KATHERINE WITH A "K"

 

     I didn’t hate her. I guess we never hit if off, but, I didn’t despise her. Her face, her smile, her voice, and the way she spoke were not exactly phony, but, they were affected by a certain artificiality that irritated me.                                                              
     “My name is Kathy, with a «K»,” she told me the day I met her at the office.          
     I thought it pretentious. As if she were implying that the Kathy’s with a «K» belonged to the nobility, and the Cathy’s with a «C» to the commons.                                                 
     “Really? My name is Wilfried, with a «W»,” I said, feigning admiration. She burst out laughing, as if my words were intending to be humorous rather than sarcastic.             

     Despite that, I didn’t find her contemptible. Not even when she would say something that would confuse me, and half upset and half shocked, I would reply: “I do not understand what you mean.” Then she would laugh and confess: “I'm playing; I am teasing you.” And I would get even more confused because I did not know whether she was mocking me, or she was trying to get closer to me by way of joking.                                 
     I must admit there was something in her that I liked. I liked her eyes, sad and absent: with an unfinished sadness and a protracted absence. She was born in Syracuse. Her parents divorced. Later, her mother married again, that time, with a Canadian. And that is how they came to live in Toronto, where Kathy (with a K) grew up. The second marriage also ended in divorce, and her mother returned to live in Syracuse. Kathy, however, decided to stay in Toronto, although she missed her parents and her hometown.          
     One time when my company sent me to Vancouver for a week, to take a training course, she went to the trouble of calling me, to see if everything had gone well, with the airline, at the airport, if the hotel had a reserved room for me, if I had found the training centre without any problems.                                                                  
      She was in the process of moving out of her apartment, so, when I returned, as a disguised act of reciprocity, I offered to help with the move. She thanked me, but said her dad was coming from Syracuse to assist her.                                                  

     “What did you do in Vancouver, besides studying?” she asked me. I answered that at night I would go to a jazz bar, or a cinema. I told her that I saw the movie “Indecent Proposal”, and that I liked it a lot. “Oh! That one,” she said in amazement. “The minister of my church warned us against seeing that film. He says it's indecent.” Wow! She never ceased to amaze me. How was it possible, I thought, that a young and modern woman needed the approval of her minister to see a movie?                                                          

     But I could never totally reject her. Not even after that day in the office when she caught me humming a song by ABBA.                               
     “Wilfrid, do you like that kind of music?” she queried, kind of amazed.                           
     “Very much,” I replied. “I like all the songs by ABBA.”                                                  
     “But that’s white people’s music,” she declared, very naturally, as if that was understood.          
     If until then she had said things I did not understand, and left me as disoriented as a chicken loose at the corner of Yonge and Bloor would be, what she just had said surpassed everything.               
     “What do you mean by «white people’s music»,” I inquired, totally perplexed.            
     “What I mean is that black people tend to listen to Blues, Rap, Reggae, and music of the sort,” she affirmed; “whereas, white people like rock, pop music, heavy metal, and the kind of music played by ABBA.”                                                              

     That line of reasoning challenged my analytical skills. At that moment I thought maybe we were from different planets, and we operated on different logical systems.            

     “Forgive my ignorance, Kathy,” I said. “I do not understand at all what you mean by that. Music is universal; it conveys feelings, moods, ideas, to which people of all races react. There is no such thing as «white people’s music», or «black people’s music. Take for example, the European classical music. It was invented by white Europeans, but many people, all across the ethnic spectrum, like it. Similarly, jazz was invented by Black-Americans, and everyone enjoys it. In fact, rock, pop, heavy metal, the kind of music you call «white people’s music», evolved from the «Rhythm and Blues»," a genre of music invented by Black-Americans in the 50's. So, what you're saying is beyond my ability to understand you.”      

     She seemed a bit flustered; and quickly her face reddened  “What happens is I come from a prejudiced family.  I grew up in a segregated community,” she revealed, as some kind of apology, I think.                                                   
     “Prejudiced,” I thought. “Strange word, a pseudo-word, a euphemism to refer to people who believe that skin color and the outward appearance makes one superior or inferior to others.”              
     “'Dad was very angry with me,” she continued, “because I was sharing my apartment with a coloured girl, and was beginning to like «rap».”

     “So, you would never fall in love, let alone, marry a black man?” I asked casually, thereby giving another twist to our topic of conversation.         
     “I could date him, but I would never marry him,” she declared. “In any case, one thing is for sure, I could never take him to my home in Syracuse. Do you know what my friends there, say? «We have nothing against black people; they are all wonderful; everybody should own one».”              
     “Kathy, I really don’t know how to respond to something like that,” I protested, somewhat upset, searching for words in my head. “I find it absurd, not that your grandparents or your parents have racial prejudices, but the fact that you have them. Thousands of years have passed since the dawn of humankind on this planet. Hasn’t there been any progress?  Do you think we should live by obsolete standards that are hundreds of years old, and have no place in this our modern world? Do you think the world should continue to spin in the same direction that it did in the time of your ancestors? It is disturbing to see a young person with that mentality. We, the younger generations, are the vanguard. We have the responsibility to change the world.”                                             
     Nevertheless, one way or another, subconsciously, I refused to condemn her. At worst, I considered her to be a simple, predictable, and contradictory soul. She attended church every Sunday, which in itself didn’t constitute any merit.  After all, if you are a Sunday Christian: what are you the other days of the week?   She was, however, an active member of the Ontario Big Sisters Association. That did make me look at her with different eyes. One day a week she devoted her time to a younger and orphan girl. For one day Kathy was her older sister; Kathy made her part of her experience, and the object of her affection and consideration.  I could not help admiring Kathy for such a noble gesture.
     She wasn’t bad looking. She was slender, with sensual lips, a melancholic look, and a large and sincere forehead, which (different from the rest of her face), and in spite of herself, seemed to tell her life story to the whole world.  I liked, above all, her breasts; what I could see of them, that is. I remember one occasion, when there were just the two of us in the office, that I was able to see them almost completely.                                               

