An Antipodean Affair

By Valerie Barnes

Working as a simultaneous conference interpreter with United Nations,
Valerie Barnes travelled to India, Iran, Nigeria, Zambia and Zaire. She
also met and fell in love with Peter, an Australian delegate who had
decided to sail single-handed in a 22-foot yacht from England to
Australia to separate his past from his future.
While crossing the Atlantic, Peter was hit on the head by the boom, lost
the rudder off the coast of Venezuela, and was attacked by sharks in the
Pacific. He said he would write a book about it, but when he celebrated
his 87th birthday, she realized that would never happen. So she decided
to write the story herself with his help, using his log-book and
describing their experiences together during the five months she spent
with him in England, France, Spain, the Canaries, Barbados, Bequia and
Rarotonga.
Their story is often hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking. Rosy plans for
the future were shattered when Peter’s 24-year-old daughter, backpacking
in Sri Lanka, became ill and died. In his grief, he switched off his radio and thus became untraceable. Valerie flew to Tahiti and then Bora
Bora to look for him, but on both occasions he had already left. Just as
she was about to catch the plane back to Geneva, a yacht appeared on the
horizon. As it approached the wharf, she could smell frying bacon and
eggs. No Frenchman has bacon and eggs for breakfast. She knew it must be
an Englishman or an Australian. It was. Unwashed, unshaven, desperately
grief-stricken, standing on deck was Peter.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ReadOnTime BV
• Release date: Dec 5, 2012
• ISBN: 9781742842233

Valerie Barnes

Born in London, Valerie Barnes went to Geneva in 1948 to work for the newly-formed United Nations and eventually became a simultaneous interpreter working in English, French, Spanish and Russian. She travelled the world first-class, stayed in five-star hotels, ate at the best restaurants, drank the best wines, and rubbed shoulders with prime ministers, presidents, even princes and kings. She was kidnapped in Cairo and wooed by an African president who wanted her to become his fourteenth wife.But even champagne and caviar lost their charm after a while. Tired of airports and VIP treatment, designer clothes, luxury hotels, lavish cocktail parties and official dinners, Valerie fell in love with an Australian sailor in 1975 and discovered true happiness sailing on a 22-foot yacht around the Canary Islands, where the waves rose as high as houses. Later in the Pacific, she found herself wearing damp and creased clothes, having a bucket of seawater for a shower, being rationed to one glass of fresh water per day to brush her teeth, and having to shave the whiskers off the bread before turning it into toast for breakfast. But even when their boat was like a table-tennis ball bobbing up and down in the middle of the vast ocean, Valerie felt safe and secure when tucked into her sleeping bag on her bunk at night... once the strip of wood had been nailed into place to make sure she would still be there in the morning.In 2000, Valerie’s first book, Conference Interpreting: Principles and Practice for Australian University Language Departments, was published by Crawford House under her professional name, Valerie Taylor-Bouladon. This is now available from Amazon in print and as an e-book.In 2004, her first book of memoirs, A Foreign Affair: A Passionate Life in Four Languages, was published by Random House (Australia). It is now also available from Amazon in print and as an e-book.In 2005, her story, In Praise of Coffee, was included in an anthology (Take Me With You: Tales of Long Distance Love) published by Random House (Australia) in support of Oxfam.

Book preview

AN ANTIPODEAN AFFAIR

A second book of memoirs

by

Valerie Barnes

Smashwords Edition

An Antipodean Affair

Copyright © 2012 Valerie Barnes

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

The information, views, opinions and visuals expressed in this publication are solely those of the author(s) and do not reflect those of the publisher. The publisher disclaims any liabilities or responsibilities whatsoever for any damages, libel or liabilities arising directly or indirectly from the contents of this publication.

A copy of this publication can be found in the National Library of Australia.

ISBN: 978-1-742842-23-3 (pbk.)

Published by Book Pal

www.bookpal.com.au

Previously Published Books

Conference Interpreting, Principles and Practice, first published by Crawford House in 2000. Now available from Amazon in print and as an e-book (Kindle). (Published under her professional name, Valerie Taylor-Bouladon)

A Foreign Affair, A Book of Memoirs, A Passionate Life in Four Languages, first published by Random House Australia (Bantam) in 2004, now available from Amazon in print and as an e-book (Kindle)

In Praise of Coffee, in Take Me With You, Tales of Long Distance Love, published by Random House Australia (Bantam) in 2005

To Julie and the little black bird

Prologue

Through all the difficult times in my life I have taken comfort in writing a diary. Once all that had happened that day was written down I was relieved of its burden and could get on with the next day of my life with a clean slate.

