The day after the argument I handed Paul my resignation, maintaining that he was dead wrong about my so-called relationship with Anne-Marie.
For a while I believed I ought to confront her in the presence of her husband and wrench the truth out of her, but then, considering her frail and highly emotional nature, I gave up on the whole idea. She would break down totally and turn into the wreck she had been before the South African parenthesis.
***
That is when I decided to set up shop, opening my luxury boutique. Unfortunately, our parting didn’t augur well for Paul. Only two months had elapsed when he came to me, pleading that I should rethink the matter and resume my position at the guesthouse. I could even keep the boutique; he wouldn’t ask me to buy the shares back. He had realized the mistake he had made and admitted he had misjudged me grossly. Anne-Marie was again driving him and herself crazy. But I stood adamant, painful as it was for Paul.
Within weeks he sold the guesthouse, packed and left the Congo with poor Anne-Marie.
Not long after the Denola’s departure, I was visited by a blonde woman in her thirties. She was elegantly dressed and wore her hair in a pageboy cut. Having never seen her before, I assumed she was a customer from out of town. Great was my surprise once she revealed her identity.
“I’m Janine Devries, Paul Denola’s sister. My husband and I have just been transferred from Kilo Moto, where he was an engineer at the gold mines. He has now landed a contract with the Union Minière. I don’t regret the two years in the Interior, but it does feel wonderful to be in Elisabethville. Paul wrote us so much about you. What a shame Anne-Marie couldn’t adapt herself to the Congo! It’s Paul I’m worried about now, though. He truly loved this country. Oh, well.”
I was immediately taken by Janine’s charm and exuberance. She had sparkling eyes, a perennial smile at life. She was looking for something to do. Actually, she was a godsend. Business was promising and I needed an assistant. It happened so naturally that, before the day was out, I had engaged her. And I’m happy I heeded my intuition. I couldn’t have found a more reliable person to second me.
I don’t know whether Paul had told her of my tendencies, but she accepted me straight away, and I didn’t have to justify myself or make any sort of amends.
Gossiping was a trait she seemed to have been born without, and this made me very grateful towards her. In an exquisitely feminine fashion she was an epicure. Had my background and circumstances been different, I might have elected someone like her as a lifetime mate. But I was quite content with our relationship.
Though somewhat distant — it could be attributed to shyness — her husband, Roger, proved a decent and unmeddlesome human being. They formed a nice couple. The only shadow in Janine’s life was that she couldn’t have children. Her tears were generally of laughter except when it touched on that specific argument.
“God has struck me thus,” she would lament, “as he cripples others. I’m thankful for Roger, though. Another man would have felt vexed.”
I asked her whether they had ever considered adopting a child. She had, but Roger didn’t want to hear about it. He thought the idea repulsive. And Janine, unwilling to hurt his manly pride, resigned herself to his decision. He may have been selfish on that count, but she couldn’t honestly hold it against him.
When she saw children, a frown would sweep away the joy that normally emanated from her eyes and an awkward smile would settle on her lips. She always had candy in reserve or some plush toy for our customers’ kids. The parents affectionately nicknamed her Madame Cadeau (Mrs. Gift).
Her love for children was genuine enough to cross the racial barrier. She would stop a negress in the street with a babe tied to her back and stroke its cheek, saying, “l’adorable poupon,” a gesture which moved me infinitely, though at the time I couldn’t really explain why, for I too had been brought up in a segregated environment, taking certain ugly things for granted.
Janine’s attitude toward black children triggered something in me that became irreversible. And yet, like the crushing majority of Europeans in the colony, she never socialized with the Congolese.
***
Tshikapa, who had been devoted to me ever since that first night of my arrival at the guesthouse, had a road accident that left his legs paralyzed. His loss affected me greatly. It was he who had sent me Mama Malkia, a “nduku” of his. He had spoken about her during one of my visits at the Cité Indigène, where he now lived permanently.
“Bwana Harry,” he told me, “in town there is no one better for you. She’s worked in hotels and knows how to deal with ‘muntu meupe.’ But she’s not always very…accommodating, though when she likes somebody you can count on her with your eyes shut, kweli. And she’s willing to enter your service.”
He paused for a few seconds, then added, “On a trial period… You see, Bwana, Mama Malkia is a very strong woman, ‘nguvu sana,’ and she…well…doesn’t stand for any nonsense. That’s why she’s always refused to work for white ladies.”
I was, I must admit, a bit surprised, but when I started chuckling, Tshikapa guffawed, baring the lustrous white of his teeth.
Though I had been forewarned, the encounter with Mama Malkia was certainly not banal, especially under these latitudes.
Her presence was impressive, both physically and by the tone in which she addressed me. One might have thought the roles had been reversed and that it was I who was being hired. She posed the questions and requirements, and I was just allowed to “take it or leave it, M’sieur” — her leitmotif whenever she detected a doubt on my face.
So before I could collect my thoughts I took it all in stride, so to speak. Here again intuition came to my rescue and proved a faithful ally.
Not that everything went smoothly between Mama Malkia and me. I found her authoritarian, somewhat coarse in her manners, and nosy. She wouldn’t call me “bwana,” but M’sieur, and she had the nerve to remark that I wasn’t “a ladies’ man.” I didn’t talk to her for a week. Then she came to me and things got much better.
She remained pigheaded, answered back, even raised her voice at me, but in spite of it all she was an exceptional character, and I couldn’t hold any real grudge against her.
My European acquaintances were utterly confounded — some couldn’t conceal their dismay upon learning that, under my initiative, Mama Malkia had left the Cité Indigène to come and live with me. This was simply not done. I had discussed the matter with Janine and her “outlandish, but why not, after all” had prompted me to make the move.
***
Then, as the weeks rolled on, an idea germinated in me which gradually became an obsession. I could feel its tentacles invade my whole being to the point that I started having insomnia.
Unable to keep it to myself I approached Janine and poured it out to her.
“You want to adopt métis?” she repeated several times with amazement.
It was too grave a question to act hastily upon. We talked it over for days until we reached the momentous conclusion. I say “we” because without Janine’s empathic help I could never have embarked on a decision of such magnitude.
As for Mama Malkia, when I disclosed it to her, she believed I had lost a few screws and called me an outright “mazimu.” She finally consented to this “crazy and strange whim” of mine and I entrusted her with the delicate task of selecting the child at the Catholic mission, the adoption procedure being the easier part of it.
From now on, my life would take on a new meaning.
- Hidden Essentials - August 30, 2023
- A New World - August 23, 2022
- Harry Wilson’s Congo Diary - February 13, 2022
