Music to My Ears
May 4, 2009
Yesterday, sitting on the floor of a non-air-conditioned room beyond the walled city, I had a lovely chat with my host, a relatively aggressive businessman dealing in textile. His English was approximate but brash and confident. He sounded slightly unhappy to have to argue with a white female. As far as he was concerned, acknowledging my presence as an independant entity was as far as he would go.
He was trying to make me remember a bedcover he had supposedly shown me three months ago. There was some detail I forgot about the piece, and for some reason instead of telling me what I wanted to know, he said I had already asked him this question before. Three months ago.
“So much for me, I said, I can be very forgetful, can you tell me again?”
“But I discussed your face!”
I looked at him, bewildered.
“I’m sorry, you did what?”
“Ma’am, I discussed your face! How can you forget?”
“Indeed, how could I. But. What’s the relation with the bedcover?”
“Discussed it your face, Ma’am, oh yes, I remember too well only.”
“I’m sorry I really don’t understand.”
I was puzzled.
“Ma’am, I discussed! You here!”
Oh. It dawned on me. Right. He discussed it in my face. He talked about it in my presence.