The Language Game

The 200 or so convention delegates and guests were milling sociably about in the grand ballroom of the hotel, waiting for the contest to begin. Under the supervision of an assistant hotel manager, waiters were arranging chairs in rows to face a large table on which had been set some glasses and a carafe of mineral water. "Ashtrays, ashtrays," ordered the assistant manager, snapping his fingers. Two waiters obediently hastened off to bring some. The assistant manager narrowly surveyed the scene. Everything was almost ready. He allowed himself a few moments to listen to nearby conversations. He couldn't understand a word, though. It was all Greek to him--Greek and Lord knew what else, such a confusion of tongues as hadn't been heard since the Tower of Babel itself, he supposed. These language professors--wasn't plain English good enough for them?

There were two chairs side by side at the large table. One was empty. At the other sat a slender, youngish man who kept plucking at his goatee. His name was Chao-Gomez and he was wishing that he were anywhere other than where he was. The idea of having a language game had begun as a sort of joke--but it wasn't funny now. He'd been tricked. The joke would be at his expense. He glanced at the crowd of delegates, now beginning to take seats. Yes, there was his nemesis, Porter, already smirking in triumph--and there, too, not far away, was Dr. Katkov's daughter, Sonia, for the sake of whose dimples and curves Chao-Gomez was about to undergo professional mortification. She smiled at him. He tried to smile back.

"Will everyone please find a seat?" asked Professor Stein, the elderly chairman of the convention. He was standing beside Chao-Gomez' chair. Nearby was a large world map on a stand and a blackboard. "We have a little surprise in store for you this evening, fellow linguists and guests," Professor Stein announced, when he was assured that his audience was ready. "We are about to offer you a diversion which I trust will both amuse and instruct you, and--if I am permitted a prediction--may very well become a permanent feature of future international conventions. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, eh?" Professor Stein chuckled and placed one hand on Chao-Gomez' shoulder. "For this evening's entertainment, we are indebted to this young gentleman here, whom some of you may know for his interesting monograph on Brythonic usages--Professor Chao-Gomez of the University of Dublin."

There was a polite murmur of applause. Chao-Gomez managed a deprecatory smile.

"We had expected," Professor Stein went on, "to present to you, as Professor Chao-Gomez' opponent, the man who devised this little game for our enjoyment--Professor L. K. Porter, Jr., of Stanford----"

Chao-Gomez cast a bitter look at Porter there in the audience. The sleek devil had managed to find a seat next to Sonia.

"But, unfortunately," Professor Stein continued, "a last-minute attack of laryngitis has forced Professor Porter to withdraw, much to his regret."

It was a lie, thought Chao-Gomez. Porter'd planned it that way.

"Luckily, however, Professor Porter has been able to provide us with a substitute." Professor Stein hesitated, glancing about the ballroom. For a moment, Chao-Gomez was seized by a wild hope--perhaps a traffic accident, a tumble from a high window? But no, alas. There came his adversary now, trudging portentously through the far doorway. Already, heads were beginning to turn. "A man who needs no introduction," boomed Professor Stein, "our distinguished former chairman, whose honors are too numerous to mention, Professor Otto von Kaunitz of Heidelberg, the Sorbonne, Oxford, Tokyo and Yale." Chao-Gomez shuddered. Old Von Kaunitz was advancing like doom itself. Languages by the dozen were packed into that bulbous bald dome. It was said that he'd learned Sanskrit before his eighth birthday and the entire Osco-Umbrian group by the age of 12. Chao-Gomez stood as Von Kaunitz approached.

The old man contemptuously gave him one finger to shake, clicked his heels to Professor Stein, favored the assembled linguists with a supercilious stare and sat down abruptly, screwing his monocle tightly in place.

Chao-Gomez sat down, too. He had to. His legs were shaky. He should have withdrawn when Porter did, but it was impossible now. How cleverly Porter had maneuvered him! In Sonia's presence, he'd been too proud to back down. Of course, he'd never really believed that Von Kaunitz would condescend to take part in a game of this sort--but then he'd remembered, too late, a rather critical review he'd written of a Von Kaunitz article on Frisian gutturals. The old elephant never forgot nor forgave. Now--vengeance!

Professor Stein was explaining the rules. They were fairly simple. The two adversaries would merely engage each other in conversation, moving from one language or dialect to another in geographical progression. Experts would be called up from the audience to act as judges for each language and would grade the contestants on a point system as to their respective skills. The victor of any particular stage would have the privilege of initiating the next move on the map, provided only that it was to some adjacent region or country.

