Gloria's Diary by Albert Russo (fun books to read for adults txt) 📕

sacred marriage vows - sorry if am wrong! - and need an elegant evening dress, then I would suggest that you take the pale blue fabric, dotted with delicate embroidered motifs.  Then there is the lovely damask rose, a classic which is always very chic, suited for all kinds of occasions, to be worn at a cocktail party, or even at the wedding of a friend.  Here you can't go wrong."
Blinking his coal-black eyes like a puppet, to stress the seriousness of his assertion, and expecting me to make a decision within the next few seconds, he offered a wide grin of anticipated satisfaction, for this had to be a sure sale.   
Sasha and I exchanged glances that wavered between embarrassment and a sudden itch to burst into laughter.  I liked two of the fabrics the shopkeeper had so lavishly described, and I couldn't make up my mind.  Before my hesitation, Sasha, whose cheeks had turned a deep red, took out his wallet and said to the Indian man:
"We shall take these two, Sir!  But will there be enough material in each case for a long evening frock?" He then asked, "for the missus here is a tall lady."
I wanted to butt in to refuse a gift I thought was over generous, but none of the gentlemen gave me the opportunity.
"Oh, you shouldn't worry at all.  Not only will you have two beautiful dresses made out of them, but the seamstress will also be able to sew a lovely shawl, and on top of it, a belt that you can knot around your waist, if that is your wish." 
Then the little man took a few steps aside, discreetly pulling at Sasha's sleeve, so that they could talk shop; but when he announced the price in a whisper, believing that I now stood out of earshot - it was without counting that I read his lips - I intervened forcefully, insisting that I couldn't accept such an expensive present.  Sasha cast me an imploring look.
But here again, the shopkeeper caught us unprepared, proffering his most charming smile, whilst my companion made no request to lower the price.  The little man then gently took my hand, led me to the other end of the store, and pointed at three glittering purses locked up behind a glass case.
"Just take the one you fancy most.  They’re all very elegant and stylish; which one do you prefer, the black, the gold- or the silver-plated purse?  It will be my gift, as a gesture of appreciation, and this, with my very best and sincere wishes for your happiness and a long life.” 
Again, I gazed at Sasha, tight-lipped, hoping that he would finally stop the shopkeeper from getting his way with us, instead of which, he motioned me with an almost fierce look in his eyes, forcing me to accept the deal.
And thus we left the stall, carrying a big brown parcel, tied up with thick strings, coarsely knotted, which contained the two magnificent pieces of cloth and a lovely black silk purse dotted with semi-precious stones.
A the corner of the street, I thanked Sasha, kissing him fleetingly on the cheek, which made him blush instantly.  
Dusk was setting in and my companion, who, I now realized was an expert in diversion, probably caused by his natural shyness, said, in a more assured tone of voice: "I absolutely have to show you something, before we get back to the hotel."
Towering above Queen Street, stood the superb Jumah mosque, the largest in the southern hemisphere.  The building, girded by a circle of verandahs and surmounted by a tall minaret, with at its crest, a dome made of solid gold (so I was told), was a mix of colonial and Islamic architecture.  Its four long and slim turrets could be seen from miles away.

