During this first week in Lyon I have learned that universal good and universal evil are concentrated into two avatars: for goodness, a French translation of Virginia Woolf’s masterpiece, “Mrs. Dalloway”; for evil, a suave Norwegian teen named Cedric.
You may ask how much I could really love a punctuation error-riddled translation of a novel I bought for two euros. In the words of Kyle, my recent Tinder date who would put anything in his butt if he could, “If I could put that in my butt, I would.” Even though I only understand half of the words, the rhythm of the novel calms me, and has helped me uncoil my stress after long days of missed appointments and pastry-related stomach pains. I don’t care if it’s a bad translation, or if reading it has distracted me from signing up for classes or cutting my weird long thumbnails or drinking my first real French rosé. For me, this book is a lifeline.
But every bit of pure good must have its equal and opposite force. And this force is usually named Cedric.
To make a long story short, Cedric joined us Americans for a night of wine and cheese, during which, appropriately, we whined about our new university and cheesed for Instagram photos to be captioned “Eurotrash,” or whatever. At first I was thrilled by the inclusion of this blonde and svelte garçon, but by the end of the night he had proved himself a brute, a bore and a braggart. He would drop phrases like “I’m sorry if my English is shaky, I just have so many languages knocking around up there” and “That girl just came up to me and told me I was attractive” and “It isn’t that hard to get invited to the world competitions for sailing, all you have to do is be rich and have a big d---.”
Not that braggarts are a uniquely European thing. At U.Va., you can’t turn a corner without some well-to-do horse girl named Katherine mentioning offhand her family’s “other house,” or some comfort-color dude named Steve talking about how many lines of whatever he did last night (I hope to God he was talking about poetry). So why, I ask myself, did the run-in with selfish Cedric upset me so much?
At U.Va., I realized, I don’t need the other students to be nice, or polite, or humble or conscientious. I am happy to spend my four years reading alone and trying not to get hate-crimed on Rugby. I understand the culture there. I have my friends at U.Va., I have my clubs, I have my family close by. In literal terms, I speak the language.
But that is not the case in France. Whereas I am used to feeling like a queen being delivered from class to class on a golden palanquin, here I feel like some dried-up gay slug who can’t even order dinner without crying. I am vulnerable, or, as the French say, vulnerable. I cannot just brush off Cedric’s words with the same look-at-the-camera-and-shrug attitude that I use in the United States. Cedric presented himself as the host of the most glamorous and prestigious European dinner party, and, like Clarissa with Lady Bruton’s luncheon, I was not invited.
You think you’re better than me just because you’re rich and gorgeous and can speak three languages? Well, Cedric, you’re probably right. But we’ll leave the issue of “right” and “wrong” up to the judge. Or to the doctor, who will have to give you antibiotics because there’s an infection where my weird long thumbnail cut you.
Why not just be nice, Cedrics of the world? We are all strangers here. We are without our families and friends, in a foreign nation where un entrée means “an appetizer” and everyone is still wearing Abercrombie & Fitch. What makes you think now is the time to declare yourself king of the study abroad students? The joke’s on you, Cedric. Your entire kingdom is poor and tired and still hasn’t figured out how to open a French bank account.
In “Mrs. Dalloway,” the prodigal once-suitor Peter Walsh wonders why, after Clarissa Dalloway’s sister was killed by a falling tree, she did not become depressed, but instead even more active, generous and thoughtful than before. Why doesn’t she take the opportunity to be a totally justified jerk? My reading of the translation is shaky: she either says she “loves a good snake,” or she practices “goodness for goodness’ sake.” Even if you have suffered in a way that gives you a privileged view into humanity, even if you are the richest and smartest man on this proto-socialist continent, there is no reason to brag about it. So whether Clarissa can’t help but express her love of snakes, or thinks kindness is the most valuable human virtue, all I can say is: je suis d’accord.
Drew Kiser is a Humor writer.
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