“Canada, I’ve heard, is beautiful,” Gunther said in his thickly accented English. “Like Margaret.” He gazed at her with such admiration that I felt physically wounded by my separation from Nathan. I wondered if Rachel was feeling the same.
“Awww,” Rachel said. “That’s sad, guys, but sweet. We’ll miss you, Margaret. You too, Gunther. But I think you’re doing the right thing.” She reached across the table and put her hand on top of Margaret’s, giving it a light squeeze. “I hope it works out for the two of you; I really do.”
There was no logical reason I should feel betrayed, but I did. I barely knew Margaret, although I’d come to enjoy her company immensely in a very short period of time. Even after Gunther arrived on the scene and she began to pull away, I continued to relish the times we spent together. She was such a pleasant addition to our group. So easygoing, full of interesting but useless information and entertaining anecdotes. And yet the words of the Kitty Committee rang out in my head. Rule number four: no boys should ever come before or between members of the Kitty Committee.
But this wasn’t the Kitty Committee. Rachel and Margaret and I were just fellow travelers, citizens of the country of Lost and Adventurous Souls. We were only loosely bound, although our mutual respect ran deep. It wasn’t Rachel or me who made Margaret squeal and moan with delight late into the evening after they thought we were sleeping. It wasn’t Rachel or me who transformed Margaret’s impish smile into a full-out grin, her top lip riding up over her beautifully expressive and boldly visible front teeth, banners of happiness. Technically, Gunther was part of our group as well, although he hadn’t been involved in planning the itinerary. And Gunther was a boy, a man. There was also that.
I hesitated for only a moment. “I think it’s great,” I said. “But I’m really going to miss you. Both of you.”
And I realized it was true. I didn’t hold it against Margaret that she’d thrown her lot in with Gunther instead of us. I would still miss her a great deal.
I had transformed from a reclusive world traveler to one who recognized her dependence on humankind and human kindness.
By the time we arrived in Barcelona, it had been six months since I’d left San Francisco. Five months that Rachel and I had been joined at the hip. During that period of time, Rachel had become the best friend I’d ever had after Maggie, but I didn’t tell her things about my past. Rachel was so good and so certain of the goodness in others, how could I shake her belief in me and risk losing her friendship? I couldn’t, although Rachel, more than anyone, would have certainly been a sympathetic ear.
We trudged up the steps to the second floor of an ornate apartment building with a pink façade. The official end to our journey—this was where Mike lived. I was sure the straps of my backpack had left permanent grooves on my shoulders after so many months of traveling. The pack and its contents had become old friends, imprinting my identity as efficiently as a self-portrait. My pack was the shell to my turtle, but now I faced the prospect of planting roots and discarding the shell. Saying goodbye to its familiar and constant weight, which had grounded me to the Earth. Exposing myself to a new society where I’d see the same people every day, go to the same coffee shops and markets, learn the names of the people who worked in those places, and make myself vulnerable to their familiarity. Finding a place to live. And, most importantly, relinquishing the constant presence and reassurance of Rachel, although I’d be staying with them until I found a place of my own. This was what Spain, and more specifically Barcelona, represented to me, and why it lost some of its luster as a result.
“You look different than I imagined,” Mike said, squinting between me and a well-worn photograph he was holding in his outstretched hand. Rachel had mailed the photograph to him while we were still in Italy. I didn’t doubt that I looked different after all that time. I was road-weary, and the waist of my pants told me I was a lot thinner. I’d been wearing my hair in girlish braids the day of the photo and was certain I must look a good five years older than the image. I laughed.
“Hi, I’m Grace,” I said, extending my hand to Mike, who looked much different than the small photo Rachel carried of him. He looked older, his hair neatly combed and short, his build a little on the heavy side, his eyes kind and creased at the corner with laugh lines. He seemed almost dad-like, although he couldn’t have been more than twenty-three. He ignored the handshake and, instead, pulled me to his wide chest and wrapped a large arm around me, gracing me with a friendly back-thumping. Then, moving on from the warm welcome he’d given me, he faced Rachel and held out his arms. She jumped into them, and they wrapped themselves in a cocoon of kisses and necking which made me blush and turn away.
“Sorry,” Mike said, remembering his manners after a minute. “C’mon, Grace. I fixed lunch for you. I hope you’re all hungry.”
I slipped past them through the doorway, scouting for an area where I could make myself invisible if it came to another bout of loving, which it did immediately after the door closed behind us. I sat on a chair in the small dining area and propped my elbows on the table as though I had purposely chosen that moment to sit by myself and reflect on the napkin and fork in front of me. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen, and I cautiously took a look around. The place was small but tidy and felt homey and welcoming. For two, that is. I knew I’d have to move out soon.
“Thanks for taking care of my girl for me,” Mike said over our hot lunch. I ate until I finally stopped from embarrassment, realizing I hadn’t eaten with such gusto since I left Istanbul. Maybe Mike gave me that same sense of home and welcome, which freed me to let down my guard and replenish myself. Rachel was a lucky girl. But I’d been lucky once too, I realized. Until I threw it away.
