VIII. UNAVOIDABLE INCOMPATIBILITY
At times I wonder whether I wouldn’t be better off breaking off from Giorgios, especially now that I have Léopold. It isn’t fear of loneliness. Not with Mama Malkia around and Janine Devries, who is so much more than a shop assistant. There are enough reasons for me to leave him. But I can’t. The moment I see him, I’m trapped inside a magnetic field. In fact, it is I who went towards him and he knows it only too well. I’m forever drawing parallels between him and John. Giorgios has always had this quiet, knowing arrogance when be stares at me, an unnerving grin of superiority. His handsomeness is very Mediterranean and not really my type, yet he’s convinced of the opposite. I do envy his incredible mass of jet black hair. It’s so thick he just has to pass his hand through it to keep it set.
He’s big and brawny and rugged. Not an intellectual. It’s probably that earthy quality he exudes that has fascinated me from the outset, the way he kneads the dough and handles the ingredients.
I’ve had countless occasions to savor Greek pastries, but Giorgios’ baklavas and kadaïfs are second to none, so crisp and light, with just that touch of honey that makes them melt in your mouth. Never do they have the greasy and sickening aftertaste typical of such desserts. His gâteaux and chocolate éclairs match the best one can find in Elisabethville. Funny, how back in America I used to dislike cakes. With Giorgios I’ve acquired something of a sweet tooth.
He so often has the upper hand with me. Fortunately, not always. When he heard I wanted to adopt a boy, he reacted violently.
“Come off it, man, you’re being ridiculous,” he scoffed. “You don’t know what you’re getting into. The child will need a mother. You won’t be able to take proper care of him.”
In fact, Giorgios was terribly jealous and, to complicate matters, he found the choice of a little métis quite distasteful.
That I lived with Mama Malkia was an oddity he couldn’t refrain from hinting at, as if I were being contaminated by her nearness. I proposed his becoming Léo’s godfather. He bluntly refused. I then flew into a temper and didn’t see him for a couple of months. Frankly, I didn’t miss Giorgios. My whole time and emotions were devoted to Léo, learning as it were, my role as a father. I was much too busy working things out with Mama Malkia and listening to Janine’s solicitous advice.
Giorgios must have suffered from his estrangement, and he made a gesture of amends. He learned that I was organizing a birthday party for Léo and had a magnificent cake sent to our home. The card that came with it was laconic and somewhat impersonal: “from Giorgios’ Confectioners.” Such pride! It’s so like him.
Of course, he responded to my invitation and brought Léo his first wooden locomotive. Though unable to conceal my curiosity, I wasn’t actually surprised at Giorgios’ attitude. He almost ignored me, concentrating his attention on Léo, scrutinizing him with calculated bonhomie.
“I’m your daddy’s friend, you know,” he told the child in a muffled tone, yet loud enough for me to hear. “You may call me uncle, OK?”
Léo looked back quizzically at that dark, burly man, his gaze flitting from the charcoal eyebrows to Giorgios’ hands, struck by his downy fingers.
“Let’s play together,” Giorgios proposed, pushing the train over the mat. But Léo seemed less interested in the toy itself than the paws handling it. I could hardly contain myself and would have burst into a fit had Janine not summoned us to the table.
When we all got seated, I presented Giorgios with the cake-slicer, doing him the honor of cutting into his chef-d’oeuvre.
“You must first blow out the candles,” Janine nudged Léo, “all in one breath.”
Léo hesitated, still very much intrigued by Giorgios’ dangling hand. He finally did it and we applauded noisily, Mama Malkia hailing, “Bravo pour Kitoko Léo!”
At that I exploded, not bothering to wipe my tears. I don’t believe Giorgios ever suspected what had in part triggered those tears, so absorbed was he in trying to make a favorable impression. Even if, in his heart of hearts, he resented Léo’s ‘intrusion’ into my life, I couldn’t help acknowledging the sincerity of his efforts.
We began to see each other again, but on different terms. Whether he approved of it or not, Giorgios had to take Léo into account. We would meet only at his place, his visits at my home being limited to occasions such as the child’s birthday or some other social gathering. The arrangement seemed suitable to both of us.
Taking care of mon doux Léopold and the joy of contributing to his education changed the perspective of my relationship with Giorgios. It now appeared more balanced as far as I was concerned, for I no longer felt that weighty dependence to which I had subjected myself.
I recall how, during my hours of solitude, I used to long for his company. Yet, when we got together, after a while I would inexorably fall prey to his magnetism, devoid of willpower. Then, nostalgically, I would muse over the college years I had spent in Baltimore. And John would be cruelly absent. I could never confide to Giorgios my innermost preoccupations; our wavelengths didn’t match.
More than once I thought of opening up to Janine, but I prized her friendship too dearly to burden her with such matters. Yet, when the question of Léo’s adoption arose, she was the only one who had the generosity and intelligence of the heart to listen to me.
***
As Léo grew up, Giorgios’ behavior gradually altered. A teetotaler as long as I had known him, he started to drink. However, liquor didn’t agree with him and that’s where the whole problem lay.
At “mese” time he would have a couple of ouzos. This was enough to make him irritable. Whether we were sitting together, he and I, or with acquaintances at the Lido on Saturday afternoons, he would take offense at the slightest pretext. Generally, it was against a slow waiter. He would pounce on the table with the flat of his hand and hurl Greek curses at the dazed servant. If I tried to reason with him, he would tell me to shut up, reminding me that I couldn’t do with him what I did with my son. Then he would lapse into a long, gloomy silence, which usually ended with a mumbled apology. His anger — it couldn’t be more obvious — was directed at Léo, or rather at my love for the child. He knew, of course, that if he dared touch Léo, it would be irremediably finished between us.
- Hidden Essentials - August 30, 2023
- A New World - August 23, 2022
- Harry Wilson’s Congo Diary - February 13, 2022
