In Baltimore I used to dream of freedom and open spaces. How ironic that I should land in a colony where millions of people were subservient to a handful of ‘civilisateurs’! Yet it proved to be more salutary than the terror in which my father had kept me.
Ever since I can remember, when I disobeyed him, he would repeatedly accuse me of having murdered our darling Susan. Mother died in childbirth and her husband wouldn’t let an occasion pass to remind me who was the cause of it. He had vowed to make a man of me or break my bones. He seldom hit me. He didn’t need to, the tremor of his voice alone had the effect of an earthquake. Father never remarried, though he did have mistresses. But he was too loyal to the memory of our darling Susan to make any allusions to them. I learnt it through rumors quite late, when I myself reached the age of puberty.
Once a week he would spend the night out. This would never be discussed and he wouldn’t supply any pretext either. It was part of life and that was it.
The most implacable trait in father was how unswervingly he would stick to his principles. His honesty toward himself had an inhuman quality. I wonder how our darling Susan — indeed, how any woman — could have stood such a rigid and uncompromising personality. Yes, there was one: Clara, the apple of his eye. She looked so much like mother. Although she was only two years my senior, people took us for twins. In his rare moments of effusiveness father would stare at her while we would be dining and say, abstractedly, with a faint smile, “Those full lips, those sad oval eyes, and that snub nose…one would swear you were Susan’s baby sister.”
Clara would then give me a quick glance as if to excuse herself.
Undeniable as it was, father wouldn’t see my resemblance to Susan or to Clara. He remained blind to it. I had sent his beloved wife to the realm of the dead. How then could I have had anything in common with her? It was visceral. And this feeling made me a nonperson before his bespectacled eyes. He had long ago decided that I would never grow up to be a man. I was too sissy. But Clara always stood by me and, in a strange way, he would respect her for it.
Then there were the harrowing years of boarding school, so that I would toughen up. Obviously, it had the opposite effect.
Upon entering college and having consulted Clara, I decided to tell father about my tendencies. I had been frequenting John Maxwell for a year now. Clara could plead in my favor with all the tears of her body, but this time father stood adamant. He simply and squarely disavowed me and I have never seen him since.
Clara maintained the family link by paying me regular visits. Because of her I made painstaking efforts to rationalize his behavior. But as my inclinations became more apparent, so did my allergy to father’s cynicism. Just mentioning his name chilled my spine.
***
John Maxwell had harbored a dream unbeknownst to everyone except me. He wished to spend his life as a missionary in Central Africa. He was fascinated by Livingstone and Albert Schweitzer, but in spite of his vocation he had deemed he wasn’t fit to tackle such a formidable task. How we would talk about that distant continent, relishing the consonance of names we believed would remain locked in our imagination: Lake Tanganyika, Zanzibar, Stanleyville, Victoria Falls. Until the day John came forth with a most extravagant idea.
“You want to quit college, don’t you? I still have two years to go. Why don’t you go settle in the Belgian Congo? I’ll join you after graduation. You will have time to get acclimatized and decide whether you will wish to stay on.”
It was a shock, yet the thought gradually crystallized into what was to become a lifelong adventure.
I was virtually penniless, but John, who had a personal fortune, put several thousand dollars at my disposal. Thanks to his generosity I could make the trip to Africa and later open my own boutique in Elisabethville.
John decided to stay another year at the seminary, where he was preparing his vocational métier, but by the time he had finished, America had entered World War II, and he was called to serve under the colors.
III. POSTWAR YEARS IN THE CONGO AND ADOPTION OF LEOPOLD
In 1947, after a three-month vacation in the mother country, where he had gone to see his family and get married, Paul Denola moved with his young bride into the newly built cottage intended initially as another annex to the guest house.
Nothing was beautiful enough for his doe-eyed hypersensitive Anne-Marie. He would shower her with costly presents imported from Europe and America. He bought her a BSA bicycle which she never used. She had two servants at her disposal and even a watchdog so that she would feel protected. But all this was to no avail, for Anne-Marie suffered from “la maladie des tropiques.” She would shy away from people and, when addressed, she would be on the brink of tears.
I felt quite sorry for her and endeavored to make her see life’s shinier side.
With Tshikapa I planted dahlias and rosebushes along the pathway leading to their verandah, but very soon her sketchy smile would vanish and she would lapse into that state of torpor which had hit her the very first instant she set foot on African soil.
She seemed to be caught in a ghostly grid, fearing everything and everyone. She was scared of staying alone with her two Congolese servants. She also avoided the German shepherd, which Paul finally had chained in the garage. But its barking, too, she couldn’t bear. On top of it all, as a Fleming she spoke French too scantily to socialize, let alone sustain, a lengthy conversation.
Anne-Marie lost twelve kilos during her first three months in the Congo. That delightful peasant plumpness she wore upon her arrival had melted away. Only her deep-set gray eyes seemed to be alive; they glowed feverishly. She was anemic, and the doctor told Paul she needed a change of air. It was my suggestion that they both go spend several weeks in South Africa and let me take care of the guesthouse.
Capetown’s bracing climate did them a lot of good, for Paul too had been showing signs of mental fatigue. When they returned, Anne-Marie’s tan covered a more fully fleshed body. She appeared to have completely recovered from her depression. Her cheeks were rosy and she spoke with less restraint. She now showed pleasure in tending her garden. Anne-Marie openly enjoyed my company, asking for my advice or opinion.
She was really going through a metamorphosis. To what extent, I would soon discover with dismay. Anne-Marie was now concerned about my well-being and insisted that I share the evenings with Paul and her. It became embarrassing, the way she would impose my presence upon her husband, often ignoring him. I noticed in Paul a growing malaise. At work he would become irritable and would yell at the natives. With me, he remained courteous, but he would consult me less and less regarding the more important aspects of the business.
Then things took a very swift turn. Earlier than usual one morning, Paul came to me. Unshaven and hirsute, he had evidently spent a bad night.
“I must have a word with you right now,” he announced. “This has to stop between you and Anne-Marie.” He flared up. “And you needn’t pretend. She’s told me about your advances and the rest.”
Regaining my composure, I cut him short. “What you’re accusing me of is very serious, Paul.”
“You’re darn right,” he interjected. “I’m not one to flaunt my private life, but you should know that, because of you, Anne-Marie won’t allow me to touch her any more. It’s been going on for too long already.”
“All this is sheer fabrication, and I’m not going to have it,” I retorted. “I only tried to be helpful to her, but not in the way you’re implying.”
“Oh yes, you’ve just only slept with her several times.”
Unable to contain myself any longer, I grabbed him by the fist. “Have you both become raving mad? You know damn well I don’t go with women.”
“One never knows what to expect from ‘pédales’ (fairies) of your sort. After one of your sickening affairs, you suddenly turn your depraved instincts toward a female. No, not any female. You choose the weak ones like Anne-Marie, who fall prey to the schmaltzy talk you’re so good at. No wonder she feels better; you’ve extended her lease under the tropics. I should have been wiser than to let you in on my business. That’s what I get for being broad-minded. Goddamn homo!”
- Hidden Essentials - August 30, 2023
- A New World - August 23, 2022
- Harry Wilson’s Congo Diary - February 13, 2022
