The Revelation, ALbert Russo [grave mercy .TXT] 📗

THE REVELATION

A story by Albert Russo (2750 words)

exerpted from his novel THE BLACK ANCESTOR -
Imago Press, Arizona, 2009 (Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc.)


One mid-afternoon, walking back from school - there was nobody home, and everything was quiet in the backyard, for Tambwe had gone to run some errands with his bicycle, whilst Amelie, at that still early hour, was doing the usual rounds of her servant acquaintances in the neighborhood - I was surprised to hear repeated knocks at the kitchen door.
It was uncle jeff, paying me an impromptu visit on his way from Saint-François de Sales. He was wearing his satchel over his shoulders and his hair was slick with perspiration. He usually came to see me during the weekend, when he had no special task to accomplish, like his boyscout outings, or his driving lessons.
“You didn’t expect me, uh!” he exclaimed, with a toothy smile. “Just wanted to see if everything was ok with my favorite niece.”
At once astonished and thrilled, I said: “Uncle Jeff, you’re sweating as if you’d run ten kilometers. You must be terribly thirsty. There’s some orange juice in the fridge. Or would you rather have a glass of cold beer?”
“That’s sweet of you, Leodine.” he replied, somewhat short of breath. “Let me first go freshen up in the bathroom, then if you don’t mind, I’d like you to pour me a big glass of filtered water.”
A few moments later we were both standing in my room and I showed him some of my new toys, the recent pictures I had colored, and especially the magnificent gypsy doll which my mother had brought me from the boutique - that was, of course, the present I was most proud of. The first instant he saw the doll, he had a strange look in his eyes. Then he nibbled at his thumb, the way he used to, when something bothered him.
“You don’t think it’s pretty?” I asked him, with a pinch of disappointment.
“Oh yes,” he said, clearing his throat, as if his voice were still breaking, “it’s indeed very lovely. As long as you like it, that’s what counts.” To which he added, “As a matter of fact, you should always listen to your heart and not mind what others say, for some people will want to harm you. I’m sure you’ve had that kind of experience with jealous schoolmates.”
The tone of his voice had become suddenly grave and low-pitched and I couldn’t fathom why. Then, setting himself by my side on the bed, he looked at me with his piercing gray eyes and said: “There’s something important I should tell you, Leodine. I kept it to myself for a long time, wondering whether you’d be ready to hear it, for you’re still a teenager, but then I’ve decided to finally approach you on this delicate subject. No one, except Granny, Granpa and your Mom, knows about it.”
I’d never seen uncle Jeff so serious, he even had wrinkles on his forehead. I stared at him, open-mouthed, expecting some bad news in which I was surely implicated.
“It was during the night of All Saints’ day; I had gotten up to go to the toilet, when I heard my parents discuss in their bedroom. They were sort of whispering, but since my sisters, at this very late hour, were probably fast asleep, and everything was so quiet in the house, I pressed my ear to their door and listened to what they were saying. They were mentioning your late daddy, Gregory McNeil, for they had just received a letter from your grandmother in America, telling them that one of your ancestors had been a freed slave and that since you were growing into a young woman, you should know about it.”
I stared, bewildered, at my uncle Jeff, then croaked: “There were slaves in the family? How did that ever happen, and where did they come from?”
Putting on his cocker spaniel look, full of compassion, he went on: “Actually, it concerns your great-grandmother. She was apparently very beautiful and of ... African origin.”
“You mean, she was black!” I exclaimed.
“Yes, but not black black, more like Lena Horne, you know, that actress you liked so much in the musical we saw together, a few weeks ago, at the Cinema Rex. You remember, don’t you? You were so thrilled by the movie, you wanted to see it a second time, that very same evening.”
I suddenly had the feeling something was being wrenched from the pit of my stomach, or was it higher? This error of appreciation added to my state of disarray. It felt as though I had slowly been drained of all my blood and that in its place poison was being injected. What was so disconcerting was that, within the same body, another person seemed to have slipped in, turning me into a sudden stranger, as if it no longer belonged to me.
“My father was ... colored?” I uttered with disbelief in a squeaky voice, adding, in the same breath, “Yet, on the photographs, he doesn’t look it ... he just had this natural sunny tan all year round, like most of the Italians or the Greeks, we know here ... and they’re not colored.”
“This should remain between you and me, people don’t have to know about it. Not even my own sisters,” he said, resting his wide, ink-stained hand on mine.
The kindness of his tone and his gentle touch, instead of having a soothing effect on me, triggered a savage outburst of tears. This news was a hundred times worse than the horrible nightmares that not so long ago rocked my sleep, for here, I was living them in broad daylight, and I wouldn’t dare appeal to my mother or my grand-parents for help, as I used to, when we still resided in the large family house. Could one in the first place be comforted for having black ancestry?
