Plush octopus
All eight colors in English are recited by the voice of another woman, whose name is Margaret, and the same happens in French with the elegant Marguerite. I have no choice but to open, with utmost caution, the back of the octopus’s head and switch the critter’s language. “ Anarrranhadou,” says Barbara, unable to camouflage her problematic pronunciation of the r and of the vowel o. Let me be clear (it’s hard for me to understand this, and thus to explain it): the eight tentacles of the octopus are associated with eight different colors, seven of which are voiced by a certain or uncertain female speaker (let’s call her, in honor of the aunt who gave us the octopus, Margarita), but when you press the leg that corresponds to orange, or naranja, or anaranjado, or whatever you want to call this controversial color, there is a different voice, which does not transmit any enthusiasm and, on top of that, is clearly foreign (let’s call its owner Barbara). ¡Anaranjado! (Orange!) Inexplicably, on reaching the orange tentacle, the voice that emerges is another person’s charmless vocalization.¡Morado! (Purple!) I’d call this pronunciation fairly neutral, perhaps just slightly wonderstruck.¡Rojo! (Red!) The pronunciation is funny, as if the cephalopod were hesitating, as if it were guessing at rather than stating the color’s name.I’d have to say there’s an unpleasant, slightly ominous shading to the voice here. ¡Blanco! (White!) The bilabial sound is overly marked, probably to contrast with the (absurd) labiodental sound of the v in verde.Could this perhaps be an octopus from the Canary Islands, in Andalusia? The peninsular Spanish is cause for confusion, considering the aforementioned z in azul. Anyway, as far as I know, here in Latin America we call this color café and not marrón. ¡Marrón! (Brown!) At this word, the octopus’s voice becomes unexpectedly sensual.The voice sounds forced, inauthentic, mechanical.
¡Amarillo! (Yellow!) I’m really not sure if there is tenderness on the part of the octopus when it pronounces this word.The labiodental pronunciation of the v comes off as a bit ridiculous, given that, as the Royal Spanish Academy has indicated in various documents, “in Spanish there is no difference at all between the pronunciation of the b and v.” ¡ Verde! (Green!) There is enthusiasm in the invertebrate’s voice, but also impertinence, as if it needed to clarify that we are talking about that specific color and no other.I should also mention that the sound of the z (pronounced like the s in sea) leads one to believe this is a Latin American octopus we’re dealing with-no Iberian lisp here. ¡Azul! (Blue!) The octopus’s voice pronounces the word with enthusiasm, subtlety, and just a smidgen of surprise, as if it had forgotten the name of the color and was remembering it only now.
Eventually, after mashing each tentacle hundreds of times, my son will be able to name those colors in Spanish, and in French, and in English as well, because a switch located on the mollusk’s head allows the eight-colored octopus to also express itself in those languages.įollowing is a brief description of the Spanish-speaking female voice: When you press them, a surprisingly feminine voice recites the names of those colors. There is much to be said about the octopus’s tentacles, with their matching, somewhat indecipherable images embroidered in eight different colors. Really, there are four melodies (all four by Bach, I think): to go from one to another, you just have to squeeze the creature’s head. If you squeeze the animal’s head (which is objectively small, but enormous compared to its body), a melody plays (Bach, I’m almost positive). It wears a bow tie, and a sailor’s cap is cocked rakishly just a little to the left. It’s clearly intelligent-as nearly all octopuses are, of course. Its eyebrows are green, as are the two blushing spots on its cheeks. It’s a good-natured and naive octopus, and its smile is genuine. Its body is light blue and 100 percent synthetic.