"Any recognized language or dialect--living, dead or moribund--is permissible," said Professor Stein, in conclusion. "First man to reach one thousand points is the winner. A special bonus of one hundred points will be awarded to the contestant who shuts his opponent out in any language--that is, if the opponent is unable to respond at all. Ready, gentlemen?"

Von Kaunitz merely sneered. Chao-Gomez nodded. His throat was dry. He was, for the moment, speechless. Hardly a promising sign.

"Very good," said Professor Stein. "If you will permit me to discover our starting point by means of chance----" He took a small dart from his pocket, stepped off ten paces from the map, turned and flung the dart at it. He returned to the map. "England," he announced, repocketing the dart. "And now to see who goes first." He produced a coin. "Call it in the air, please."

"Heads," snapped Von Kaunitz.

But it was tails.

"Professor Chao-Gomez begins," said Professor Stein, "in England."

Chao-Gomez hesitated. Modern English itself would be a waste of time. Both he and Von Kaunitz were flawless there. He glanced at the map. If he could only hold the initiative and force Von Kaunitz to remain in the British Isles for a time, he ought to be able to pick up valuable points. His five years at Dublin undoubtedly would give him an edge in the Celtic groups.

He began, however, Germanically, employing the West Saxon dialect of Old English. ("Judge, please," said Professor Stein, and Dr. Middling of Cambridge, the acknowledged Old English expert, arose and made his way forward to the judge's chair.)

Von Kaunitz handled the West Saxon with ease, nor did he evidence any discomfort when Chao-Gomez switched to Mercian, then Northumbrian and, finally, Kentish. It was only when Chao-Gomez plunged into his first Brythonic--Old Welsh--that his opponent faltered a bit. (Dr. Middling retired at this point, being replaced by Professor Morgan of Cardiff.)

Professor Stein chalked the points on the blackboard: Chao-Gomez had 40; Von Kaunitz, 32.

As Chao-Gomez pressed on to Manx and Old Irish, he became more aware of the dangers of his position. After Celtic, what? He realized that he must keep the game away from central Europe at all costs. He was fluent in German, of course, but he dared not cross the Rhine in company with Von Kaunitz--the old Prussian would scourge him with one dialect after another from Westphalia to Silesia and then, if there were anything left, would beat him to death with glottal stops in dark Slavic wildernesses.

Where could he go? The northern route to the Western Hemisphere was blocked by Icelandic. He decided, therefore, that if he could hold the old man off through France until he reached Spain and Portugal, then he might jump to Brazil. He'd done his doctorate on tribal tongues of the upper Amazon. Surely, Von Kaunitz would draw a blank there.

Ah, but Von Kaunitz was cunning--and, more than that, annoyed. The young upstart had bested him in Old Cornish and then, crossing the Channel, had given him a painful dose of Middle Breton. His throat rumbled ominously and his dueling scars flushed pink.

Professor Stein made another trip to the blackboard. Chao-Gomez 175, Von Kaunitz 120.

But they were leaving Celtic territory. Chao-Gomez sought in vain to drive from Gaulish to Basque, but Von Kaunitz stopped him with a vigorous counterattack in Old French, laying down a barrage of nasal phonemes of stunning accuracy and power.

The initiative had changed hands. Chao-Gomez fought a desperate defensive battle in Middle French, but there was no holding Von Kaunitz now. He was marching steadily through all the langue d'oïl variations, almost from village to village, and Chao-Gomez realized that if they reached Lorraine, where Von Kaunitz had spent youthful summers (continued on page 258)The Language Game(continued from page 148) idly mastering peasant dialects, then Germany would be but a hop, skip and umlaut away.

Expert replaced expert in the judge's seat. Professor Stein's right sleeve was powdered with chalk dust. Von Kaunitz had seized the lead, 310 points to 250. He was the master now--and he used his advantage with arrogant confidence, intent not simply on defeating Chao-Gomez but on humiliating him. Thus, instead of hammering directly east toward the Reich, he made an unexpected turning movement north of Paris, possibly in linguistic imitation of the famous Schlieffen war plan, and began pummeling his young challenger in a southerly direction, as though to demonstrate that he could triumph without any recourse to German whatever.