A woman divorcing her husband was unheard of in my day, especially in Switzerland, and as for having a divorce party, that was a defiant, scandalous thing to do. I didn’t care what people thought but for several weeks afterwards there was much gossiping in the village; little groups gathered outside the dairy or the baker’s. People still found balloons caught in the overhang of their chalet roof or in the higher branches of the snow-laden fir trees. Many were curious about the Dixieland jazz they had heard wafting through the air, in spite of closed double glazed windows and thick winter curtains.

As a group of friends left after the party, treading carefully through the freshly fallen snow to get to their cars, Claude had pulled me aside. After kissing me on both cheeks, he put one arm round my shoulders and said in a fatherly voice:

Now don’t make the same mistake again: fall into the trap and remarry. Take lovers, let them buy you mink coats and expensive jewellery. Take you on lavish holidays to exotic islands. But keep your freedom. The world is your oyster so long as you are free.

Nothing would induce me ever to get married again, I had replied firmly, giving him a hug, before going back into the warm house where the band was still playing.

I kept my word for four years.

Through the steam rising from my mug of coffee as I sit writing thirty years later, I can see Silvia dancing, the night of my divorce party.

She wore the ‘little black dress’ everyone had to have in those days. She was a picture. It was ankle-length and fitted her like a glove, moulding her slim, young figure perfectly. Strapless, it was quite plain, elasticated at the top and the waist, slightly fuller in the skirt. It showed off her delicate features, her peaches and cream complexion, her long, pale fair hair, her pointed chin. She was tall yet dainty - I thought she looked like the Snow Princess.

She was just starting in the interpreting profession and rather unsure of herself but I knew one day she would make an excellent interpreter. I had invited her because I thought she was talented and would like a chance to get to know her new colleagues. She had several languages at her fingertips having lived in a number of countries. All she needed now was luck and a chance to make a name for herself. Not for all the tea in China would I want to be young, unsure and inexperienced again like Silvia. At fifty I was content with my life; free as a bird now with three loving children I could count on and a challenging yet satisfying career enabling me to earn enough to live well and travel.

When any of the top-ranking interpreting élite spoke to Silvia she blushed and even her neck coloured. She had arrived in a thick fur coat and knee-length fur-lined booths and spent some time in the cloakroom changing into her high-heeled black patent leather dancing sandals, combing her hair and touching up her makeup. When she reappeared I introduced her to everyone, made sure she had a glass of wine in her hand and food on her plate, and left her to make the most of her opportunities.

She had been noticed by a very tall, distinguished white-haired Englishman who was also a famous United Nations simultaneous interpreter. I watched him bow with a hint of a smile, asking her to dance. She coloured painfully and rose to her feet. The other couples on the dance floor stood back. If the all-powerful chief interpreter was going to dance, everyone wanted to watch.

He stood straight as a rod and twirled her to the right, then to the left, moving just one hand. She whirled this way and that; each time he caught her and sent her off in another spin. He was like an elegant, half-smiling, perfumed maypole, while she whirled round him like a yo-yo.

Suddenly, as we all watched, one small pink breast popped out of the top of her dress. It bobbed this way and that as she danced. It was difficult, try as I might, to take my eyes off it. Like most people watching, I was fascinated as it bobbed up and down, to the right and to the left, in time with the music.

When the music stopped, she whispered thank you and looked down shyly. In a flash she realized what had happened. With a cry she covered the breast with one hand and rushed out of the room. Her fur coat and handbag over one arm, boots in the other hand, she ran blindly out into the snow in her high-heeled sandals. We heard the snap of a car door and the engine starting up. Paralysed by what had happened, no-one spoke for a few moments. Then we heard the car drive off at full speed, skidding on the snow. The music started playing again and people rose to dance.

Divorce formalities entailed a considerable amount of paperwork. I had two weeks in which to change the name on my driving licence back to my maiden name hyphenated with my former married name, according to Swiss custom, which meant forms, photographs and queues. According to French law, I had to have my French passport changed to show only my maiden name - more forms, photographs and queues. My British passport remained in my married name, without specifying whether I was single, married or divorced. So in the end I had three official documents in three different names. Some years later, in spite of my confident words to Claude at the end of my divorce party, I added another passport to my collection by marrying an Australian and this one was in a fourth name. All these, together with my United Nations Laissez-Passer, meant that I needed quite a large handbag when travelling.....

I had no idea that my divorce would be published in the Official Swiss Gazette but this became apparent when I started receiving telephone calls from well-intentioned, lonely widowers inviting me round for an evening coffee. I also received an unexpected visit from a neighbour whose wife had, unknown to me, recently died. He thought it normal, mainly for reasons of economy, that we should get to know one another with a view to one of us moving in with the other.