“I set up an interview for you on Friday,” Mike said. “Ten in the morning. The guy who owns the school. I think you’ll like him, and it’s a huge bonus you speak Spanish because that’s not even a requirement. Just make sure to never speak it in class.” He winked at me. “Kind of defeats the purpose.”
Mike was talking like I already had the job.
“Do you speak Spanish?” I asked.
“Si. Un poco,” he said. “But seriously, my Spanish sucks. And there’s that whole castellano thing here, so even the little I do speak sounds bad.”
Rachel couldn’t stop grinning at him, and as soon as I’d helped clear and rinse the dishes, I made my excuses to go out and explore the city. The truth was I was bone-tired and would have loved nothing more than to lay down on Mike’s couch and continue our conversation. Maybe even catch a few winks. But I knew I had to leave. Five months was a long time to be apart when you were in love, and there was a prearranged mail pick-up location in Barcelona where I was sure there’d be mail from Luke or my parents waiting for me.
The news from Luke wasn’t good. Dad wasn’t getting better, so they’d flown him to Johannesburg where there were better medical facilities. They were doing further testing. His symptoms were flu-like, achiness and fever that never subsided. Chills. Headache. I remembered how Dad struggled with the pain after breaking his back. How bleak life became for him. For us all. And then he’d recovered and returned to what he loved best only to be slain by this new torment. My stomach clutched with pain and tears sprung from my eyes. It wasn’t fair. Life wasn’t fair. But then I already knew that, didn’t I?
I lost myself in the streets and sidewalks and alleys of Barcelona. I walked until my feet felt like useless and foreign appendages. And then I walked some more. By the time I returned to Mike’s apartment, Rachel and Mike were draped in smiles. A modicum of peace was restored to my soul. People can do this for each other, I thought. Bring love and happiness. Fulfilment. People could do so much more than cause sorrow. I wanted that for myself.
So much of my life seemed to happen in coffee shops, perhaps because I spent an inordinate amount of time in them or perhaps because people are more open to each other in a coffee s
hop. More willing to take a risk with a stranger, driven by the intimacy of surroundings and the caffeine. In my experience, I’ve found that people who sit singly in coffee shops are normally there to observe or be observed. One day, I walked into a café for both of those reasons. And it was there I met Karim—like Rachel before him . . . and Nathan before that.
I hadn’t actually planned to enter that particular coffee shop on that particular day. I’d just come from an interview with the owner of the English language school where Mike was teaching, and I was on my way back to his apartment, which I knew would be empty that time of day. When I walked past the sidewalk tables, my eye caught a glimpse of the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. More out of curiosity than anything else, I swiveled on my right foot, thereby applying my emergency brake before passing the entrance to the shop. To someone on the street, I might have looked like I just remembered something which could only be found inside. I hoped I wasn’t too obvious.
Beauty being the inexplicable quality it is—nothing more than a fortunate conglomeration of features, the size and spacing of which is pleasing to the human eye—I had to take a closer look. Verify its existence to my own satisfaction. I placed my order and then went outside, holding my drink, and took a seat just behind him where I could observe without risk of being observed. He had thick, shiny black hair tapering down the back of his neck, broad shoulders with a lean physique, strong arms that made his t-shirt seem too small, which may have been his intent. But beautiful people probably have a sixth sense that comes from a lifetime of being watched by strangers. He turned around in his chair and looked right at me. When he smiled, his teeth were white and even. His lips full and sensual. This guy was just plain perfect, at least in a physical sense.
“Hi,” he said in a smooth-as-silk voice.
“Hi.” I blushed ten shades of hot pink, the kind I could feel down to my chest.
“American?” he asked.
I’d come to realize that Americans were an easy bunch to peg—I was good at it myself. And anyway, there was no use denying my citizenship even if I’d wanted to. I considered trying my Spanish on him to see if he’d fall for it, but I knew my Spanish was the South American variety, and he’d never believe I was from Spain.
“Yep.” It was embarrassing how a random collection of facial features had turned me into a gelatinous mess.
“Mind if I sit with you?” he asked, pulling a chair up without waiting for my answer. His English was very good, even with an accent I recognized wasn’t Spanish.
I smiled stiffly and waved a hand at the formerly empty slot that he was already occupying.
“Are you hot?” he asked solicitously, his eyes so sincere that I almost believed he was puzzled by my reaction.
“Yes,” I said, although the day was only just warm. I twisted my hair into a knot which had the dual effect of cooling the back of my neck and giving me something to do with my hands. I’d been caught red-handed by this man. Maybe he was just having a little fun with me and would soon be on his way, allowing me to slink away with my proverbial tail between my legs.
“My name is Karim,” he said. “And yours?”
“Grace.”
“Grace is a beautiful name.” He smiled wistfully, as if just remembering a favorite aunt with the same name. “I don’t get much chance to speak English,” he said. “And I’m afraid I might lose it one day without practicing.”
“I’m afraid of the same thing,” I replied in Spanish. Showing off.
“Ahhh.” He raised his eyebrows. “You speak very well. And how does this happen?” he asked in fluent Spanish.
