Christina Lynch on a Trip that Almost Got Lost in Translation

Christina Lynch on a Trip that Almost Got Lost in Translation

Novelist Christina Lynch recalls a trip to Prague where she spent every moment trying to maintain the family peace

By Christina Lynch in the Wall Street Journal

IN 1993, in my seventh year of living in Italy, I traveled to Prague with my Italian boyfriend to spend New Year’s with my father and stepmother, who had recently moved to the city.

Prague was emerging from its long Cold War sleep, and though it was being spruced up and was touting itself as a high-end destination, it still bore many vestiges of its recent communist past, including the grim Soviet-style apartment block where my father lived, and a limited menu of beige pork- and cabbage-based foods.

The visit did not begin well. My stepmother, a fervent supporter of all things Czech, was sensitive to any suggested criticism of the city or its culture. My father could reasonably have had doubts about moving from a luxury high-rise in Chicago to the colorless outskirts of an Eastern European city, but he was nothing if not loyal, and thus glared if anyone so much as acknowledged that we could hear everything the neighbors said through the walls. (It’s amazing how, even when you don’t speak their language, you can tell when people are fighting about whose turn it is to take the trash out.)

Like a good Midwesterner, I had been pretending things were fine for pretty much my entire life. I was the classic “good girl” who smiled through family feuds, deaths and ugly divorces, trying through sheer force of will to make everyone as happy as she appeared to be. Faux pleasantries were second nature to me: “I would never have known your plastic surgeon was drunk. You look amazing.” “Now that you’ve been fired you can do anything!”

But in all my years of living in Italy, I don’t think I ever met a repressed Italian, including my boyfriend. Whatever he was feeling, he expressed it in the most dramatic terms possible. A slight crimp in plans was “un casino” (a mess), a minor snafu “un disastro” (a disaster) and any food less than exquisite was “schifoso” (disgusting).

Dad, on the other hand, barely complained about anything in his entire life, which included growing up in the Depression and serving in World War II. He had worn the same outfit every day since V-J Day (khakis, wingtips, pristine dress shirt over white Fruit of the Loom undershirt, navy blue blazer), and thought turtlenecks on men were the height of pretension. He clearly loathed my boyfriend, who spoke not a word of English, wore a fedora, shivered in his fur-trimmed coat, smoked a pipe and feared any food that wasn’t risotto ai funghi.

Every outing in Prague was a cacophony of languages. My stepmother translated from Czech to English, I translated from English to Italian, and my dad’s hearing aids intermittently malfunctioned. At least my boyfriend’s complaints were delivered in Italian, which I could mistranslate as “He loves it!” In fact, I soon found myself rewriting everyone’s dialogue on the fly, especially in restaurants:

My family glowers as my boyfriend scans the menu.

Boyfriend to me (in Italian): “Please, God, if I eat one more piece of pork, my stomach will be completely blocked and I will die. I’ll have the fish.”

Me to my father and stepmother (in English): “He is loving this Czech food.”

‘My stepmother strained to maintain her enthusiasm. My father eyed my boyfriend like MacArthur looked at Japan. ’

My father to me: “The pork roast is the best thing on the menu.” Subtext: That is what a real man would order.

Boyfriend to me (in Italian): “The fish, she must be grilled, no oil, and a green salad, not dumplings—schifoso.”

Me to my father and stepmother (in English): “We’ll both have pork roast, extra dumplings. And maybe a green salad on the side?”

Stepmother: “There are no green salads in winter. Pickled cabbage.”

I hate cabbage. I nod and smile.

Stepmother (to waiter, in Czech): “We’ll all have the pork roast, cabbage and dumplings. And gravy.”

Italian boyfriend, as dumplings are piled in front of him: “Death, she is imminent.”

Me, in Italian: “My family loves you.”

Me, to my family: “We are having the best time!”

Everyone nods and smiles.

Though I write fiction for a living, eventually I began to tire of maintaining two completely different conversations at the same time, one sympathetic to an Italian who was freezing to death and in severe gastric distress, and the other expressing glowing appreciation for the delights of my family’s new home. Cracks appeared in conversations, and I began to laugh nervously whenever anyone said anything.

Things threatened to come to a head at our fancy New Year’s Eve dinner in Prague’s labyrinthine Old Town. The restaurant’s interior was vintage Art Nouveau, but the service and food were vintage Cold War. I could see my stepmother straining to maintain her unbridled enthusiasm as waiters ignored us. My father eyed my boyfriend like MacArthur looked at Japan. My boyfriend was slowly dying from cold soup and watery wine. Gelid plates of cabbage and dumplings arrived. “This is fantastic,” I insisted in several languages.

With every pop of a cork of overpriced Eastern European “champagne,” I came closer to exploding. But then, at the stroke of midnight, the city did it for me: The streets filled with crazed revelers smashing bottles, setting off firecrackers and shouting in alcohol-fueled glee. It was strange, terrifying and cathartic.

Inside my agitated brain, there was a subtle shift in the atherosclerotic plaque of politeness blocking the flow of truth. I stared at my assembled loved ones.

“I love Prague, but I hope they get an Italian restaurant soon,” I told my stepmother.

“I know you don’t like my boyfriend but I do,” I said to my father.

“I love you but you could be a little more stoic,” I told my Italian boyfriend. “No one dies from dumplings.”

“Happy New Year,” we all said to each other. And instead of being un disastro, it was.

—Christina Lynch is co-author of the Magnus Flyte novels “City of Lost Dreams” and “City of Dark Magic,” the latter set in Prague.