9/8/02

Dalia Itzik vs the English Language

A woman of few words -- that is, in the lingua franca of the Court of St. James -- has been appointed Israel's ambassador. God save the queen's English.

"Madame Ambassador? I beg your pardon..."

The new Israeli envoy in the Court of St. James really didn't want to be bothered with silliness. Dalia Itzik was a very busy lady. Like, this very minute, she was preparing for a mission in the service of her nation: she was going shopping. This interruption annoyed her, but she tried her best to be diplomatic and polite. "Nu?"

"Not exactly new, Madame, I've been a Buckingham Palace courtier for many years."

The Rt. Hon. Ambassador realized the woman didn't understand. This was intolerable! Impatiently, she snapped her tongue -- "Ts!" -- and glared at her. "Vee're goink to heff eh lot to lern, aren't vee?" she said in her best English. By "we," she didn't actually mean herself: after all, she had studied hard for this posting, and already learned everything.

Shopping will have to wait. "So? You heff eh nem?"

"Uh, yes madame, we all do. Mine is Faith Braithwaite-Hogg."

Itzik tried that out on her Hebrew tongue. "Good to meet you, Fat Bratwat, eh ..."

"... Hogg."

"Fat Hogg Brat, eh ... Twat! Yes?"

Faith's mouth went dry. "Yes, Madame."

"Vere you come from, Fat?"

"Middlesex, ma'am."

Itzik looked at her curiously. She was pretty sure she understood. She pulled out her Palm Pilot to make sure. She typed in "middle" and "sex," and the computer provided the translations. Just as she thought. What a strange answer! "Me too," she said.

Faith arched her eyebrows. "Really? Which part?"

This was too rude, even for an Israeli. She quickly changed the subject. "You know eh little Hibroo?"

"Shalom!" she replied smartly.

Itzik smiled for the first time. "Ah yes, piss. Piss on Earth, det's de most importent ting. Jews and Arabs must mek piss togeder, yes?"

"Forgive me, I'm not familiar with your customs, but perhaps if you broke bread together instead..."

Ambassador Dalia Itzik was very proud of herself. She was speaking English! So much for all the criticism.

She was ready to meet the queen. She instructed Faith to arrange an appointment, say, for lunch tomorrow.

"Oh, but Madame, there are customary procedures with specific formalities, commencing with a rehearsal for the presentation of your credentials under the auspices of the Lord Chief Marshal, protocol chief of palace, who --"

"REGA!" Itzik couldn't type into her Palm Pilot fast enough.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I did not lern such long words. Start again. How you spell 'customer'?"

The palace courtier was a tad perplexed. She was well acquainted with diplomats; occasionally they needed assistance with a subtle nuance, because they were, after all, foreigners. She knew them to be polished, sophisticated, professionally trained and -- at the very least! -- fluent in English, because this was, after all, London. And Israel was such an important country with, to be frank, a terrible image problem. She couldn't help herself: at the risk of sounding impudent, she asked: "Madame does have credentials with which to present herself, of course."

Such is linguistic nuance, whereby a delicate question is disguised in a presumptuously obvious statement. The Israeli ambassador didn't answer, because she didn't know it was a question.

The worst possible scenario was becoming alarmingly probable to Faith: a Diplomatic Incident, at the palace, involving her charge. God save the queen, she moaned silently.

AND INCIDENTS there were.

Even before meeting the queen, Itzik was introduced to the queen's English.

There was a minor misunderstanding at an exclusive shoe store. The assistant took the boxes from her because they were "heavy," which translated to "kaved," which of course means "liver," which was not what she paid for. She summoned the manager, who assured her the shoes would be "delivered."

A journalist happened to be in earshot. "Israel riled by 'bloody British shoes,'" the headline read.

"Israel: Arabs have lice," another headline blared, after a reporter, who happened to be nearby, overheard her say that Israeli agents use a lice comb on all Palestinian suspects. What she meant to say was "fine-tooth comb," but it was sort of lost in the translation.

Harrod's was "what's a makolet in Israel, only bigger," she said, unaware that the people milling about her were all journalists. "Israel demeans royal shoppe as 'big whatchamacallit,' the newspapers said.

The British media found the new Israeli ambassador to their liking. She could always be counted on for a gaffe, and if Israel came out looking ridiculous, oh well.

Itzik felt she was doing a service to her people every time she opened her mouth to a journalist. She could recognize certain words in the newspapers, like "Israel" and "Itzik," so she knew they were getting a lot of attention. She hoped they noticed back home. (Did they.)

It didn't take long for the BBC to call; Itzik wondered what took them so long. This was what she wanted more than anything: a chance to show off her famous smile on nothing less than the BBC, and make everyone back home proud. Dalia Itzik and the BBC were made for each other: She was like a rag doll in the jaws of a rabid rottweiler. It worked out OK, though, because they said a lot of things about Israel she didn't understand, but they didn't let her get a word in, so her lack of English didn't matter. She looked very pretty, though.

"Ve do again, yes?"

By all means, said the BBC people, laughing into their hats; perhaps a debate next time, together with a Palestinian?

WHATEVER credentials she lacked, the new Israeli ambassador still had to present to the queen whatever credentials she had.

Came the day.

Never mind anything else: she looked great.

To begin with, Faith explained, there would be a ceremony rehearsal with the Lord Chief Marshal. With the help of her trusty translator, Itzik understood that he was a God Native American Elder Law Enforcer. Well, that made sense.

Faith described the marshal's duties. "And you must pay close attention, he's a model of efficiency and --"

"REGA!" Itzik typed in "model of a fish in sea." The computer didn't know what to make of that. It suggested "cod piece." Bit by bit, Itzik was learning English.

She was taught how to approach the queen: "Two steps forward, then curtsey; another two steps forward, curtsey. You will be at arm's length: you shake her hand. Do not speak until spoken to, and --"

"REGA!" Itzik was an Israeli -- an Israeli politician -- and she had a God-given right to talk at will. This was an outrage. And she had so much to say to the queen. "Vot if she don't speak nuttink? I vant to tell her about me, I vant ve should be friends."

The two Englishmen stared at each other. Eliza Doolittle came to mind. Could they?

Itzik was brought to Buckingham Palace in a carriage drawn by six white horses. She waved and smiled at the many bystanders, who were all, of course, journalists, poised to record her every unfortunate word. "I'm goink to meet ze qveen!" she shouted at them proudly.

The carriage entered the palace grounds. In Jerusalem, the Knesset was alerted. The chief rabbis made up a special prayer for the occasion. Cafes in Tel Aviv were packed, with but one subject to debate: What will she say?

The BBC broadcast the event live, with commentary provided by a Palestinian spokesman.

The Ambassador of Israel was ushered in to meet the Queen of England.

"How do you do?" said one.

"How do you do?" said the other.

Ambassador Itzik presented her credentials. It didn't say much (she was a politician). What it did say was that she had learned to speak English (Shimon Peres taught her, one afternoon).

It didn't give the queen much to work with.

"I dare say, the weather today is quite fair."

"Yes," the Israeli agreed. "Feh."

"I understand you have been learning our language, Madame Ambassador."

"Yes, your majesty! I em still, eh, unspeakable. But I em very trying."

"Well, then," the queen concluded. A bead of sweat was noticed on her brow, and Itzik was swiftlyescorted away.

Let's say this about our new ambassador: The less said, the better.

_