Harry Wilson's Congo Diary, excerpt by Albert Russo at Spillwords.com
Dariusz Sankowski

Harry Wilson’s Congo Diary

He would flare up during the weekend and this scenario repeated itself until I threatened not to see him again. He was getting increasingly vulgar. He would cry, then promise me he wouldn’t drink in my presence. By now he was addicted to his thrice-weekly straight ouzos, when it wasn’t Scotch. Despite his resolution, he couldn’t keep his word. After he would gulp his first glass, I would dart at him a hawkish look, which would quiet him down for a while. He would interrupt the hiatus by a flurry of half-muttered obscenities.
“Bon,” l would conclude sharply, “l’m off,” and let him brood in his corner. Walking away, I could hear him slap the table with the tips of his fingers, his gesture punctuated with a bitter and resounding “asto dialo putana.”
I became weary of his all too predictable outbursts and decided we should stop going to the Lido or to any other public place together.
The last straw came at New Year’s Eve, when I had the Devrieses and the Moores from the British consulate at home. Save for the small incident involving Mama Malkia — I had invited her to join us for dinner — the evening proceeded beautifully.
To please me, Giorgios had even abstained from drinking wine at table. But as the year came to a close and I served the champagne, I didn’t have the heart to exclude him, insisting that he toast with us. We were all so merry, my sweet Léo giggling and slightly tipsy, that I had almost forgotten the effect liquor had on Giorgios. It happened like a thunderclap. Giorgios suddenly rose from his armchair, slammed his empty champagne glass against the wall and walked over to me, eyes bloodshot.
I expected mayhem, yet was unprepared for what followed. He insulted me before everyone, exposing our relationship in so crude a fashion I urged Mama Malkia to take Léo to his room. The little the child had already heard way too much that would certainly bear on his future. I couldn’t but hate Giorgios for it. My blood was boiling and I literally ejected him from the house. The scene must have shocked the daylights out of the Moores, but I really couldn’t be bothered. At the moment, their opinion of me seemed so utterly unimportant, it didn’t even cross my mind that I should excuse myself.
Roger Devries looked very confused. Janine kept silent, biting her lip. There was compassion in that gesture, and I knew our mutual affection wouldn’t suffer from what she had just witnessed.
After everyone left, I found Léo asleep and Mama Malkia’s door closed. I felt relieved, for I was still seething with anger and couldn’t face them in my state. I poured myself some champagne, uncorked a new bottle and went on drinking until I couldn’t see straight anymore. Having switched all the lights off, I staggered to my room and just plopped on the bed with my clothes on.
I spent an agitated night. Unconsciously, I must have willed myself to blot out anything related to the evening’s occurrence or the people involved in it. The only images I recall are violent splashes of colors accompanied by moans, probably my own.
A week passed, then I got a phone call from Giorgios. His voice was faint, hardly recognizable.
“I have to see you,” he pleaded, “as soon as possible.”
I told him we had nothing further to discuss.
“Harry,” he went on, “l’m sick for what I did, please come.”
Unshaven, his shirt rumpled and missing two buttons, he took my hand to his chest and sobbed; a big hulk of a man shaking with all his limbs. He knelt and, clinging to my ankles, begged me for forgiveness.
“Sorry, sorry a thousand times,” he repeated in a cracked voice.
I couldn’t bear it and commanded him to rise.
We sat, facing each other. He stared at my feet, helpless and contrite. I felt a mixture of pity and revulsion. The silence seemed interminable.
“Giorgios,” I finally said, “it won’t ever be like in the past, do you understand that?” He nodded like a child expecting punishment.
For a moment I hesitated, then, mustering my courage, I set my conditions.
“I don’t want you to come to my home again, under any circumstances. You must keep away from my Léo, do you hear? You’ve done him irreparable harm.”
He nodded once more.
“And from now on,” I said, “the only place we’ll meet is here.”
“Thank you, Harry,” he answered hoarsely.
I despised myself for even conceding to see him at all. I had promised myself that this time it would be over and done with. And Giorgios thought I was being magnanimous.

IX. AFTER GIORGIOS, ERIC. LEO’S FIRST WOUNDS.

Eric Van Pool’s appearance in my life was a welcome diversion.
I had had enough of Giorgios’ outbursts and whimsical demands. They had worn me out. Had I not put my foot down, our relationship would have had an adverse effect on Léo. After all, he was my first priority.
The business was running smoothly, but I couldn’t honestly leave Janine its entire responsibility, especially since she had refused my offer of partnership.
Between school, his homework and Mama Malkia, Léo had plenty to occupy his days. The evenings were ours, a secret garden my sweet Léopold and I tended so lovingly. I wouldn’t let Giorgios trample on it anymore, even if what had happened on New Year’s eve had been an accident.
In the beginning I eagerly sought the company of Eric Van Pool. It wasn’t in my nature to make advances, but I felt an urge to sever the old bondage, knowing full well Giorgios would always remain in my thoughts. As long as we both lived in the same city and however mismatched we were, we couldn’t possibly ignore each other.
I needed a whiff of fresh air and I found it in Eric Van Pool.
Eric was a demure and lonesome Flemish police officer, freshly disembarked from the motherland. Actually, with his well-pressed uniform and month-old tan, he fit into that category of colonial functionaries who would seem out-of-place in their own hometown, no matter what post they held. He was slim and frail-looking, yet didn’t complain about the climate, his work in this new and strange country, or anything else, for that matter. It wasn’t so much his meekness as a remote physical resemblance to John that attracted me. He wore that same youthful expression of the eternal adolescent, with the difference that Eric’s light gray eyes were lackluster, a fair reflection of his personality.
I could ask him a favor and he would immediately oblige, so long as it didn’t interfere with his duties.
Léo couldn’t at first figure out why I invited a policeman to our house. The idea puzzled him. But he soon accepted Eric and grew to like him, even though they hadn’t much to talk about. Mama Malkia’s diffidence towards him embarrassed me. She was allergic to all kabokes and I couldn’t blame her. Eventually, she too revised her opinion and treated our new guest with more courtesy.
Eric came fortnightly now and I could sense that Léo looked forward to these visits. Eric was almost bashful with the child. Just after we met and I had invited him for a drink at my place, Eric’s first question was, “Are you sure it will be all right with your son?” He was apprehensive about meeting Léo. Later, when they became more familiar, he would pause before making a move and ask for Léo’s approval.
Trying the new Studebaker was a case in point. I had offered to let him sit behind the steering wheel. “Only with Léo’s permission,” he gleefully exclaimed. How proud he looked, driving us through the avenues of Elisabethville. He definitely had a knack for machines.
“What a superb piece of engineering!” he would remark, poised as if he were chauffeuring an official party. Then, looking into the rearview mirror, he would say: “You’re a lucky boy, Léopold. I couldn’t even dream of owning one.”
From such soft-spoken and carefully phrased comments transpired a touch of envy. It took me some time before I grasped this, for Eric seldom addressed the child. Though the discovery displeased me, I wasn’t worried. Eric was too weak to hurt anyone. Nothing like Giorgios’ bouts of jealousy could hit him.

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