an incomparable treasure. Poetry, investigative journalism, fiction, humor, essays. The past year has been one of glorious discovery—new writers, new books, new approaches to the art and craft of writing and the use of language—all leading to new words: desassossego. Tremer. Restolhar. Colmichão. Insólito. Insensato. Every language has its writers—and every language has its gifted literary artists—authors whose sentences and paragraphs lead you breathlessly from one page to the next. I can tell you that Maria Alberta Menéres, Alice Vieira, José Saramago and José Luís Peixoto have captured my heart and my imagination, and I now inhabit a life in a world where these unexpected discoveries have become the richest part of many of my days. They have become a part of my own human experience—a part of the fabric of my mind. Thoroughly modern, playful, inventive, daring and acutely intimate. To learn a new language is a treasure—to be inspired within a new language is sublime.
I will leave you with two quotes copied into one of my notebooks this past year:
“Filho, tenho trinta anos, mas sinto que também tenho duas semanas porque uma parte de mim nasceu contigo há duas semanas.” —José Luís Peixoto, Abraço
Son, I am thirty years old, but I feel that I too am two weeks old because a part of me was born with you two weeks ago.
“Saberemos de nós por nosso lume?” —Maria Alberta Menéres, Poesia Completa
Will we know ourselves by our fire?
(Footnote: lume, according to my dictionary can mean fire or glare—though the common word for fire is fogo—unless you are referring to a burning house or other structure, in which case you must use incêndio—but if it’s a forest fire then queimar is called for. Three years ago I had the feeling I would never be able to learn this language—not much has changed).