“I grew up in Central and South America—other places too—but that’s where I learned Spanish. How about you?”
“When I was much younger, my teacher was from England,” he pivoted back to English. “He gave lessons for free to the children who wanted to learn. And my parents encouraged me to take advantage of this gift of language.”
A couple came outside to sit at the table Karim had just vacated. The man had a coffee in each hand. He leaned over carefully to set the cups on the table without spilling, and I noticed his companion seized the opportunity to steal a furtive glance at Karim. But Karim seemed to be oblivious to her interest, attuned only to me. I felt proud even though I had only just met him.
He sipped the last of his coffee, which he’d started well before I got there. He leaned back in his seat and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He tapped the bottom to partially expel a single cigarette and held it in my direction.
“No thanks,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”
He laughed. “This is what they say about Americans. Very healthy except maybe eating too much.”
His smile made me glad that I was at my thinnest. And then I thought of Maggie and the last time I’d seen her. I silently begged her forgiveness for harboring that thought. He leaned forward and hunched over a match then reclined back in his chair. He smiled at me. I recoiled at the smell of the smoke, which I’d never been able to tolerate. It diminished Karim in my eyes, but only for a moment.
“Do you come here often, Miss Grace?”
Hearing my name coiled around those vocal chords and expelled from those lips stirred something very primal in me.
“Yes,” I lied, immediately regretting it. If he came here frequently, he’d wonder why he never saw me before. The truth was I’d never been there before and probably never would have set foot there if I hadn’t seen him that day. “You?”
“No, never,” he said. “I’m only stopping for a short break, and then I must go. I like to try different shops around the city. I’ve been to many but never here. Please correct me if you hear me say a wrong word in the English.” He twisted the corner of his mouth to aim the smoke away from me.
“You’re perfect,” I said. “I mean . . . your English is perfect. But just say English. Not the English.”
“Ah, yes, thank you.” He smiled, and I wondered how someone who drank coffee and smoked cigarettes could have such white teeth.
We chatted a little more. Aimless topics that I felt were chosen by Karim more for a chance to practice his English than any other real purpose. When he reached the end of his cigarette, he leaned forward and ground it into an ashtray emblazoned with the name of the café.
“And now . . .” He rose to his feet. “Regretfully, I must return to work. It has been my pleasure speaking with you, Miss Grace.” He slightly inclined his head to me, and I half expected him to take up my hand and brush his lips against the back of it the way handsome and suave men do in the movies. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”
He was about to walk out of my life forever. I couldn’t even pass this café again in the hopes of running into him because he’d already said he never came here. Let him go, I reasoned. You saw what you came to see—his beauty up close and in person. You wanted to see if the interior would match the exterior, and yes, he was a nice person, but no different from anyone else you might meet on the street. Polite. Friendly. Say goodbye. Let him go.
“Can I see you again?” I asked, shocking myself so completely that I felt as if an alien had taken over my brain stem and was breathing and speaking on my behalf.
To his credit, Karim looked a little shocked too. He sat down and leaned forward across the table. He looked down at his hands, as if they would provide him with an answer to my preposterous question, and then he looked back up at me.
“I must be honest with you, Miss Grace,” he said sorrowfully. “About two things.”
“Grace,” I said. “You can just call me Grace.”
“Alright then, Grace. I must be honest with you.”
“About two things,” I repeated stupidly.
“First,” he said. “I work very hard and very long hours, leaving me little time for . . . social.”
“Socializing,” I said. He wanted me to correct him
, didn’t he? “Me too. Well, not now, but I hope to be working very hard . . . and very long. Very soon.” Was I begging? Did the alien now have complete control of me?
“Second,” he said, and I noticed he said the word second much more firmly than first. And then a long pause while he consulted his hands again. “I am promised, or committed, as you say it.”
But I didn’t say it, I thought. “Oh. Sorry.” My face flushed warm.
“I am . . . she is . . . in my home. Where I am from. And I’m not innocent, you understand. But you are a nice girl, and you must know this.”
The woman at the table near us hadn’t stopped stealing glances of Karim. And who could blame her, although her companion was about to get angry if she didn’t become more discreet. Innocent? What did he mean by that? I concluded that it meant he played around.
“She’s in your home?” I asked. “Here? Right now?”
“Not here,” he said. “In Morocco. We will be married when I’ve made enough money to return.”
“Oh, I see.” But all I could think of was that I wanted him. Had to have him. Morocco was a long way away, and who knew if he’d ever have enough money to go back? “Thank you for being honest, but it’s okay with me.”
“You still care to see me?”
“Yes,” I nodded.
We made plans to meet later that night for dinner.
“I was going to whip up my famous paella for dinner tonight,” Mike said when he got home that night. Rachel had arrived home only minutes earlier, having spent the better part of her day on a Picasso walking tour. No matter the town or city, Rachel went straight for the art exhibits and museums, while I normally trudged through the streets, window-shopping and hitting the coffee shops when I was too tired to walk anymore. In this way, we were complete opposites and yet had somehow managed to meld into perfect traveling companions.
The Kitty Committee Page 19