Tell Me About It

A few summers ago at a beachside bar in Bahia I met an older German named Ernst. A retired anesthesiologist on annual leave from his marriage, Ernst said he had chosen Brazil for just this sort of thing: cold beer at the beach. Because Ernst referenced the extramarital nature of his trip several times over, it was possible to suspect other motives, but no need to go into them. Instead I asked Ernst if he would recommend Germany as a place to visit. I had never much wanted to go to Germany and didn’t much now, but it was something to talk about. Ernst said Germany was a wonderful place to visit — but for the turkeys.

“Turkeys?” I said.

“They are everywhere. They come into the country and commit the crimes. They are a big problem.” Ernst tightened his lips, shook his head. He was really concerned about this.

I was, too. I felt sure the turkey was native to the States; I knew for certain it had made the short list for national bird. But of course you can raise turkeys just about anywhere, and prepositions are a notorious sticking point for ESL speakers: maybe Ernst meant turkeys were coming in from the country. Breaking free of their farms, descending upon the cities. But still… what kind of problem did turkeys pose for law enforcement? What crime could a turkey commit?

“Turkeys?” I said again. I had to make sure Ernst and I understood each other.  “Committing crimes?”

“Yes,” said Ernst. “This is what I said. Turkeys. They are everywhere.”

What my sporting friends back in South Carolina would give to have this kind of problem — a turkey problem. I told Ernst that in the States, we were trying to bring the turkey population back. That there were groups dedicated to protecting them.

“Turkeys?” said Ernst.

“Turkeys. You know — ‘gobble gobble’?”

Ernst squinted hard at me. “What does this mean, ‘gobble gobble’?”

“It’s what a turkey says. ‘Gobble gobble’. Right?”

“I do not know what they say. I do not understand them when they speak. This is another problem. They do not speak the language.”

Ernst didn’t look drunk. Maybe he was some kind of bird whisperer. “What language?” I said.

“Our language. German. Or English. They even do not speak English.”

“Oh.” Maybe I was drunk.

“I do not understand something,” Ernst said.

“Tell me about it.”

“Yes. I will tell you. I do not understand: in America you protect them? Turkeys?”

A challenge, but easier than having conversations with them, I might have said. “So people can hunt them. We protect them so people can hunt them. Ironic, I know, but that’s modern times for you.”

The paradox seemed to alarm Ernst. His eyes wide, he glanced nervously about the bar, as if making sure we were not being watched. “Hunt them?” he said quietly. “Turkeys?”

Was that really so odd? I knew Europe to be more sensible when it came to carrying firearms around, but surely people there still hunted once in a while. “They have a certain season for them,” I explained. “I think it’s only like a month. During that month, you can hunt them. I’ve never been, but my cousin is into it. Turkeys are delicious, fried in peanut oil.”

Ernst leaned in close. “I think there is a misunderstanding,” he said.

“What? Really, they’re good. Maybe you should export them. There’s a solution for you.”

“I — hope there is a misunderstanding,” said Ernst. “I do not think you hunt people in the United States. I hope no.”

“Who people? We’re talking about turkeys, right? Big brown birds?”

“Birds? What is this birds?”

“Gobble gobble?”

“The people of Turkey are not birds. They are dangerous and strange, but they are not birds.”

People of Turkey.

Duh.

“Turks!” I said.

“Turks?” said Ernst. “What is this?”

“It’s how we say ‘people of Turkey’ in English. We say ‘Turks’. Or ‘Turkish people.’”

“Ah… Turks.”

“Exactly. Turks are coming in and committing crimes. Turks are strange and dangerous. Is what you’re saying.”

Ernst leaned back, relaxed. “No ‘turkeys’.”

“A turkey is a bird. Big and brown. It goes ‘gobble gobble,’ at least when it’s speaking English.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“They are kind of strange looking, what with the big round body and the little wrinkled head, but as far as I know, they’re not especially dangerous.”

“Yes. You hunt birds. Okay.”

“Yes.”

This might have been a good moment for Ernst and me to each consider how the conversation must have sounded to the other, and then share a laugh. But Ernst still did not look entirely convinced of my sanity, and in light of the judgment he’d been laying on an entire population, I wasn’t entirely convinced of his. You might say that making ourselves perfectly clear had not really cleared things up at all. In the end Ernst confirmed what I had meant to say, that in my country sometimes we protect animals in order to shoot them; I confirmed what he had meant to say, that most of the problems in his country can be blamed on another country; and with nary a nod to a proper segue, we got to talking about the weather.

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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel OUTBOUND. His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.