Who would like to interpret a conversation into French for me? (same as on chit-chat)

[beckstra]

PLEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAASSSSSSSSEEEEEEEE???

That is, if you can.

And don't mind the cheese. I'm sure it'll sound much more natural in French than English. I just wanted to make it easy enough to interpret.

"Such a tall, young man." - Mrs. Brisighella

"Such a pretty smile, it is a shame you are married Mrs. Brisighella." - Herve

"Ah, you make me blush with your silly words and blue eyes." - Mrs. Brisighella

"Mr. Poullouin, you make my wife mad with your crazy words. You should stop this or I may have to send her to a sanitarium. Now, what can we do for you today?" - Mr. Brisighella

"Don't mind my husband, he gets jealous." - Mrs. Brisighella

"That's all right, it just means were even then." - Herve

"Stop that!" - Mr. Brisighella

What will you have today, friend?" - Mrs. Brisighella

"Three of your best tomatoes, one large eggplant, and one small white onion. I'm making a feast for one man tonight." -Herve

"Ah, such a shame you don't find anyone." - Mrs. Brisighella

"No, I am just waiting for the right one." - Herve

"Well, good for you." - Mr. Brisighella

"Here you go. Best of luck on that feast!" - Mrs. Brisighella

"Thank-you very much. Have a good afternoon. Good-bye!" - Herve

"Good-bye Herve. Ah...that boy...such a shame." - Mrs. Brisighella


Merci.

[dinzdale]

Try this and maybe some one can help out with the syntax and the bits I missed:


"Il est un (tall) et jeune homme" - Madam Brisighella

"Votre (smile) est tres jolie. C'est (a shame) vous ete marrie M. Brisighella." - Herve

"Ah, Vous m'embarrasse avec votre mots amusement et votre yeux blue" - Madam Brisighella

"Mr. Poullouin, vous enragez ma femme avec votre mots foux. Desistez les ou je doit elle emplacer dans une sanitarium. Bon, qu'est ce que vous desirez aujourdhui?" - M. Brisighella

"Ne lui attend pas, mon homme est (jealous)." - Madam Brisighella

"C'est bien, nous sommes (even / level)" - Herve

"Desistez!" - M. Brisighella

"Qu'est ce que vous desirer aujourdhui, mon ami?" - Madam Brisighella

"Trois des tomates les meilluer, une aubergine gande, et un onion petit et blanc. Je prepare un grand fete pour seulement un homme ce soir." -Herve

"Ah, c'est un traveste que vous ne trouve pas une amie" - Madam Brisighella

"Non, J'attend la perfecte " - Herve

"C'est bon." - M. Brisighella

"Et voila. Bon chance comme votre fete!" - Madam Brisighella

"Merci bien. Bon apres-midi. Au revoir!" - Herve

"Au revoir Herve. Ah...ce garcon...tant pis." - Madam Brisighella

[lapietra]

Thank you, dear dinz.

[beckstra]

Thank you!!!

[beckstra]

Hervé Poullouin grabbed his gray, wool stocking cap from the bottom of his bureau drawer and shook the splinters free of it by tapping it against the sleeve of his cotton, long-john shirt. Poullouin’s hairline was low toward his brow, his hair long for a typical man his age, somewhat unruly in nature, and the color of a beaver’s pelt. When Hervé revealed to a woman what he hid under his cap, she would tell him, “What a shame it is that you don’t parade your full head of hair around, a shame that such hair is wasted on a man.” Despite protests, he would gently smile and pull his stocking cap down, firm around his head. Women took great pleasure in finding ways to free him of the worn sock, and he took great pleasure in always keeping it in place.

Poullouin ran a quick hand through his mop top and slid the pilled beanie down, leaving only the hair from the nape of his neck peeking out. Walking to his kitchen table (a not-completely converted billiard table), and he took from atop the piles of junkmail, tattered envelopes, faded marketplace, receipts, and pool balls and cues, his tan, deerskin leather jacket. He patted away a blue chalk smudge and ran his arms through the sleeves. The jacket rested loosely over the layers he was wearing, and sharpened Hervé’s shoulders. Walking to the door and looking over to the living room and out his window, the sky brilliant blue, he could see leaves being wisped away from the trees, falling on the wind. He rubbed his stubbled cheeks and sighed.

Outside, Hervé found himself surprised, delighted that he had worn so many layers. The sun shone and the leaves fell to the ground, the air was crisp and borderline icy. He patted his chest and under his fingers the logo from his tee-shirt stretched. Breathing the sharp air in, he coughed and a tuft of warm air escaped from him hanging visible in the air for only a moment. Herve balled his fists together and blew hot air from his mouth into them, and then threw them into his jean pockets. A small shiver found it’s way to the young man’s shoulders and slid up his back, he shook it off and started walking down the sidewalk.

Whistling a non-tune, Hervé Poullouin made his way to the street market a couple of blocks from his flat. Turning on to the main street, his non-tune disapated inot a non-sound. The street was alive with men on Vespas and children on bicycles. Young women wore long coats and thick scarves that bulked around their necks. Old ladies wore trenchcoats with thin scarves keeping their frocks in place. Random tents and booths lined both sides of the street emitting the smells of fresh fish, fruit, stale cotton, and spices galore.