Chao-Gomez mopped his brow. The Amazon seemed hopelessly remote. Von Kaunitz was sweeping him into Provence. Surely, the old man wouldn't enter Spain! That would be too much to hope for--and so it proved; for after a bitter struggle at Marseilles (in which some of Chao-Gomez' rejoinders in waterfront patois brought blushes to the cheeks of Mme. Duval, seated in the front row), Von Kaunitz forced his way through the Alpes-Maritimes and crossed into Italy.

Chao-Gomez poured another glass of mineral water. His hand trembled slightly. The old man's intentions were clear now. He'd harry his victim over the Lombardy plain and then cut him to ribbons along the Dalmatian coast. If more were needed, Bulgaria would be close at hand: Chao-Gomez could be dissected at leisure by the finer points of Old Church Slavonic.

Score: Von Kaunitz 595, Chao-Gomez 350.

The chandeliers blazed pitilessly down, glinting like snowy Piemontese peaks in the Alpine sun. As Chao-Gomez floundered amid subjunctive inflections, Von Kaunitz pushed forward inexorably--not for nothing had he spent three wartime winters in Italy on Kesselring's staff! At Milan, Chao-Gomez tried to make a stand, but the old warrior dislodged him with staccato vernacular bursts, wheezing with ill-concealed glee.

Now the Veneto. Venice itself would be Chao-Gomez' last chance before he was propelled into eastern Europe. If only, like Marco Polo, he could survive the barbarian wastes to reach Cathay! His childhood years in Kwangtung had given him a native fluency in his mother's Cantonese, and later he had acquired a familiarity with others in the Sino-Tibetan group; but at the same time, he reflected that Von Kaunitz, during his decade in the Orient (1925--1935), would not have neglected the opportunity to master Mandarin, at the very least. Not that it mattered: The blackboard, visible past the polished skull of Dr. Innocenti in the judge's chair, showed Von Kaunitz well up into the 600s, a fact that likewise was registered by the smile of satisfaction on Porter's face. Sonia wasn't smiling, though. She was regarding Chao-Gomez with a certain moody nostalgia, as though she, too, were remembering that it had been in Venice, during last year's convention, that they had met--Venice, where they had wandered hand in hand beside the Grand Canal and danced across the Rialto to the music of some midnight accordion! Ah, but it was a far different Venice now--an abstract lingual city through whose labyrinthine alleys Chao-Gomez retreated before the methodical fury of the Teutonic invader. This time, he was alone--or was he? Sonia's gaze seemed urgent, almost as though she were seeking to direct him.

Then he remembered. Of course. He'd accepted the challenge of young Volpi then--he always seemed to be taking wild dares when Sonia was around--and had learned ancient Venetic over a weekend (a Pyrrhic victory, as it turned out; for while he remained closeted with grammars and dictionaries, Volpi had been free to court Sonia).

Venetic was worth a try, even though Von Kaunitz might very well know it, too. But would there be a legitimate opening for it?

There was. Unwittingly, Von Kaunitz employed a phrase that was virtually identical in both the old and the modern tongues. Chao-Gomez swiftly responded in Venetic--and the old man hesitated, essayed a feeble response or two, and then, with a scowl, broke off. For the first time since Middle Breton, Chao-Gomez had won a clear victory. It was only a skirmish, true, and it could not possibly alter the outcome, but still it emboldened him, and he flashed Sonia a thankful glance. Her expression hadn't changed, though. Was she trying to tell him something else? Unlikely--she had nothing to offer him, in a professional sense. Although her father was renowned in Kasubian studies, she herself was at home only in her native Belorussian. Her French, for example, was execrable, and her English wretched. Not that this troubled her. She treated language as though it were merely a means of communication. She couldn't seem to take it seriously.

Chao-Gomez returned reluctantly to the battle. He had the initiative now--but where to go with it? Cautiously, he moved south, outdueling Von Kaunitz at Bologna and hacking a skillful path through the heavily aspirated consonants of the Tuscan countryside. All roads led to Rome, but Chao-Gomez feared his rival would maneuver him into Latin there and stone him with ornamented periods. Instead, he leapfrogged the Tyrrhenian Sea to Sardinia. It was a perilous diversion. Von Kaunitz tried to drive him north toward Corsica; Chao-Gomez held on grimly at Cagliari, praying at least for a draw.

