I’m not sure if I was being kind or trying to get back into a place where I felt superior. I certainly didn’t feel comfortable being the recipient of kindness from someone like Kasia. Yes, I was still snobby enough to think “someone like.”
“I make tea first?”
I followed her into the dingy kitchen. The linoleum on the floor was torn, exposing concrete underneath. But everything was as clean as it could be given the handicap it started with. White chipped china gleamed, old saucepans shone around their rust spots. She filled the kettle and put it on the stove top. I didn’t think she’d be able to tell me anything useful but decided to try anyway. “Do you know if anyone had tried to give Tess drugs?”
She looked aghast. “Tess never take drugs. With baby, nothing bad. No tea, no coffee.”
“Do you know who Tess was afraid of?”
Kasia shook her head. “Tess not afraid.”
“But after she had the baby?”
Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away from me, struggling to regain her composure. Of course she’d been away with Mitch in Majorca when you had Xavier. She hadn’t come back till after you’d died, when she’d come knocking on your door and found me instead. I felt guilty for upsetting her, for questioning her when she clearly couldn’t help me at all. She was now making me tea, so I could hardly leave, but I had no idea what to say to her. “So do you work?” I asked, a rather unsubtle variation on the standard cocktail party query, “So what do you do?”
“Yes. Cleaning … sometime supermarket shelves, but night work, horrible. Sometime I work for magazines.”
I immediately thought of porn mags. My prejudices, based on her wardrobe choices, were too stubbornly entrenched to be shifted without some effort. Though to be a little bit fair to myself, I had started to worry about her being in the sex trade rather than simply being judgmental. She was astute enough to sense I had reservations about her “magazine work.”
“The free ones,” she continued. “I put them in the letter boxes. The house that have ‘No Junk Mail’ I put in too. I can’t read English.”
I smiled at her. She seemed pleased by the first genuine smile I’d given her.
“All the doors in the rich places not want free papers. But we not go to the poor places. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I searched for another opening conversational gambit. “So where did you meet Tess?”
“Oh. I not tell you?”
Of course she had, but I’d forgotten, which isn’t surprising when you remember how little interest I took in her.
“The clinic. My baby ill too,” she said.
“Your baby has cystic fibrosis?”
“Cystic fibrosis, yes. But now …” She touched her stomach. “Better now. A miracle.” She made a sign of the cross, a gesture as natural to her as pushing her hair away from her face. “Tess called it the Mummies with Disasters Clinic. First time I met her she made me laugh. She asked me to flat.” Her words caught in her throat. She turned away from me. I couldn’t see her face but I knew she was trying not to cry. I reached out my hand to put on her shoulder but just couldn’t do it. I find being tactile toward a person I don’t know as hard as touching a spider if you’re arachnophobic. You may find it funny, but it really isn’t. It’s almost a handicap.
Kasia finished making the tea and put it all on a tray. I noticed how proper she was, with cups and saucers, a small pitcher for milk, a strainer for the tea leaves, the cheap teapot warmed first.
As we went through to the sitting room, I saw a picture on the opposite wall that hadn’t been visible to me before. It was a charcoal drawing of Kasia’s face. It was beautiful. And it made me see that Kasia was beautiful too. I knew you’d done it.
“Tess’s?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Our eyes met and for a moment something was communicated between us that didn’t need language and therefore there was no barrier. If I had to translate that “something” into words, it would be that you and she were clearly close enough for you to want to draw her, that you saw beauty in people that others didn’t see. But it wasn’t as verbose as that, no language clunked between us; it was a more subtle thing. The sound of a door slamming startled me.
I turned to see a man coming into the room. Large and muscular, about twenty years old, he looked absurdly big in the tiny flat. He was wearing laborers’ overalls, no T-shirt underneath, his muscular arms tattooed like sleeves. His hair was matted with plaster dust. His voice was surprisingly quiet for such a large man, but it had the timbre of threat. “Kash? Why the fuck haven’t you bolted the door? I told you—” He stopped as he saw me. “Health visitor?”
“No,” I replied.
He ignored me, directing his question to Kasia. “So who the fuck is this then?”
Kasia was nervous and embarrassed. “Mitch …”
He sat down, stating his claim to the room and by implication my lack of one.
Kasia was nervous of him, the same expression I’d seen that day outside your flat when he’d blared the horn. “This is Beatrice.”
“And what does ‘Beatrice’ want with us?” he asked, mocking.
