Love is its own language, so they say.
We All Need Somebody To Klingon
The New Vernacular of Marta Ortiz
by Ash Warren
For the Porcupines Need Love Too Award
When Marta after great effort had finally cranked up the zip on her tightest black dress, she stood in front of the mirror and eyed her rather extensive middle-aged body like an amazon cannibal who has just spotted some white explorers.
‘Yez. Is true….. You still ze Love Bomb!’ she whispered to herself optimistically.
And softly then, the thrum of jungle drums.
It was time to go hunting.
Marta had only loved two men in her life, and she had not had luck with either. One happened to be a TV character, and thus suffered from the disadvantage of not being real, and the other was her employer, El Profesor as she called him, the genius who spoke twenty-five languages but not a word of any to her.
In truth, El Profesor had elevated unsmiling taciturnity to a level where even a Trappist monk would have resembled a Denver Broncos cheerleader. He was a tall, thin, bearded man with swept back silver hair and gold rimmed glasses he cleaned obsessively as if it would make the world, a place he loathed, somehow more appealing. A man of habit, who left the house once a day at precisely 7 am to take his similarly socially gifted black cat Diablo for a ‘walk’, an event which consisted of the two of them standing in his doorway for approximately three minutes, sniffing the air distastefully and returning at once to the study.
That morning as she approached his desk with his morning coffee, she practiced again the words which would make him hers.
He was already hard at work, and his familiar, the yellow-eyed devil whom Marta detested, lay eyeing her from his basket.
She placed the cup in front of the professor, who merely nodded without looking up.
Marta took a step back and waited.
El Profesor kept on writing.
Her voice suddenly erupted in the silent room like a TV evangelist on the subject of Gay Rights
‘QAY’BE!’(You’re welcome!’) she boomed.
The professor jumped in his seat and almost spilled his coffee.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said
‘QAY’BE!’ Marta thundered again.
‘I’m sorry, what? Marta? Is that…. er….Catalan slang?’ he inquired, as the Professor spoke all four variants of Spanish.
‘No, eez not catalán.’ said Marta impatiently in her throat-curdling Spanglish. ‘Que? You no know eet?’
‘Well…..go on then….tell me.’ asked the professor, strangely amiable for once.
Marta tossed her shoulder length black hair and gave him her most coquettish smile. She knew she had his attention now.
‘Ees Klingon’ she said matter-of-factly.
‘Klingon?’ The professor took off his glasses and began wiping them with his tie.
‘And what, pray, is that?’
Marta looked at him shocked.
‘Ees the language de Star Trek!’ She half-shrieked at him. ‘Is the lengue todos de Klingon Empire! …. Ees the language de ….Mr. Worf…..’ she purred the name more quietly, almost ecstatically, and at the mention of He-Who-Was-Adored her eyes became suddenly moist. For Lieutenant Commander Worf’s face, which resembled that a large spider that had spent too long in a tanning salon, resided in a silver framed photograph on her bedside table, right next to the one of El Papa.
The Professor however, rose quietly to his feet and cleared his throat authoritatively
‘ SoHvaD ‘oH pagh pejatlh ‘e’ qaSmoH nuq?’ (And what makes you think I don’t speak it?’) he said calmly, looking her in the eye.
Marta’s mouth fell open.
‘ SoHvaD … tlhIngan DaSov’a’?’ (You…you know Klingon?) she gasped.
‘Luq.’ (Of course) ‘ jIH. Hov trek … ghaH ‘ej parHa’ghachwIj vISov.’ (I know you love Star Trek….and ….er… him….’) The professor stepped forward and took her by the hand.
A tear rolled down Marta’s cheek.
‘Ach … SoH wa’ real.’ (but, you are ….. you are the real one…’)
Marta smiled up at him, and turning on her heel, fled back to the kitchen
The professor watched her go.
‘What a woman…’ he whispered admiringly.
Diablo stretched, and deep within his throat, growled a Romulan love song.