     She confided in me; which, I can’t deny, touched me, because I wasn’t the person in front of whom she would vent her concerns. Se said the company was not fulfilling what they had promised her. That if they did not give her the salary increase she was entitled to, she was going to have a fit. She was talking to me while she was filing documents.  At one moment, she dropped a bundle of papers. Before I could do anything, she bent over to pick them up. That’s when I saw her chest. I didn’t feel any sexual desire. I was just fascinated to see that part of a woman’s body that I loved so much.  But, above all, to see it in the body of that woman who was like an ivory tower. In my mind, I felt the nipples of her breasts with my fingers; I sensed the texture of her clear and fresh skin; and that was not an erotic thought; I swear. Discovering her bust during those brief seconds, while I was standing, and she was on her knees, made me let my guard down.  I wasn’t on the defensive any more. It was as if she were showing me her helpless spirit, as if she were telling me that, despite the appearances, she was simply a vulnerable human being who was extending her hands, hoping to touch somebody, or being touched by someone.      

     Outside, on Saint Clair Avenue, snow was gently falling. The streetcar, slow and immense, grinding the rails with the same century-old patience, made the building shudder. The tranquility of the office, the simplicity of falling snow, the vibrations of the building, and the perception of being alone with a girl that was telling me confessions (a girl that I consciously rejected, but to whom, deep inside, I was attracted), made me feel blissful.                                         

      I went to Port-au-Prince for four weeks to see mom and dad. When I returned, I gave her the gift I had bought for her, a piece of pottery, a vessel that could be used as a flower vase. She liked it very much. She seemed sceptical, but pleased.         
     One afternoon that I left the office and went to the garage to pick up my car which was being repaired, the mechanic said it was not ready yet. I had to wait a couple of hours. I called the office to tell Kathy that I would be out the rest of the day. Victoria answered the phone.                                  
     “Vickie, put me through with Kathy, please,” I asked.                                                     
     “Wilfrid, Kathy is no longer with the company,” she said, as if nothing unusual were happening.                                                                      
     “What do you mean?” I wanted to find out, surprised. “I talked to her two or three hours ago.    

     “Exactly what you’re hearing,” she continued. “Kathy no longer works for us. She was fired.”     
     “What happened?  Why was she fired?” I implored restlessly.                               
     “You don’t want you to know.”                          
     “Yes, I want to know,” I insisted. “Tell me what happened.”                                           
     “I will tell you later”. That’s all she said, and then, she hung up.                                        

     But she didn’t tell me anything later. Nobody told me anything. I never thought Kathy had done anything for which she deserved to be fired. I always thought it was all office politics and rivalry between Vickie and her. Victoria liked me, and I liked her too, but she liked to gossip. Besides, she was influential in the company, she was the accountant. Maybe she was jealous of Kathy, who knows why. Professionally, I felt anger because she was fired for no good reason (at least that’s what I thought), and personally I felt annoyed because she was no longer with us, or should I say, with me.                                             

     The next day, when I arrived in the office, I found a note on my desk. “Dear Wilfrid, with this little note I am saying good-bye. You are a sweet boy. It was a pleasure working for you, I mean, with you. Kathy”                                                    
     During a long moment I remained pensive. On the one hand, I deemed irreconcilable with her nature, the fact that she calling me “dear” and “sweet boy”, and on the other, I could not discern the reason for the commotion that raged within me, simply because a girl, with whom I did not get along, was gone.                                                            

     I called her in the night, from home. The answering machine picked up the call; it was not her voice; probably that of her roommate. I left a message: “Hi Kathy, it’s Wilfrid. I was told you no longer work with us; I didn’t have a chance to say goodbye; I would like to talk to you. Call me, please. Thanks.”                                                   

     The following night she returned the call. She didn’t explain clearly why she had left the company.  I didn’t ask either.  It didn’t matter anymore. It was good to talk to her once more. She said she would return to Syracuse, that she missed her parents and her hometown; that she had come to the conclusion her parents wouldn’t be here forever, and that she wanted to enjoy their company and affection as long as they were alive. She gave me her parents’ phone number, and made me promise that next time I went to New York City to visit my brother, I would make a stop in Syracuse to say hello to her.                          

     That was the last time I spoke to her. That was years ago. I've never heard of her again. I could never disdain her. Deep inside, I think I felt some affection for her, perhaps more than I dare to admit. I confess that in the end, my feelings for her were ambiguous. I don’t know whether it was pity, for the sadness and the absence reflected in her eyes, or it was simply desire, or maybe, love. Or simply it was the image of her breasts, soft, clear, bare, frank, devoid of that mock curtain that covered her entire face, the only thing that generated in me feelings for her.  All I know is that I didn’t repudiate her. I couldn’t if I wanted to.

© William Almonte Jiménez, 2013