“My God, this means that I too am ...” I muttered, unable to complete the sentence, for the awesome truth had just pierced through my consciousness. It couldn’t be possible, there had to be a mistake, I went on mutely, even trying to erase the word “mulatto” from my mind, as if it were a disease.
“You don’t have to worry, Leodine, you’re so light of skin, nobody could ever guess,” Uncle Jeff said. “Did you know that the Empress Josephine de Beauharnais, Napoleon’s first wife, was of mixed blood?” he added, to reassure me, “And so was Alexandre Dumas, who wrote ‘The Three Musketeers’.”
These words had only a half-soothing effect on me, for what Uncle Jeff was mentioning here concerned historical or famous personalites, whereas I was neither, and what’s more, mulattoes in the colony bore the tinge of sin. I often noticed how differently the few girls of mixed blood, frequenting Institut Marie-Jose, were treated by their so-called peers; if the latter were not openly insulting, they would pass sneaky remarks at them or snub them altogether.
In my class there was a colored girl - her name was Yolande -, with whom I sometimes spoke, keeping a low profile, in order not to attract the attention of the others; whenever they noticed us, however, they would cast us the sort of glance that could be either condescending or downright scornful, as if we were doing something wrong. That, on top of which, Yolande was quite pretty, made some of them seethe with jealousy; they would snarl behind her back or even pull out their tongue and make faces as if to say: “Who does she tink she is, anyway!”, in spite of the fact that the girl was rather shy and withdrawn, in her manners as well as in the way she dressed.
Now that my uncle had told me that terrible thing about my ancestry, I was in an even greater doubt and asked myself whether I shouldn’t stop frequenting Yolande, lest the other girls should divine that we had, she and I, something in common in our genes. Mixed blood, my God, just the thought of it made me shiver.
Had they known it from the start, would my grandparents have allowed my mother to marry Gregory McNeil? I’m positive that they wouldn’t. But why do people make such differences, for goodness’ sake, aren’t we all equally God’s creatures?
A score of questions which would never have crossed my mind before, were now popping up like weed. The words ‘tainted blood’ and ‘unclean’ were persuing me night and day, to the point that I felt them literally creep under my skin, when I was considered a well-groomed and even fastidious child. For the first time of my life, I felt dirty inside, and no bath, no mouth wash, no perfume, be it the most delicate or the most expensive, could shirk that impression. I would look at myself in the mirror with much more insistance than in the past, scrutinizing every single feature of mine as if through a magnifying glass. My hair was still of that light auburn shade, with gleams of gold, and it still had the same silky quality, which so pleased my grandmother, who liked to twirl her finger around my locks, my eyes had kept its lovely blue-green hue that in turn evoked the sky or the shoals of an unspoilt lagoon. As if I were being tricked by some ghostly entity, I would then focus my attention on the beauty spots that sprinkled my face, to make sure that they wouldn’t betray me. Sofar, I had considered them an advantage - didn’t they enhance one’s personality, like that of the beautifully delicate English actress, Deborah Kerr? Yet now, I was trying to hide those freckles with powder, or even blush, which I borrowed from my mother’s dressing table, without her knowing it, of course. The result was less than convincing, inasmuch as one of my classmates approached me with the following sneaky remark: “I hope you haven’t caught the measles, it’s very contagious, you know.”
“Oh, it’s not that at all!” I retorted, shocked, at first, unaware that she was mocking me, then, as I realized my mistake, I said, sketching a maudlin smile, as I pulled out a handkerchief to wipe out the stains, “I thought I’d try some make-up. I think you’re right, it doesn’t suit me.” I improvised.
She stared at me dubiously then shrugged her shoulders, as if to say: “Some people really have weird tastes!” and walked away towards the playground.
I stopped fiddling with those beauty spots, which didn’t prevent me from hating them all the more. They reminded me of the chocolate-tinted mark my gypsy doll bore on its left cheek, it was so becoming against the background of her dark complexion. With the difference that her skin was almost as brown as that of Amelie, and in their case, it looked natural.
I now felt constrained behind the bars of an inner cage, which could, by a sleight of hand, become visible to all, and this probability, even if it were just by flashes, kept haunting me. Should I begrudge Uncle Jeff for having slipped open the closet to my eyes or my mother who would have kept it shut until after I’d completed secondary school and left the Congo? And what of my grandparents, whose attitude towards me hadn’t changed? Deep down, was it pity they felt for me,