Lost in Translation

“I have a surprise for you,” she said. “What is it?” I asked. “Now it wouldn’t be a surprise if I tell you over the phone,” she laughed, “get in the cab and meet me at the Palace Theatre.”

When I arrived, she passed me a fresh mango juice, “we’ll go out for dinner later,” she grabbed my hand, and led me into the theatre. “What are we watching?” I asked. “That’s the surprise,” she kissed me on my cheek, and we walked in. A Chinese trailer was playing on the big screen. I hope we’re not here to watch a Chinese movie, I thought. Not that I despise the Chinese cinema, but when you’re in China, watching a Chinese film, you don’t get any English subtitles.

“Give me a hint,” I looked at her. “It’s about something you love,” she held my hand. “Photography?” I smiled. She shook her head, and giggled. “Sex?” She pulled her hand away, and pinched my arm, “why do you have to be so dirty all the time.”

The trailer ended, the screen went black, and I heard someone chew popcorn with their mouth open. I turned around to look at the person behind me, but my friend squeezed my thigh, “it’s starting,” she whispered. As soon as the movie began, I shook my head, and looked at my friend. “What?” she shrugged her shoulders. “It’s in Spanish,” I said. “No, it’s not,” she said, “maybe just a few lines.”

But it wasn’t just a few lines, the whole film was in Spanish, apart from a short English monologue by the legendary American musician, Ry Cooder. I knew because I had watched the film, Buena Vista Social Club two decades ago in a theatre in Chicago. At the time, it was a huge deal. The film was nominated for many awards, including an Oscar. Though my friend was right about one thing, the film was about something l loved, which was music. And the Cuban music in the film was out of this world.

After the first ten minutes, my friend whispered that we didn’t have to sit through it, we could just leave. But I was already enticed by the soundtrack. Let me try something, I pulled up the Baidu translation app on my phone, and scanned the Chinese subtitles. It worked! Although it was a bit tedious, it solved the problem somehow.

Until we saw a few people walk up the stairs of the cinema hall with their flash lights on. Late comers, I thought. But then they entered our row, which was already full. “Are we in the right seats?” I asked my friend. “I think so,” she said. The people with flash lights stopped in front of me, said something in Chinese, and pulled my phone from my hands. “What the fuck!” I stood up. They went back down the stairs, so I hopped my way through the darkness. My friend followed me.

As soon as we stepped outside the cinema hall, the security guards greeted us. They explained that I violated the copyright laws by recording the film on my phone. When my friend explained that I was only translating the Chinese subtitles to English, they all looked at each other and pursed their lips. I let them go through my photo album and video reel on my phone. And after they examined my phone, they apologized, and walked away.

“Let’s get out of here,” my friend said.

“No, let’s go back inside.”

“Are you serious?” she put her hands on her waist, “isn’t this all gibberish to you?”

“No,” I grabbed her hand, “because music has no language,” I smiled, “and also because I need to finish my mango juice.”