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

brought to a circus or to the Luna Park.
In spite of the fact that E'ville (as the locals nicknamed their city) was smaller, not so much in size, as in population, than Salisbury, everything here fascinated us, its wide and shaded avenues, its big and lofty American cars, its handsome - now we would qualify them as art deco - official buildings, cinemas and hotels, its lovely villas, in the Italian or Flemish style, with here, a bull's eye, there, a thatched roof, neatly trimmed, and everywhere, gardens, full of flowers, that could vie with our own.  Familiar, of course, were the streets (since they were usually wider here, they were called either avenue or boulevard) shaded by two rows of jacaranda and flame trees.  
But it was the city's few boutiques that attracted us in particular.  The ladies' garments here were more daring in style than what we knew, as much in their patterns as in their colors, some of them incredibly flashy, then there were the more sober and very chic dresses in the latest Parisian fashion.
Whenever Debbie nudged us to choose a blouse or even a skirt that we found a little "risqué", Debbie and I would exchange a glance connoting complicity, that wavered between slight shock and amusement.  But her cousin would insist, until we both came out of the store, holding a parcel each, be it a light one.  
Bella also took us to have supper (the Belgians say souper while the French call it dîner) at one of the three or four fine restaurants in town, like Marcel's, at the hôtel Albert Premier, or the Guesthouse Sabena, next to the airport, where we would be introduced to the most succulent cuisine we had ever tasted, going from surprise to delicious surprise, like the bouchées à la reine, filled with herbs, mushrooms and veal cubes, all of it dipped in béchamel sauce, the coucou de Malines, so tender in the flesh and so crisp on the outside, which were actually baby chicks, served with asparagus and roast potatoes, the lofty and browned macaroni au gratin with minced meat, thicker than our steak and kidney pie, and so much more appetizing than the boiled pasta we were used to.  As for the desserts, the choice was pantagruelian.  Thus did we get a taste of any of the half dozen tartes aux fruits, baked in layers of custard and strawberry coulis, or the chocolate-covered rondins, a Flemish specialty that bore a hilarious name, pets de nonne (nun's fart), but which were nevertheless soft and luscious.  After which, we were offered either a Dame blanche (usually two big scoops of vanilla ice-cream, smothered in whipped cream or black chocolate sauce), a mille-feuille sprinkled with powdered sugar, a choice of delicious Italian gelati, as well as cakes of all sizes and hues, often covered with crème Chantilly.  There were also dishes whose sight made me cringe, such as those escargots de Bourgogne (snails), cooked in garlic, those tiny frogs' legs Bella swore tasted as good as baby pigeons, or that oddly named filet américain, which is also known as tartar steak, where everything is raw: the egg yolk, the onions, the capers, the lemon juice, the spices, and especially the piéce de résistance, that big chunk of minced raw meat.  Just the look of it made me want to throw up and for a while, it took away my appetite.
Nightlife was a real novelty for both Debbie and myself.  You should remember that in those days, even in a metropolis such as London, then the largest in the world, not to mention big cities like Johannesburg or Capetown, in South Africa, if there were indeed nightclubs, they were out of reach for decent girls like us, and looked down upon as "dens of iniquity" or shebeens where alcohol was served illegally and where you were bound to mix with the underworld.  Which was not at all the case in E'ville, where the dance-floors, that either stood in the middle of the restaurant or else gave out onto a large verandah, girded by violet-hued bougainvilleas, like the Guest house Sabena, often had a real band of two or three visiting musicians or at least an in-house pianist.
That was all to the delight of the city's couples, the single men or women who visited from the interior, and of course, to ours.
It was at one of these late outings that I met a young lanky Mediterranean-looking man, with an expressive and smiley face.  He invited me to tango with him.  I replied that I wasn't used to this kind of dance and that he should rather ask one of my girl friends.  He honored both of them, after which, he came back to me, saying that now it was my turn.  He led me to the floor, and I must admit that it was a real pleasure to be guided by such a gentle and expert partner.  He made me twirl around to a dizzying crescendo, so much so that the other couples let us have center stage and they began to clap their hands as if we had just won a contest.  I was flushed with joy and pride, asking myself if I was the one performing with such ease and bravado in the arms of this elegant young man.  Just before the band stopped playing, I had to take a firm grip on him, lest I lose my balance.
