Short Story: The Meaning Of No

Short Story: The Meaning Of No

One thing which seems to change from culture to culture is the use of the word ‘no’. In Germany I got used to hearing this word.

‘Can I leave work early?’

‘Nein.’

‘Surely I’m allowed one day off in six months?’

‘Nein.’

‘Are you ever going to start paying people a decent wage?’

‘Nein.’

‘Nein’ needs no explanation, no additional information, no change in intonation. In German culture ‘Nein’ means ‘Nein’. There’s no compromise, no debating. The word ‘Nein’ suffices.

In French culture there is a less of a tendency to use the word ‘Non’. That’s too much of a straight forward answer. It’s neither ‘oui’ nor ‘non’, it’s more of a ‘peut-etre’. Umm and aahh about it for a while, say ‘poof’ and ‘bahh’ a few times and then theoretically speaking, from a philosophical point of view, the answer is ‘maybe’.

I recently learned that in Indian culture, the word ‘no’ doesn’t exist. At least not if you’re a woman. I accidentally found myself in a relationship with an Indian guy from the gym, we’ll call him 'the shadow', just because every time I turned around, he was there. And I do say I ‘accidentally’ found myself in a relationship. What I mean is that he said to me ‘do you want to be my girlfriend?’ and I said ‘no’. I guess in Indian culture this obviously meant ‘yes’. So my housemates and I had to devise this big James-Bond style plan of action. As soon as 'the shadow' was seen walking across that court yard, the doors were locked, the blinds went down and everybody hid under their desks. This went on for about two weeks until the meaning of ‘no’ became apparent.

In Wednesday’s class I learned what the word ‘no’ means in Chinese culture. You stand there and ask your students ‘do you understand?’ and you will be greeted by a bunch of smiley happy faces saying ‘yes’. You ask everybody if it is okay to wipe all the vocabulary from the board and you see a bunch of nodding heads. But then, when you ask everybody, ‘how are you?’ and you receive answers such as ‘tiring’, ‘snow’ and ‘I like to wear a hat’, it becomes clear that the answer they were looking for was in fact ‘no’. According to Jelly, it’s rude to say ‘no’. You shouldn’t tell your teacher you don’t understand. As much as I love to hear the words ‘yes teacher, we understand’, hearing the words ‘I am snow’ just make me want to kill myself. So I left work on Wednesday feeling rather disappointed.

Luckily I had a visitor to cheer me up. I am going to call him, Mr. Simpson.

In Germany I shared a flat with two guys, 'the most handsome man in the world' and 'Herr. Becker'. In the flat above us lived 'Mad Max'. In the flat above 'Mad Max', lived 'Mr Simpson'. We were all united by one person; 'Cruella DeVille'.

'Cruella' owned half the city, perhaps more. I don’t think I ever met one person who was renting an apartment in the city and didn’t know 'Cruella DeVille'. I once heard that she was also a prostitute, although at 525 Euros a room I don’t think she needed the money. She put people in and out of rooms like we were all pieces on some huge monopoly board. Thanks to her I met a lovely group of gentleman, including Mr. Simpson

I hadn’t been in touch with Mr Simpson since the last day of July. The last time he saw me I was stumbling into the flat with half my arm hanging off. I’d just taken my Spanish friend’s bike, after 2 bottles of wine and nothing to eat all day, and ridden it to the kebab shop. Unfortunately, on the way back I had forgotten that in Germany they drive on the other side of the road. Not only this, but I was so drunk that when I heard my little Spanish friend screaming ‘slow down’ from behind me (she too was on the bike, perched on the edge of the saddle) I turned round and screamed back ‘What?! Faster?!’ It was an accident waiting to happen.

The next thing I remember was walking back into the apartment with the Spanish girl crying ‘my bike’, seeing a rather confused Mr Simpson and a very horrified expression on the face of 'the most handsome man in the world'. With my Spanish friend in hysterical tears for her broken bike and what seemed to be a miniscule bruise on her wrist, I tried to play down my injuries and hobbled quietly to bed. It wasn’t until the next morning when the alcohol had worn off that I found myself in excruciating pain.

So, I had to apologise to Mr Simpson that I missed his last day in the city and never had chance to say goodbye. I had spent the following few days in hospital after having to have surgery on my left arm, sharing a room with an elderly German woman who was unable to stop shitting herself. For insurance purposes I told the doctor that I had fallen whilst out jogging. With my injuries, I don’t think he was convinced. My German wasn’t the best, so 'the most handsome man in the world' did most of the talking whilst I sat there nodding quietly. It was then that the doctor looked at me suspiciously and said in English, ‘Frau Fritz, is this really what happened?’. I guess in his eyes I did have all the qualities of a battered wife.

Anyway, it was great to see Mr. Simpson again. He has been living in a nearby city in England for the past year. If I’d stalked his Facebook profile sooner, I am sure we would have met up before now. It was great to chat about old times, the barbeques we used to have in our garden, the sports bar where we used to play pool, the clubs we both used to visit. I miss it all so much it makes me sick. I miss the Freibad round the corner from my house where I spent my Saturdays spying on hairy German nudists and completing my crossword puzzles. I miss the men in suits with their silky, floppy hair. I miss Oaken yoghurts and Mueller Mulch. I miss moaning about how much I hated my job and how if they didn’t give me a day off I was going to quit (according to Mr Simpson I did this a lot).

Mr Simpson says he will probably move back there. He wants a job in London but he has looked and not had much success. I told him all about my Taiwan plans. I talked for hours. Mr Simpson thinks that if I can learn Mandarin then I will have a very bright future. I hope so.

I don’t think I stopped talking for the whole evening. We went for steak at Cafe Rouge and then for beers at Opus. There was some sort of Lady Gaga thing going on. Everyone was dressed up in blonde wigs and big sunglasses. It was just weird.

I was convinced for about an hour that Lady Gaga was actually going to come to the club. I think I even managed to convince Mr Simpson at one point. But she never came. Instead we just really drunk, smoked two packets of cigarettes and danced around to Poker Face for about the tenth time that night.

Mr Simpson stayed at my place, but he slept in a sleeping bag on the floor. This didn’t stop the cleaners in my building from jumping to conclusions as we sat drinking our coffee in the kitchen.

‘Oooh is this your boyfriend?’

’Oh, still single? Aww never mind love. I’m sure you’ll meet someone.’

Now I am even receiving sympathy from the fifty year old cleaning staff. Judging by the amount of conversations I’ve heard from my bed in a morning (they don’t speak, they sqwawk), these women definitely have Jeremy Kyle potential. And now they’re giving me relationship advice. I don’t think things could get much worse.

Even so, I’ve a great few days. The hangover is just starting to kick in and I’m trying to get the internet working on my new laptop so I can actually post these blogs. I say it’s a new laptop, but actually it’s my brother’s old one and the ‘m’ key is missing. It means I get an electric shock every time I press it. But, at least it has a screen.