At work, a list of interpreters’ names, with their telephone numbers, was generally posted at the entrance to the interpretation booths to enable rapid contact in an emergency, such as a last-minute change in the meeting schedule. I was now listed under my maiden name.

On the occasion of a Trade Conference, one of the high-ranking officials of the organization came along out of curiosity to see who the new interpreter was. He was a pleasant, affable fellow, who spoke with flair and wit - we had often exchanged jokes and comments about the meeting during coffee breaks.

When he saw the new name referred to me, he looked puzzled for a minute and then said: Oh, I see. You have divorced.

The Chairman called the meeting to order and he scuttled back to his seat on the podium while I slammed my headphones on as rapidly as I could and turned up the volume.

That afternoon when I left the building, I found him waiting outside.

I live in the next village to you, he said. It’s not far, and he proceeded to draw a map on the back of an envelope.

My wife is away for another two weeks, on holiday with the children in the South of France. All I can offer is a one night stand now and again. She goes away every summer for a month and for a fortnight at Easter. This is where you park your car, then you walk down this path. I’ll meet you there and show you the way. But a word of warning: you’ll have to be very quiet until we are past the au-pair’s room. She sleeps in the first bedroom just inside the front door.

I was too flabbergasted to say a word. You might think a simultaneous interpreter was never at a loss for words but alas! Had he invited me out to dinner, bought me flowers, as would have happened in my youth, I would have known how to handle the situation. I would have said I wasn’t free each time he asked and eventually he would have understood. But this direct approach took me off guard. I was outraged at his assumption that I would be willing and interested. Things had certainly changed during the twenty-seven years I had been married.

Better make it about nine, he added, as I stood there speechless. There’s a programme on television tonight I particularly want to see - it finishes at nine. So let’s say five past nine.

I was still paralysed and speechless as he walked away and drove off in his car.

That evening, as nine o’clock drew near, I wondered what to do. Looking at it now, I suppose I should just have left him to wait in vain. But as a child I had been indoctrinated by my parents always to be polite. I felt I had to tell him politely to his face that I was not interested. So I plucked up courage and drove to the appointed spot.

‘How about we start with a coffee in the village café?’ I suggested.

We did and he told a few jokes and, rather embarrassed, I clarified my position. We parted, fortunately on good terms and that was the end of that. Which was just as well because we often met at trade conferences in the years that followed and continued our friendly banter.

One thing about my divorce is etched in my mind for ever. It concerns a discussion I had over dinner with my three children just before it was officialized. All through those unhappy years I knew I had to get a divorce one day but a reasonable-sounding voice inside my head kept telling me I didn’t have the right to cause such an upheaval in the lives of my children and that I should at least wait until the youngest was fifteen. Now I had done so and invited them out to our favourite restaurant to inform them of what was about to happen. Their reaction amazed and horrified me. Each in turn said the same thing:

‘It would have been better if you had done this ages ago. We always understood what was going on and we hated to see you so unhappy. We would have preferred a happy mother and a more relaxed atmosphere at home without the arguments.’

If only someone had told me that all those years ago ....

CHAPTER 1

The next part of my life began with Mr. Gilbert and Mr. Sullivan. Their operettas have probably had an impact on many peoples’ lives. They certainly did on mine. In fact Ruddigore changed the direction of my life for ever.

Since childhood I have always enjoyed singing. As soon as an amateur operatic society was set up by United Nations staff in Geneva, I hastened to join. We staged ambitious productions with a full orchestra and magnificent costumes in the biggest and best theatres. Our musical director and orchestra conductor was Robert Cornman, an inspired and inspiring musician who was also rather crazy - enough to have the most innovative, artistic and unusual ideas for our productions. Amazingly, among the staff of UN were expert seamstresses, make-up artists, dancers, choreographers, musicians and singers from every corner of the globe, all bursting with enthusiasm to put on outstanding, creative shows. Perhaps it was a way of compensating for the bureaucracy that surrounded us.

Singing has also helped me enormously through the difficult times of my life, during my divorce proceedings and when my daughter, Stephanie, aged an innocent 17, ran away to Africa with the son of a French Count who looked at least a devious 40. She believed every word when he told her he had a terminal illness and only a few months to live; she would have done anything to make his last few months happy ones. Any disbelieving comment I made only seemed to reinforce her belief in him. But instead of a distraught forty-seven year old mother sitting by the telephone every evening hoping it would ring, twice a week I was a seventeen-year old maiden serenading the moon in the Mikado, which may well have saved my sanity. If anyone asked me how long she was away I would sincerely reply at least two years although when I look in my diary I see it was a mere ten months. It felt like a large chunk out of my life. But that is another story.