There was a disagreement. Dr. Riva, occupying the judge's chair, awarded a slight edge to Von Kaunitz, but his decision was challenged from the audience by Professor Fiumi, whose view was supported by Drs. Stecchi and Pietre, both recognized Sardinian authorities. Dr. Riva was outnumbered; on the other hand, he was the judge. Professor Stein sought to calm the disputants, who began so strenuously to exploit the invective wealth of their respective provincial idioms that, perhaps fortunately, none could be understood. "Please, gentlemen," admonished Professor Stein, in vain. Fiumi was raging. Riva held firm. Chao-Gomez eyed the blackboard. Von Kaunitz had an apparently insurmountable lead: 735 points to 540.

"This situation doesn't seem to be covered by Professor Porter's rules," Professor Stein announced finally, breaking into the Italianate uproar, "but we've got to proceed anyway. I hope there'll be no objection if I declare a draw in this case. Initiative remains with Chao-Gomez."

As Dr. Riva wrathfully departed the judge's chair, Porter got to his feet. "I'm sorry, but the judge's decision----" he began loudly. He stopped, flushed red and sat down again. He'd forgotten about his laryngitis.

Now the way was clear to Spain. Chao-Gomez leaped to the Baleares, thence to Valencia on the mainland. He scored as heavily in Iberia as his opponent had in Gaul, but it was no simple matter, for Von Kaunitz had traveled Catalonia in 1938 as an observer with Franco's armies; in Castilian regions, moreover, he was able to put forth an authoritative lisp. Chao-Gomez crossed the Tagus in a gloomy frame of mind. He had narrowed the old man's lead, but it wouldn't be enough. Von Kaunitz would surely top the 1000 mark long before Brazil could be traversed and the Amazon attained. Chao-Gomez glanced in Sonia's direction. She was stifling a yawn--hardly a sight to inspire heroic endeavors. He supposed she didn't really care if he lost. It was just a boring game to her. Even last night, when he'd tried to interest her in Goidelic chants, she'd complained that they were much too hard, and then had teased him:

"I know a language you don't know," she'd said in what she assumed was correctly pronounced English.

"Nonsense, dear girl," Chao-Gomez had responded.

"It's true. And it takes only a minute to learn it."

Chao-Gomez had smiled at her indulgently.

"I'll teach you," Sonia had persisted, and he perked up, for it occurred to him that she might be speaking metaphorically of the language of love.

But he'd been disappointed. It had merely been a joke. And then Porter had come prowling into the dim corner of the lobby where they were sitting----

Disaster in Lisbon! Chao-Gomez, meditating on Sonia, had been careless with his labials. Von Kaunitz unexpectedly tripped him up, caught him, slipped past him--and by the time Chao-Gomez became aware of his lapse, it was too late. Professor Cabral, somewhat reluctantly, signaled a Prussian advantage. This time, there were no protests from the audience.

Chao-Gomez sat horrified. Beside him, Von Kaunitz uttered a triumphal grunt. No chance of Brazil or the Amazon now! Von Kaunitz was the one to make a transatlantic hop--and he chose French-speaking Martinique, as poor Chao-Gomez could have guessed.

The old man began cruising the Caribbean with masterly adroitness, choosing a course designed to bypass every Spanish-speaking territory. Instead of moving north into the Leewards, where Puerto Rico would block his way, he tacked south through the British Windwards (where Chao-Gomez could achieve no better than a draw), made a refueling stop, so to speak, at Dutch Curaçao, tantalizing his opponent with glimpses of the Venezuelan coast, and then steamed northwest to Haiti. They disputed in Creole there, but it was French Creole and the old pirate held his advantage. From there, he shot the Windward Passage past Cuba and picked his way among the Bahamas before making his entry into the United States.

The game was all but finished. Even as Chao-Gomez won a narrow and unexpected victory in the Moravian enclave at Winston-Salem, North Carolina, he realized the hopelessness of his position. He had done rather well--much better than he had hoped to do--but Von Kaunitz led him on the blackboard, 995 to 900. The old scholar would easily pick up his last five points no matter where the next battlefield might be. The tribal tongues of the American Indians were known to him from exhaustive studies at Yale in the 1950s; likewise, he had extensive familiarity with all forms of Spanish American, not to mention Incan and other pre-Columbian languages.

Chao-Gomez had but one chance--an impossible one: to win the 100-point bonus by shutting Von Kaunitz out entirely.

But how? Was there any available language within geographical striking range in which Von Kaunitz would be totally stranded, unable to utter a single syllable?

