Gestures Speak Louder than Words

When I was a kid, there was a TV show called The Twilight Zone. It was a black and white forerunner of The X Files but much better. Recently I was reminded of an episode during a tour of Fontfroide Abbey. In this episode, a freckle-faced American boy suspected there was something odd about his new neighbours. Their behaviour was just a little off. He couldn’t figure out why and decided to investigate. One evening he crept over to their house and hid behind a bush to spy on the family through the curtains. They were eating dinner together in a pleasant dining room. He watched them laughing, nodding and gesturing in conversation. They were like every other middle class American family. He crept closer to have a better look and saw the daughter pass the salt to her mother. The boy’s eyes narrowed. Something was not right. He realized that the mother hadn’t actually requested the salt. Hmm. He watched some more and realized that, in fact, they weren’t actually speaking to each other. His brain began to spin. This was really weird. The family was communicating but their mouths weren’t moving. The boy’s jaw dropped as he put two and two together. The family could read minds! To this freckle-faced American boy of the fifties, this could mean only one thing. It was his scariest nightmare come true. He spun on his heels and tore up the street shouting “They’re MARTIANS!”

The guide on this tour looked a bit like Mr. Bean and wore a trim-fitting black jacket. He had heavy black-framed glasses that he repeatedly removed to clean. He was obviously an expert. As we waited for him to begin, I realized that I’d forgotten to change my shoes and was still wearing my camper slippers. Besides looking foolish, my feet were freezing. Finally he began. The wind was icy but he warmed to his topic and was unperturbed by our chattering teeth. He spoke fluently and expressively but, as he spoke French, I couldn’t follow very much. My mind drifted. I stopped listening and watched only his gestures which, as he was French, were fluent and expressive.

He had fine white hands, like a girl and they were constantly in motion. To give emphasis, they chopped the air or raised up in supplication. To illustrate points they acted as a scale weighing imaginary objects or cupped a “deaf” ear. Once they pretended to write with a quill. His index finger waved back and forth in remonstrance Then it rubbed avariciously against his thumb. Then it jabbed the air with anger. Later, it joined his middle finger to walk up a ladder.

It was a marvellous performance and the audience were held (yes) in the palm of his hand. Despite the cold, the 10 or so French people on the tour listened with attention and appreciation. I watched their faces too. They were solemn but with a light of appreciation for the guide’s scholarship. Even the girl who looked like a capuchin monkey (owing to her mousey face being ringed by the extravagant fur-edge on the hood of her coat) twitched her nose with interest. Occasionally, one would ask a lengthy but insightful question. The guide nodded to praise the excellence of the question and replied with care and precision. The questioner nodded back his acceptance of the answer and made a brainy bon mot to end the exchange. They chuckled collegiately and everyone twittered along. It was all very civilized. I watched with the dull eyes of incomprehension. The French can be so intimidating. They’re so stylish and self-assured. I scraped the frost from my glasses to admire them. Then I got tired of that and wished the tour would end. My feet were really frozen now and I stomped my slippers for warmth.

Which brings me back to the Twilight Zone. If that episode is turned the other way around and a Martian comes down to spy on us, I hope he goes on this tour. These are the people I’d like him to see and be our earthly representatives. He may not understand the words they say but he can watch the faces and gestures. If his tour is like mine, he’ll have to conclude that human beings are a congenial and intelligent species. We’ll win a respected place in the galaxy. That’s what I hope. However, he may see it another way. This may be his scariest nightmare come true. As comprehension dawns, he’ll spin on the heels of his slippers and rocket back to his planet shouting, “They’re FRENCH!”