quinta-feira, 9 de abril de 2009

Nacos de prosa (9)

We’d finished discussing Bastille Day, and the teacher had moved on to Easter, which was represented in our text books by a black and white photograph of a chocolate bell lying upon a bed of palm fronds.
“And what does one do on Easter? Would anyone tell us?”
The Italian nanny was attempting to answer the teacher’s latest question when the Moroccan student interrupted, shouting, “Excuse me, but what’s an Easter?” It would seem that despite having grown up in a Muslim country, she would have heard it mentioned once or twice, but no. “I meant it,” she said. “I have no idea what you people are talking about.”
The teacher called upon the rest of us to explain. The Poles led the charge to the best of their ability. “It is,” said one, “a party for the little boy of God who call his self Jesus and… oh, shit.” She faltered and her fellow countryman came to her aid. The rest of the class jumped in, offering bits of information that would have given the pope an aneurysm.“He die one day and then he go above of my head to live with your father.” “He weared of himself the long hair and after he die, the first day he came back here for to say hello to the peoples.” “He nice the Jesus. “He make the good things, and on Easter we be sad because somebody makes him dead today.”

David Sedaris, (2000), Me talk pretty one day, Great Britain, Abacus.

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