When we did The Gondoliers, I was able to put my flamenco dancing to good use and danced the Cachuca with Dimitri who was really Greek but his proud bearing and olive skin made him quite a believable Castillian.

The performances of Ruddigore happened to take place during an international telecommunications conference held in the brand new octagonal Geneva Conference Centre, referred to by the interpreters as ‘the bunker’. It had all the latest of everything, including sliding walls to separate the meeting rooms so they could be adapted to the size of the various committees, plenaries, etc. However, the technician who designed the simultaneous interpretation equipment had, for some reason, inverted the red and green lights so that whereas everywhere else green meant ‘go ahead, you are on the air’ and red: ‘Attention ! Your microphone is not switched on’, now it was the other way round. In the stress of interpreting rapid, nervous or difficult speakers and jumping from one language to another, we had no time to stop and think and were often under the impression we were on air until one of the delegates complained : ‘Mr.Chairman, there is no interpretation!’ On the other hand and far, far worse: delegates sometimes heard in their earphones private comments we made to one another, not intended for their ears ! I remember saying to my colleague Not again! That Belgian delegate never gets it first time round! only to realize in blushing shame that he had heard me. His face went as red as mine; he looked up at the booth indignantly. The tension of not being sure whether we were on air or not often put our nerves on edge; we pleaded in vain with the head technician but he decreed that it would be too complicated and costly to try to change the system throughout the building now the installation had been completed. He said we would just have to get used to it. We did in the end and everything was fine until we worked somewhere else, where it was back to the old system and we had to adapt once again in panic for the first few days.

Singing relieved the tension and on top of that I felt particularly slim and slinky on rehearsal nights because I stood next to fat Jaquie. All members of the cast were expected to help with publicity; I was given a dozen posters and a handful of flyers to place as well as a wad of tickets to sell.

In the centre of the ground floor of the ‘bunker’ was an information desk where Marie-Madeleine, a sophisticated and vivacious Hungarian with an amazing collection of clinking jewellery and long blood-red fingernails, held court. I was embarrassed to ask but she accepted the poster and flyers with enthusiasm. It was a six-week conference and the fifteen hundred or so delegates from the 127 member countries of United Nations (at that time) were far away from their families and friends. Cinemas and theatres in Geneva showed films and plays in French so delegates who spoke only English had nothing but the Pickwick, the English pub, for entertainment in the evenings. (To the best of my knowledge no translator has ever been rash enough to tackle the lyrics of G. and S.) The conference delegates jumped at the chance to see a show in English and when I crossed the main hall on my way from one meeting room to another I could see Marie-Madeleine’s red fingernails handing out tickets, pointing to the theatre on a street map and dialing to book taxis for them to share.

As I sat in my glass booth high up under the ceiling of the conference hall, I leant forward, concentrating on each word coming through my earphones. Down in the hall, facing me on the podium, sat the Chairman and five Vice-Chairmen behind their microphones; I could see the Chairman pressing one hand to his earphone for fear of missing a word. Between us the delegates sat at neat rows of tables with microphones placed at regular intervals; they had their backs to me and each wore a headphone.

From my high perch I cannot always see the faces down below clearly, unless I remember to take binoculars, so sometimes voices are all I have to go on: they are very important. I need to comprehend immediately what is being said and appreciate clarity and a calm delivery. This was the case with the Chairman that particular day and I also found the gentle, buttery warmth of his voice particularly attractive so, as the meeting progressed, I tried to make my voice sound as sexy as possible.

Although I always enjoy the challenge of simultaneous interpretion, I am thankful when the Chairman announces a coffee break. Like most of my colleagues I am addicted to coffee. Just as cars need petrol, interpreters need coffee to keep their brains fresh and alert and ready to tackle the unexpected: when a delegate takes the floor, there is no knowing what he is going to say. To this day if I haven’t had my mid-morning coffee I begin to fade, crumple, shrivel and gradually turn into a prune.

On the morning I have in mind, during just such a much-needed coffee-break, the man standing behind me in the coffee queue said something. At first I had no idea who he was and paid little attention. Delegates all look the same to me: dark suits, boring ties and the same weary expression on their faces. However in a flash I recognized the calm, buttery voice of the Committee Chairman for whom I had been trying to sound sexy, so I turned round and was struck by the intense blue of his eyes, their mischievous sparkle, his boyish look and handsome tan. It was only when reflecting later on our conversation that I understood the reason for his tan: he had just come from an Australian summer to our freezing, white Geneva winter. He introduced himself as ‘Peter’ and said he had seen someone rather like me on stage the previous evening in a production of Ruddigore.

