Gloria's Diary, Albert Russo [reading in the dark .TXT] 📗

Albert Russo
websites: www.albertrusso.eu - www.albertrusso.com www.authorsden.com/albertrusso


GLORIA'S DIARY


When I see with what difficulty my little Dalia was trying to adjust to her new environment, here in Monza, a medieval town shrouded in the wintry mists of Lombardy, she who until then had only known the warm light of Africa, I asked myself if settling in Northern Italy was the right choice. 
Sandro had initially wished us to move to the Cape instead, and many a time I had been inclined to yield to his request, inasmuch as I held this city close to my heart, for having visited it so often and I had made a number of good friends there, while I was still living in Rhodesia.  
Rather than England, to which I had traveled twice, staying with relatives, and where, in spite of their kindness, I hadn't felt comfortable, nor liked the climate, it was South Africa, mainly with Capetown, but also with Durban and Port Elizabeth, that we looked up to as our "mother country", where we found a mixture of British, American (we thought it so modern) and African cultures.  We would also spend our vacations in Beira, for Mozambique was much closer to us, and we enjoyed the "Continental" atmosphere the Portuguese offered us.
It was only towards adolescence that I had realized how much the apartheid system had corrupted the souls of white folks in South Africa.  Man, when he manages to subjugate his former enemy, can lose all sense of justice, ending up believing in his own lies, mistaking good for evil, by twisting the tenets of religion to suit him.   
Before Ian Smith had pronounced his unilateral declaration of independence in 1964, leading the country to civil war, veering by the same token to the extreme right as he had implemented new racial laws, similar to those applied by the government of our powerful neighbor to the south, Rhodesia had lived in peace, if not in harmony, a state shared by its population, black and white.  We never felt the tension that existed in South Africa, in spite of the fact that the Shona majority and the Ndebele who were often at odds with each other, both legitimately aspired to more justice and to greater autonomy.  But they also benefited from the bounty of our nation, which was indeed a land of milk and honey, before that other ogre, Mugabe, almost completely destroyed it, forcing millions of his people to flee, because of torture, famine and disease, while at the same time accusing the West for all his crimes.  
Rhodesian white rule could be said to resemble the colonial regime existing in the Belgian Congo rather than that of South Africa, or of the Portuguese possessions, which in spite of widespread miscegenation, had remained, after half a millennium, much poorer than their neighbors.  There was, however, a major difference: the white Rhodesians, many of whom were one- or even two-generation settlers, considered themselves to be "European Africans", much more than Britons in transit.  The majority of the Belgians, on the other hand, civil servants, for the greater part, and though they lived comfortably in the colony - they were far from being, according to myth, filthy rich - never thought of making the Congo their permanent home. There were a scant 100,000 Whites within a population of 14 million Congolese when the country became independent.
Unlike Algeria, which fought a long and bloody war of liberation, the Congo plunged into chaos once it gained its independence, not before, with tribal feuds re-ignited in the most savage manner.  The number of Congolese casualties was far greater than the few hundreds of Europeans killed in the aftermath.  Its disastrous coming of age and the sad experiences of other African nations "freed" from colonialism convinced me that moving to South Africa was not a good alternative for our family.  I believed, as many historians did then - we were fortunately proven dead wrong in this case - that, in spite of its strong white minority, the racist republic would explode into a carnage the magnitude of which couldn't be fathomed.  But that was without counting on the intervention of one of the 20th century's greatest political figures: Nelson Mandela.  Never was the black man treated with such contempt and indignity, at least after the Second World War.  Sorry, here again I'm mistaken, for the Sudanese Islamic government repressed its southern Christian and animist population with extreme violence, causing the death of at least two million people.  Years later, the Arab gangs of Janjaweed horsemen were responsible for the death of more than three hundred thousand Darfurians.  Then too, there were the civil wars in Nigeria, with the tragedy in Biafra, in Sierra Leone, in Rwanda, and the list continues.  I was going to forget Liberia, that small country on the West coast of the continent, created by former American slaves with the support of President Monroe.  How wrongly it bore its name though, for its rulers imposed a ruthless dictatorship over the indigenous population, thus imitating their white oppressors of yore.  Until the day when a man of the land overthrew the hated "foreigners".  Unfortunately that self-appointed “savior" ruled his country with the same iron fist, the same greed for power, betraying his countrymen and perpetuating their misery.
These examples can in no way excuse the arrogance and the cruelty of the white settlers, inasmuch as they claimed to bring to the "heathen" a "higher" form of civilization.   
All of this to say how distressed I felt to leave that African soil in which I had dug so many roots, from its southern borders to its very heart, with the crowning conclusion, living on the magnificent shores of Lake Tanganyika.  
Despite its dull winter climate and a new language, northern Italy appeared to be our best alternative; it was, after all, the country of Sandro's origins or, at least, of his culture, and I had the intuition that I would, sooner or later, adopt its customs and be happier there than if I had gone and settled in England, the land of my forebears, which had depressed me so much the two times I had visited it.
Soon however most of the myths and the romantic ideas which foreigners embrace, about a nation sun-kissed and alive with the accents of music, bathed in an atmosphere of insouciance, fell one by one, at least as far as Lombardy was concerned.
During those trying first months of settling in Monza, I had been lucky enough to have Roberto Garini, Sandro's partner, by my side, along with his wife, Marisa.  Roberto would take care of all of the administrative paperwork, thus unburdening me from a huge weight which befall all newcomers, inasmuch as I spoke no Italian and, from what I gathered, as this country is well-known for its nerve wracking bureaucracy.
To every officer or public servant we were introduced, Roberto would discreetly slip an envelope.  When, puzzled, I first asked him what was in it, he winked at me and whispered: “This way, we won't have to wait too long for things to be done."
In the beginning this kind of attitude, that is, bribing people left right and center, as a matter of course, hurt my Anglo-Saxon sensibility whose puritanical education, though quite hypocritical in the province of sex, did not allow anything but full transparency in matters of public affairs and the Civil Service, which stands as one of the guarantees of our democratic society.
Little by little, however, I resigned myself to such underhanded dealings, not without letting out now and then a sigh of disapproval.  I must admit that the Italians, even in the north of the peninsula, where work is highly prized - that was one of my big initial surprises, since I was led to believe, like so many foreigners, that everyone in this country was a bit lazy by nature, much preferring la dolce vita to industry - cheat with such elegance, I would even add, with a certain charm, which, if it does not always elicit a smile, is often quite disarming.  They have an art de vivre which colors every aspect of their life, for good or evil.  And what I would tolerate from them, I could not have tolerated from another nation.