Chao-Gomez sat in silence. He had lost, that was all. He had avoided humiliation, at least, but there was little comfort in that reflection now.

"Want to call it quits?" That was Von Kaunitz' voice in his ear. Spitefully, the old man had spoken in Aztec, to let him know that there would be no escape anywhere south of the Rio Grande.

Chao-Gomez saw that Sonia was gazing at him intently and making little motions with her restless hands. What, was she urging him to try sign language? But Von Kaunitz knew sign language perfectly well. He frowned at her, perplexed. No, she didn't mean that. She meant something else. She framed words with her lips: Remember what I taught you last night.

He recoiled. No--that would be out of the question. He could never do that.

Sonia was smiling now, certain that he knew what she meant. He firmly shook his head, but she nodded back at him. You've got to, she mouthed.

Everyone was becoming a little impatient. Professor Stein glanced pointedly at his watch.

Von Kaunitz leaned close again. "Might as well give up," he whispered, in Mayan this time.

That did it. Chao-Gomez was stirred by desperation and rage. "Ixnay," he declared. "Evernay."

Von Kaunitz stared at him, puzzled. So did Professor Stein.

"Etslay eepkay oinggay," said Chao-Gomez, recklessly.

There was silence in the ballroom as learned professors pondered these strange phrases. All that could be heard were faint sounds of smothered mirth from Sonia's handkerchief, clapped to Sonia's mouth.

"Ontday ooyay ohnay isthay unway?" inquired Chao-Gomez, himself threatened by laughter.

Von Kaunitz began rapidly reviewing all possibilities. It must be some Indian tongue. Ojibway? No, not that. Nor Sioux. Seminole? Hardly. Conceivably, Algonquin----

"Aybemay ooyay ouldshay itquay, otnay eemay," remarked Chao-Gomez, with easy fluency.

Great pearls of sweat gleamed on Von Kaunitz' brow. He winced so in concentration that his monocle almost vanished. Navaho? Pueblo? Apache, possibly. No, it sounded more like Hopi, and yet it couldn't be that, either----

"Urryhay, imestay eerlynay ongay," said Chao-Gomez.

Von Kaunitz was turning interesting shades of pink and gray. He was sifting frantically through everything he knew. Was it Eskimo? Toltec? Had Chao-Gomez jumped back across the Atlantic to Africa? But it wasn't Bantu or Berber; it had no relation to Amharic, Fulah, Swahili or Ibo----

Professor Stein felt it was time to proceed. "Judge, please," he requested. He glanced at the experts on Indian tongues, but Dr. Freemantle shook his head, Professor Cuttle shrugged his shoulders and Dr. Laughing Horse frowned in perplexity.

"We've got to have a judge," Professor Stein complained. "Otherwise, we can hardly validate----"

Sonia rose, pink-cheeked. Still struggling for composure, she walked toward the judge's chair. "Ooyay inway," she told Chao-Gomez, as she passed.

"Ivgay imhay unway ormay ancechay," said Chao-Gomez.

But Von Kaunitz was in the last extremities of his search. He was ransacking far continents now. Was it Gondi, was it Pushtu? Zulu, Tagalog or Tamil? Quechua or Urdu or Wu?

"It's pig latin," announced Sonia, as judge. "It's an American dialect, widely used by the young." She giggled. "One hundred points for Dr. Chao-Gomez. He wins."

The ballroom was in an uproar. Pig latin? Some of the professors dimly remembered it from childhood; many had never heard of it. Gray beards wagged and bald domes wrinkled. Von Kaunitz sat in stony bemusement, as though he were deep within the chancellery bunker, only dimly aware of the Russian artillery.

"My dear Miss Katkov," said Professor Stein. "I must point out that you are merely a guest at this convention and, therefore, unless you can provide us with corroboration from some member of the society itself----"

"I can, I can," said Sonia. "He taught me pig latin yesterday." She had gotten up. She was pointing at someone. "He told me all about it." She was pointing at Porter. "Idntday ooyay?" she demanded.

Porter rose to his feet. He knew when he was beaten. "Esyay," he admitted.

So Chao-Gomez won--and much later in the evening, after the lights in the ballroom had dimmed and the guests departed, he and Sonia celebrated by holding a long private conversation in yet another language, one that was remarkably free from inflected verbs and diminutive suffixes and all that admirable nonsense, and in which each of them was, happily, quite fluent.