When we rejoined the two other girls, Sandro insisted that we all have a drink on him.  He then asked whether we could see each other the following evening, for dinner this time.  As I was hesitating, Debbie nudged me with her elbow and, without waiting for my approval, or consulting her cousin, declared:
"Bella and I have some family matters to discuss, but Gloria is free, so I don't see why she can't go out without us?"  Then, giving me a complicit wink, she repeated, lowering her voice, yet it was high enough for everyone to hear:
"I told you I had important things to talk about with my cousin, remember?  We could join you and Mr.  ... Mr. ....afterwards, for a late drink, if you want."
“Sandro. Sandro Romano-Livi.  Please just call me Sandro,"  responded the young stranger, sporting a radiant smile of joviality.
”The cheek you have, Debbie, really!" I thought, “to leave me alone, like that,  with someone we have just met, even if he behaved so courteously.”
She didn't allow me to protest and got up, motioning for Bella and I to join her, while at the same time, she wished Sandro good night.
I did see the discreet gesture Bella made in the young man's direction, as she handed him a slip of paper where she had jotted down her address and telephone number.  In turn, she asked him where he was staying and if it was with his family.  
The next afternoon towards five thirty Sandro and I were sitting on the terrace of Hotel Kemps, opposite a roundabout dotted with pink and scarlet petunias, and whose lovely neo-Renaissance dome, itself bearing a turret, dominated the landscape.   A surprising sight under such latitudes!  Two colonnades ran alongside the building which had been recently spruced up and still smelled of fresh paint.  When I first arrived, the glare was so strong that I had to shut my eyes for a few seconds, it was as if the sun rays had set it alight in an incandescent vision.  
We made casual conversation, barely distracted by the continuous racket the crickets, hidden in the surrounding trees, made - they stopped just after twilight, for in our region, night falls as suddenly as a stage curtain after the last act of a play, and you are sucked into its darkness before you have time to breathe a full sigh.
Sandro then spoke about his Italian-Sephardic family who had settled on the island of Rhodes, off the Turkish coast, generations ago, after their forebears had fled the Spanish Inquisition.  Three of his sisters and their respective husbands had emigrated to the United States in the late thirties, but, in spite of his insistence that they come and join him in Africa, his parents refused to leave their birthplace and stayed on with their baby daughter.  He also spoke at length of the company he worked for, of his boss, of Kamina where he had become the manager of a branch which he contributed to enlarge.  All of this he said with such a zestful and candid tone that I was instantly charmed.  Never before had I encountered a young man so frank and so eloquent.  Even when he mentioned the difficulties he had to face, he would brush them off as something temporary that, with time, would resolve itself.  He had a leitmotiv: "Everything in life has a solution, if one has the will."
Yet, somehow as he broached upon the subject of his parents and baby sister, as well as on the Sephardic community, to which they belonged, I felt that an ominous veil was coming down upon them, for that was the only moment he would knit his brows and become sullen.  But even then he would never sound pitiful and would soon recompose himself, turning back to his jolly self, mentioning his plans and the new projects he intended to realize in the near future.  He definitely didn't sound like those braggarts who made promises so extravagant that you knew they could never carry them out.  He was very conscious about the hurdles of life, but in his case, the glass was always half full, rather than half empty.    
I'm giving the impression that he was a motormouth, which is quite false.  In between two sentences, he would ask me to tell him about myself, how I grew up, who my friends were, what my interests in life were, and my hobbies.  His eyes would sparkle as soon as he remembered that I played the piano and he would stare at me as before a lovely landscape.  And because of it he put me on a pedestal.
How could I, after such signs of sympathy, remain indifferent?  The truth is that I very soon fell in love with this young man who was as gallant as he was full of concern, yet at the same time he was so foreign to me, and, what’s more ... penniless.
Towards the end of our dinner, around a tall candle light, and after we had drunk a bottle of rosé wine, he proposed to me.
"You are the woman I have waited for!" he declared.
I was at a loss and before I could react, Debbie and her cousin appeared, as they had promised.

That night I didn't bat an eye, turning and tossing a hundred times in my bed, and waited feverishly until dawn to wake up my friend, for I couldn't hold such news any longer inside my head.  She listened ever so calmly, as if she had expected something of the kind, albeit not so precipitously, and said:
"I think it's wonderful.  Look here darling, your eyes are so red from the strain and the worrying that I believe you should go back to sleep.  You're much too tired to discuss this now.  We will talk about it after a good rest.  This is too serious a matter to botch up."
She opened her toilet bag and handed me a pill, then, without any explanation, ordered me to swallow it.  Which I did, trusting her fully, since I really couldn't see straight anymore.
When I woke up, seeing how late it was on my alarm clock, I jumped out of bed and ran into the adjoining bathroom.        
The two cousins were waiting for me in the living room, whispering  things