Lost in translation

We were three foreigners abroad, two speaking German and English, myself English only. We had travelled to Italy to a place called Lucca in preparation for a lovely holiday and a chance to delve into history. We were going to investigate the Italian ancestry of my late husband’s great grandfather. According to family legend he had come from the area around La Spezia, south of Genoa. Little did we know how delving into vaults, eerily cold and echoing with every sound, visiting graveyards and empty churches, would colour our holiday.
 
Of course undertaking such searches one needs a starting point and we decided to go to the place we believed the family came from, scenic and breathtaking Porto Venere. So we duly went there and tried to picture our ancestors looking at the beauty we now beheld. Sadly we were wrong and after an interesting encounter at the public records office, involving the entire staff of ten working there, and the use of French, Portuguese and Spanish (in hindsight we could have learned a bit of Italian), we placed the family origins in San Venerio, a hilltop suburb of La Spezia.
 
So it was back to the graveyard search and the local one was looked for with intensity. Italian graveyards are a mine of information (assuming you have the right one) and the custom of adorning the grave with photographs of the departed adds to the romance. However, as we had found previously, not having any command of Italian whatsoever, would again lead to a comic situation.
 
After much driving around trying to find these elusive graveyards we came to the conclusion that perhaps we should try to find some help with our task. The local police came to mind so it was decided to visit the local gendarmes. On arriving at the local station we were faced with a large heavy wooden door which creaked loudly as my daughter-in-law and myself opened it. To the right was a large wooden desk and behind it a uniformed gendarme, a uniform we had the greatest respect for. He duly greeted us with a flow of wonderful Italian which could have been any language, but we had every confidence in the law.
 
A few more exchanges fell on barren ground so this pillar of the law decided to send for help. This arrived in the form of two more uniformed law enforcers heavily braided and with many colourful decorations about their person. Oh well, we will try again “We’re looking for the local cemetery”. Vacant stares greeted our question; perhaps more people are required to interpret our very poor attempts to make ourselves understood, so we were joined by a female member of the law.  The small room was filling up with very helpful, if a little perplexed, officers and there was a growing volume of Italian voices trying to decide exactly what we wanted.
 
Being a stout believer in direct action I found myself miming a person with an imaginary shovel digging an imaginary grave. Suddenly eyes were narrowed and the whole situation was regarded with renewed interest and a great deal of speculation but so far no answers. Our efforts were of no avail and so I played the ultimate charade, lying prone on the cold floor of an Italian police station surrounded by uniformed and very noisy gendarmes, I tried tried to mime a body, hands crossed on my chest, my eyes closed, giggling. There was a sudden silence which was a bit of relief after all the noisy gesticulations and many Italian questions which we could not understand. With a sudden realization the more senior gendarme came to a conclusion, he knew what these two foreign people wanted to tell him. In English he said calmly “You want to report a murder.” I think after all the effort this was the funniest moment and my companion and I collapsed in a heap laughing while trying to deny all knowledge of any murder.
 
Strangely enough the poor gendarmes did not quite see the funny side and persisted in the theory that we had seen a murder. “Where? Who? Where was the body?  Just as the scene was starting to turn ugly one small voice from the back of the room mentioned the word “cemeterie”. At last, we clapped for joy and nodding happily, we all shook hands and uttered our thanks. At last the language barrier had been crossed. The relief all round was immense, the gendarmes were now so helpful and ushered us to the big door, probably glad to get rid of us, inquiring politely if we had any way of getting to the cemetery.  Oh yes - my son is waiting just outside.
 
We emerged in a group with many uniformed gendarmes to find an empty road. We kind of looked at each other and nodded. I’ll leave you to decide what the nods meant. I have to say, though, that I do not blame my son for his disappearing act. The next time I’ll bring a dictionary.
 
Text: Mary Perioli