As he had many, many times before, Hervé found himself lost in the lively back and forth of the marketplace. He found such a feeling, home. The rambunctious, squealing children brought a smile to his face, he remembered being a boy in this market, he remembered every step he had taken, every vendor’s face, every vendor’s voice. One time, in particular, he remembered encountering the yellow tent. It was Poullouin’s first encounter. No taller than a fully grown boarder collie, he barely had his feet about him and had wandered from his mother’s side. When he looked around and finally grasped that he was in unfamiliar territory, he grabbed and tugged on the matching yellow tablecloth, and a mountain of green bell peppers came tumbling down on top of him. A girl, not so much older than he leaned over the table and snipped something unintelligible to him.

This girl had honey-colored tresses, cherry-red cheeks, and a nasty temper. As he kneeled down to pick up the peppers, she did the same in haste, mumbling. He was intrigued as well as a little frightened at the time. She gave him a good yelling-at. Years after, he learned that she was the grand-daughter of Mademoiselle Pascal, a French woman who had retired a widow to London. Mme. Pascal found herself a second husband who really wasn’t her husband at all, however people in the neighborhood weren’t inclined to talk. The girl’s name was Cerise Pascal.

"Quel grand, jeune homme."

Hervé stopped in his tracks. Turning to see the yellow tent, he made his way through the crowds, narrowly missing a small girl carrying an empty birdcage on her head, singing “God Save The Queen.” Nearing the checkout table, he leaned over and gave a dastardly grin. "Quel beau sourire, c'est dommage que vous êtes mariée, Mademoiselle Brisighella."

Cerise was only ever in town the first three weeks of October. She knew little English, and rarely ever used what she did know. That pleased Hervé just fine. He had spent many years of random home schooling in the United States trying to appease her and her maddening culture. "Ah, Vous m'embarrasse avec votre mots amusement et votre yeux bleu."

It had taken many years for Poullouin to make her blush. Although when she finally did, she never stopped. Unfortunately, Cerise couldn’t see past Hervé and his age, a whole five years younger than herself, she ignored his advances, and when he wasn’t looking, she found herself a French husband, Raoul Brisighella. He was a pleasant enough man with a thin face and a bit of a lisp and sarcastic as hell, but appreciated. Nodding over the two, Raoul bellowed, "Monsieur Poulloin, vous rendez fou ma femme avec vos mots fous! Desistez les ou je doit elle emplacer dans une sanitarium. Bon, qu'est ce que vous desirez aujourdhui?"

The two men shared a laugh as smirking, Cerise leaned in and winked, "Ne lui attend pas, mon homme est (jealous)."

"C'est bien, nous sommes (even / level)"

"Desistez!" Monsieur Brisighella faked his exasperation as the two in question snickered to one another. Hervé often took his neck in his hands, flirting with the young lady in front of her husband, but he got a feeling from Raoul that he understood what their marriage had done to the boy. For months after the nuptials, Hervé kept himself locked away from the world, denying himself any pleasures…and quite often, denying himself food. Although once Cerise had enough, she marched into his flat and demanded he get a life.

"Qu'est ce que vous desirer aujourdhui, mon ami?" She motioned to the tables of produce and smiled.

"Trois des tomates les meilluer, une aubergine gande, et un onion petit et blanc. Je prepare un grand fete pour seulement un homme ce soir." Hervé and Cerise watched as Raoul hovered over his produce, looking for quality tomatoes. Poullouin looked at Cerise as she watched her husband. She was a content woman…possibly even madly in love with her husband, proud of him at least.

"Ah, c'est un traveste que vous ne trouve pas une amie," Hervé looked away before she caught him staring.

"Non, J'attend la perfecte."

Raoul dropped the onion in a brown paper sack and handed the bag to Hervé. "C'est bon." Hervé went in his pocket to grab his wallet and Raoul shook his head no as he wrapped an arm around the waste of his wife. Hervé nodded his thanks and slipped his wallet back into his back jean pocket.

"Et voila. Bon chance comme votre fete!" The three smiled.

"Merci bien. Bon apres-midi. Au revoir Cerise! Au revoir Raoul!" Hervé turned back into the crowds and continued walking down the street.

"Au revoir Hervé.” When he had made it a few feet away, he could faintly hear her voice in the distance, “Ah...ce garcon...tant pis." He shook his head in disdain and continued on his way.

I like. Is this a portion of a novel or novella? A nice lil short story?

[beckstra]

Not quite sure yet...I've been writing it at work when calls into the call center gets slow...

It was reeeeeeally slow last night.

…fortunately for you.

[Frieda]

i hope you're not asking me to translate that whole thing??

[beckstra]

No...the main character's just having a conversation in French with some French folk. The rest of the conversations in this story will be in English. I just wanted to differentiate between the two.

[Frieda]

i asked my parents for my dictionary, but they say they don't have it.. i wonder where it is. if i had one, i could do a lot better!