Mama Malkia, who had a glib tongue but whose judgment I often trusted, nicknamed Eric the kaboke-even-lizards-wouldn’t-scurry-away-from. That, in her mouth, was no small compliment, knowing her visceral antipathy toward the police.
Between Giorgios and Eric, her preference obviously went to the latter. She disliked Giorgios intensely and made no attempt to conceal it. When he was still visiting us, she would inevitably mutter, after he had been served, something in Kiswahili, which I gathered, by the way she clicked her tongue, was far from flattering. It wasn’t in vain that she was called the Queen Mother — the English translation of her name. In fact, if l’m not mistaken, Mama Malkia was descended from a famous chief. At any rate, the least one could say was that she didn’t act like a commoner.
Mama Malkia gave rather than received orders. Hadn’t she once quipped during our first meeting, “Take it or leave it, M’sieur!” with the stress on the “M’sieur” — she wouldn’t stoop to calling me Bwana. I could only acquiesce.
Naturally, I felt relieved that Eric had passed her test. For a Iong time, however, Eric remained a mystery. Maybe it had to do with his impassivity, to which I never really got accustomed. On the other hand, he was so easygoing. Ours was a very comfortable relationship, totally dispassionate where Eric was concerned. But then, for once, I did not wish to be deeply committed, either.
Eric usually waited till I called him. When he did happen to ring me up first, his voice was so distant I wondered whether he did it merely as a duty. Even as a lover, I couldn’t imagine anyone acting more…perfunctorily. Not that he was a prude. He had a smooth, appealing body and knew how to use it. He never spoke or smiled during our lovemaking. My words seemed to peter out no sooner than I would utter them. He was a dexterous living object, a marvelous robot made of flesh and blood. He would then get dressed and wait for me in the living room like some stranger I had met for the first time.
Did he ever suffer, was he ever homesick? If so, he must have been endowed with an uncommon strength of character. Or was he so totally devoid of sentiment that nothing, absolutely nothing could touch him? I felt ambiguous toward this dilemma.
One thing was clear, however. Eric satisfied a frivolous need of mine, a need only he could have revealed. There was no sense of guilt or indebtedness on my part. At the same time, it excluded any prospect of durable friendship between us.
In my troubled moments I could turn to him no less than I could turn to Giorgios. Like the day Mama Malkia told me what a fellow named Sébastien did to mon pauvre Léo.
Eric had called to confirm dinner at my place. Upon hearing the child had malaria, he said with his habitual aloofness, “In that case, I shall not disturb you.”
I didn’t have the patience to listen any further and signed off curtly.
My sweet Léopold, he believed he had contracted some shameful disease. That was why he couldn’t approach me to talk about the terrible afternoon Sébastien made him endure. I could have killed that fifteen-year-old bastard. Giving Léo a lift on his bike! They didn’t even know each other. How could Léo have been so thoughtless, so gullible? I must take the blame for not having cautioned him against similar encounters. Dragged to a brothel in the Sakania district, forced to watch this guy copulate with a whore. What a horrible introduction to the act of love! Thank God he opened up to Mama Malkia.
If was imperative that I talk to him. But would I be credible in his young eyes? When he got better, I took him for a drive. He was edgy and said not one word. Then, after perhaps half an hour he came out with it.
“I’ve caught a shameful disease.”
I had a lump in my throat, but had to clarify certain things for him at once and as plausibly as I could. The words flowed, yet coming from my mouth they sounded very strange indeed.
My Léo. First Giorgios’ performance on New Year’s eve and now this.
I would have to be more vigilant than ever, convincing him that sex with a woman was not that bestial act he had witnessed. But how would I counter the notion of sin he was being taught at school? After what had occurred, I started questioning the validity of religious education.
There was no other choice; it had to be lived with. This reappraisal made me change my mind about reporting the incident to the Reverend school Principal. It would only have added fuel to the flames. Léo assured me that Sébastien (whom he insisted on calling Damien) no longer bothered him. In fact, he ignored him completely.
Soon, however, and thanks to Ishaya, Léo was his jolly self again. They would spend many late afternoons together doing their homework. It wasn’t mere happenstance if Léo and this Jewish boy became best friends. Of somewhat dark complexion, Ishaya could easily be mistaken for an Asian or a North African. But unlike Léo, when antagonized he stood his ground. He came from the Interior and was thus acquainted with the Congolese mentality. He spoke fluent Kiswahili, a detail which — I noticed it on several occasions — slightly embarrassed Léo, especially when he (Ishaya) exchanged jokes with Mama Malkia. What I also liked in Ishaya was his integrity. He was very proud of his background.
“I’m an Italian Jew,” he told me, introducing himself. He made sure everyone he met knew it.
I wished Léo would emulate him but my sweet boy had a softer nature.
If Léo had had a brother, he mightn’t have had so many misgivings about himself. It was only after I had seen how well he and Ishaya got on that the thought crossed my mind. We knew no other little métis in Léo’s case, whereas Ishaya belonged to a tightly-knit, if small, Jewish community. They even had a synagogue and a youth center. The rabbi would come to Saint-François twice a week to teach Hebrew and the Torah to the school’s half-dozen Jews.
Léo spent an Ascension holiday once on the farm of some friends of Ishaya’s. He had never been to the Interior before, and I thought the experience would be beneficial to him. Instead, when he came back, his attitude was awkward and withdrawn. I had to worm secrets out of him. Then I understood what had made him so anxious.
The farmers, a couple of Flemings, had a son of Ishaya’s age to whom they only spoke in Kiswahili. Apparently, they did this in order not to uproot the child, who attended a nearby mission school, where all the pupils were Africans.
Piet and Ishaya hadn’t seen each other for some time and naturally they had much to catch up on. They chattered away in Kiswahili, and Ishaya would occasionally translate part of the conversation into French for Léo. I initially presumed Léo had felt let down by his best pal or that he might be a bit jealous. That wasn’t the problem at all. The young Fleming’s behavior — an anachronism in the Belgian Congo — was that of an African boy. This is what really troubled Léo, giving him a sort of inferiority complex.
Léo was such a diligent pupil he always brought home excellent reports. But, unfortunately, he didn’t have Ishaya’s versatile mind.
That long weekend in the Interior in fact triggered his first serious identity crisis.
X. SECRETS
What took place at Giorgios’ one night nearly cost me my life. Everybody believed it was a car accident and that was just as well. I would never have wanted Léo to learn the truth. But here is what actually happened. Though I had called Giorgios regularly, a month had elapsed since we had last met. When I saw him, I immediately sensed something was wrong. He didn’t look drunk, but acted as though he were under the effect of an hallucinogen. There was a sardonic expression on his face.
“What’s the matter?” I asked him.
For a while his eyes were blinking like a puppet’s. Then, making an effort to regain some composure, he said, “Having fun, with that commissaire-what’s-his-name, hein!” He grinned. “Dumping Giorgios for a pretty boy. Tell me, is it so much better with him?”
I stared at him intently and spoke in a quivering voice. “We agreed to see each other on a different basis after what you did in front of Léo. Or don’t you have any memory of that at all?”
“No one’s talking about Léo. I’ve kept my promise.” His tone rose and he began to insult me.
I shouted back, “If you carry on with your foul language, it’s adieu, fini.”
As I made for the door he grabbed a large copper jug and hurled it at me with all his might.
“Voilà, you can go to hell now!” were the words accompanying the terrible blow that knocked me out.
The next thing I remember was lying in a hospital bed.
- Hidden Essentials - August 30, 2023
- A New World - August 23, 2022
- Harry Wilson’s Congo Diary - February 13, 2022