‘She was rather like you to look at,’ he said, ‘but taller and slimmer. There was a definite resemblance though. Did you know you had a look-alike in Geneva?’

Amused, I let him waffle on a bit. Then I cut in to say:

‘It was me. I was in Ruddigore last night.’

He seemed confused so I explained that I was a member of the Geneva Gilbert and Sullivan society. His embarrassment was rather endearing. We chatted over coffee and I told him how I loved singing opera and jazz - especially scat - and in particular becoming a carefree 17-year old maiden twice a week - though sometimes I would have preferred to be Katisha in the Mikado so I could rant and rave to music instead of always being sweet and demure. I didn’t mention how lonely my life had become since my divorce. We talked until the meeting reconvened and I had to hurry to the lift up to the top floor, more determined than ever to make my voice sound as captivating as possible.

In the conference cafeteria later that week he asked if he could join me at lunch - I was sitting alone at a big table. Other Australian delegates soon joined us, all eager to know how simultaneous interpretation worked. Each time a delegate spoke in Russian, French or Spanish they could hear it in English in their earphones; they couldn’t understand how we could finish the sentence at the same time as the speaker. Nor how we decided who would interpret what. I began to explain but suddenly, out of the window, I noticed big black clouds gathering. So as soon as I had finished eating I jumped up and, apologising, said it looked like rain and I had to dash home to bring in the washing.

‘Let me come and help’ one of the Australians offered (not Peter) so we rushed out of the building, leapt into my turquoise Fiat 127 and shot off along the autoroute at 140 kms an hour to get to my village, Versoix, seven kilometres away along the lake, before the rain came down. We made it and were back at the conference just in time for the two o’clock meeting.

That was the start of our little Australian group. I sensed how much they missed home. Most of the telecommunications conferences in those days lasted a month or six weeks and after a week or so of hotel life even a simple domestic chore like bringing in the washing was a welcome reminder of home.

During the first week of a conference, the biggest delegations hosted a reception to help everyone get to know one another. When it was the Australians’ turn one of them asked me for a list of interpreters’ names so they too could be sent invitations. In those days there were very few women delegates. ‘All male cocktail parties are getting rather boring’, he said.

The Australian party was held at the Vieux Bois, a restaurant on the hill behind the Palais des Nations, the European headquarters of the UN. As leader of the delegation, Peter stood at the entrance to greet guests as they arrived but he was particularly kind to me, finding me a glass of wine and introducing me to everyone and I thought how considerate, polite and charming he was.

He confided that he had a lot of difficulty getting the point of what the elderly Mexican delegate was saying.

‘I sit there with my pen poised, intent upon taking notes for my report, but there seems to be nothing I can pin down, no bottom line, just words. Do you understand what he is getting at ?’

I had interpreted this particular delegate many times.

‘He says everything three times,’ I explained. ‘In fact he is just thinking aloud. By the third time round his thoughts are clearer and he has a better idea what he wants to say. Just wait for the third time.’

When I said goodbye at the end of the evening we shook hands and he asked:

‘If I invited you out to lunch, would you accept?’

‘I might,’ I replied, walking away to hide my smile.

After that, each morning upon arrival when I hurried to consult the notice-board in the interpreters’ room to see what my assignments were for the day, I secretly hoped that I would be working with the group chaired by Peter of the buttery Australian voice that made maritime distress signals sound almost interesting. Sometimes I was lucky. I even rather wished I had a cold - someone had once said that a husky voice in the microphone sounded really sexy.

The six-week conference was finally drawing to a close. As usual we worked long hours during the last week. There were night meetings until the early hours as Committee Chairmen realized how far behind schedule they were and that the deadline for signing the Final Acts was fast approaching and could not be postponed. We were all overworked, tired and irritable but after a lot of arguing in the Plenary about ‘should’ versus ‘shall’ and ‘might’ versus ‘may’, the texts were finally approved and just had to be printed for the Signing Ceremony. We could all relax at last. On the evening before the ceremony, the Australian delegation invited me to the Hotel Longchamp, where they were all staying. The occasion was a bottle-emptying party: everyone brought the last of their duty-free supplies to be finished. I wore my favourite mauve dress but the evening was a disappointment - Peter wasn’t there. He had been called away to a Future Policy Meeting with the president of the Conference.

The Final Acts were signed in extremis around midnight on