Even though she spoke broken English, Marisa turned out to be very supportive and we soon became good friends.  She introduced me to Monza's main storekeepers where she was a regular patron.  I soon began to appreciate the advantages of living in a smaller town, where you would recognize most of the people you came across, as opposed to the often cold reception you received in a metropolis like Milan.
As serious and as somewhat stiff in his demeanor as Roberto could be - which did not subtract from his kindness - Marisa was full of life, with a touch of extravagance.  She often made me laugh, especially when we went out, in the company of Roberto, who would dart at her reproachful looks which, to his exasperation, she would ignore, pulling her tongue behind his back, and that, of course, would give me more fits.

The couple had two daughters, Carlina and Giosi, who both frequented Colegio Bianconi, a Catholic school for girls led by the Sisters, and where Dalia was introduced just a few days after we arrived in Monza. 
Carlina was two years younger than Dalia, but since my daughter had to start from scratch, she found herself in her same class.  Thank goodness for Carlina, because Dalia felt doubly humiliated, not only was she a total stranger, but she was also the eldest of the class.
The funny side in this situation was that Carlina behaved with her protégé like a big sister, mollycoddling her.  But she did this with such enthusiasm and such genuine kindness, that Dalia, who, in Africa, emulated her older sister, showing an increasing sense of independence, finally resigned herself, accepting her new status of "inferiority" as inevitable, so long as it would remain transitory.
Giosi was already in high school and had the preoccupations of an adolescent, which put a distance between the two sisters, not to mention with Carlina's friend.
The girls seldom went out with Giosi, inasmuch as the latter now had a fidanzato - a boyfriend in Italy, even if he is a minor, is considered to be like a “fiancé".  Because, most of the times, such juvenile betrothals go on for years.  In the beginning I was quite surprised to see how faithful these young Italian lovers were throughout, especially when I think of my Rhodesian pals, who, not only were pretty forward, some even brazen, but who also changed boyfriends much more often.
During the first months of our settlement, Dalia would come home, eyes red and teary, for not only could she not understand her classmates, towards whom she was too proud to show her feelings, putting on a mask of indifference, but she disliked everything around her: the apartment we were renting, which to tell the truth was very cozy, her bedroom facing the magnificent landscape of the snow-capped pre-Alps - yes, I should add that more often than not the view was shrouded in a persistent mist.  She also found the city of Monza unattractive, with its "ankle-breaking" cobblestones, its soot-covered buildings and what she called the "ugly, old-fashioned and so-called historic landmarks”, dating back to the “Dark Ages".
I have to thank Carlina who pepped her up, relentlessly, forcing her to look at the brighter side of life.  She would come and fetch Dalia at least three times a week, to accompany her on errands or they would go