My real name is Caroline, tongue coiling back in the mouth as the growl flows around it, r, not sleeping but poised to leap at the palate, llll.
But it’s not important. My name has travelled. Through broad Celtic vowels and the burr of the rolling rrr – Caralyn. That’s not my name, but I have answered to it.
Then there were those who spoke through the nose, their lascivious pronunciation as close to romance as my Paris got. Carohleen. Not my name, but I have answered to it.
Consonants were harder behind the iron curtain, and as warm as its winter. There’s something of the tsarina about Tsarolina; although not my name, I have answered to it.
My mother once told me that she chose a name nobody could make a nickname out of. Mother, forgive me. I am far from home and unpronounceable. Please, everyone, call me Kyaro.