Speaking of Islam, I’m extremely pained at what is happening nowadays, at the terribly maiming fundamentalism which is gaining ground in so many Muslim countries, and even in the heart of Europe, where more than twenty million of their co-religionists reside.  It's like a reverse apartheid.  Are thus all of man's past errors, all the genocides perpetrated after the Holocaust, for naught?  Where are the Middle Eastern Mandelas hiding?  Look at Saudi Arabia, where Jews and Gentiles are forbidden to practice their faith, look at the Koranic schools, the so-called Madrassahs, scattered over the five continents, where children are taught to hate all other religions, or at least to negate them and to castigate the Infidels (including the Atheists), and where women who are considered inferior beings, continue to be treated with the criminal authoritarianism of the Middle Ages; at least the Queen of Jordan is fighting, along with a number of Muslim feminists and intellectuals (they are, sadly, often hit by deadly fatwas), for the betterment of her sex.  
I only have admiration for the courage of women like Aayan Hirsi Ali, the Dutch parliamentarian of Somali origin, whose friend, Theo Van Gogh, the film-maker, was brutally murdered - his throat was slit - by a Moroccan in full daylight, and who is now living in the United States, because she isn't safe anymore in her country of adoption, Ebadi, the Iranian lawyer, winner of the Nobel Prize for Peace, who is practicing her profession in Tehran itself, or the Bangladeshi writer Taslima Nasrim, who has had to flee her country several times, lest she be killed.  And there are many more cases like these, of well-known or, mostly, anonymous freedom fighters.  Aren't their fellowmen ashamed to act in such a primitive and despicable manner?  Apparently not, for the more radical among them keep shouting at the top of their voices, that it is Allah's will, daring even to give lessons of morality to the world's democracies!
On a different note, there's that phrase, told by Golda Meir, the Prime Minister of Israel in the 1970's, which I believe, is still valid today: “There won't be peace between Arabs and Jews so long as the former will love their children less than they hate us."  The Hamas in Gaza, proves this saying to be so true.  Yet, I cannot approve of the fact that so many Palestinian civilians die under Israeli fire, even if the Hamas uses their homes, their hospitals and ... their Mosques, to either hide their ammunition or to launch their rockets on the Jewish country.
What also has irked me has been the manner in which the world conferences on racial discrimination in Durban, first in 2001, and then in 2009, held, this time, in Geneva, were conducted, pointing an accusing finger at Israel, whilst nothing was ever mentioned regarding the much more racist, totalitarian and backward countries like Sudan, where more than 300,000 Darfurian civilians have been massacred by the Arab gangs of Janjaweeds, where more than two million black Africans, mostly Christian and animist, have been annihilated by the Muslim authorities of Khartoum.  And what about Mauritania, where slavery is still going on, in our third millennium, where black folks still serve their Arab lords without daring to rebel, lest they be horsewhipped, or worse, eliminated, without anyone leaving a single trace?  And who speaks of justice and racial discrimination? The mad president of Iran, a country, where women can be flogged for the slightest reason, where homosexuals, as young as 12, are hanged in public.      
It is like the story of slavery, which is focused solely upon the criminal dealings of the European colonialists, but which totally occults those performed by the Arabs (still going on at this time), with the collusion of African tribal chiefs, and with whose brutality and extent can be compared.  This is flagrant lying by omission.
As my husband wrote in his notebook, history ought to be rewritten in a much more objective and balanced fashion, in order to restore the whole truth, replacing that which is one-sided and consequently biased, and which is still voiced by those, often important personalities, who are guided by purely ideological, political, economic, or even, selfishly personal motives.  At the same time, it appears that the world is slowly crackling like an ancient and beautiful painting, into a huge mosaic, each piece separating and alienating itself from the original entity.  If there is indeed a god, then where is he or she hiding?

On our way back to the hotel - it must have been a little over 10 p.m., for we had walked at a very leisurely pace - Sasha and I took a last stroll on Marine Parade, savoring a strawberry and pistachio-flavored ice-cream cone.  The lights of the city shimmered around us, whilst the Indian Ocean glinted in an explosion of stardust, as if the sky were, mischievously, replaying its illusory games on the waves underneath, provoking a complicit and terribly romantic atmosphere.  I was in love.

As soon as I returned to Salisbury, I broke the news to my parents.  They appeared surprised at first, and somewhat reticent.  Especially my father, who thought he should warn me:
"You should think it over seriously, Gloria, you are working for these people, whom I respect for their integrity and their sense of fairness; after all, Mr. Kislov is your boss, and also, they do come from another culture, if I'm not mistaken they are Russian Orthodox, aren't they?" he queried, as if to insist upon our differences.
My mother was more conciliatory, but had this to say:
"In case you do get married, and have children, how will you educate them?  I mean, in what faith will they grow up?  Families squabble for far less than the choice of religion."
She was of the opinion that mixed couples - here the qualifier "mixed" implicitly excluded people of "color" - were much more vulnerable than conventional ones because they were conditioned by their environment and underwent formidable pressures.  And that the question of upward mobility should not even be considered, it having a real meaning only within one's clan, that is to say, within mainstream British society.  Yet, she added: "But love, genuine love, can also work miracles."
On the other hand, Sasha's parents and Maya regarded our relationship with benevolence.  We could count them as our allies, yet, since they had always been warm and welcoming towards me, specially when I spent the weekends at the plantation, and, noticing that their friendly attitude didn't change after our announcement, I started to feel a little queasy.  Actually, I could not understand why they were not more enthusiastic.  Was it all then so very normal for them?

Sasha and I saw each other quite regularly during the first year of our encounter.  Oh, the relationship we had was very "comme il faut", compared to the sexual liberation of nowadays; even when we were only the two of us, the most that we exchanged physically was a kiss on the mouth, or barely, barely in the French style.  In any case, neither of us had to fight against his instincts, inasmuch as we both believed in the sanctity of marriage, and it was implicit that I would remain a virgin until the day our union would be sealed by destiny.
But, as the months went by, I realized that I wasn't and would never be Sasha's priority, for his work took most of his time and energy, and he put his responsibility towards his employees and the plantation above us.  I knew that he loved me sincerely, but in his very particular way.
The decision to break up was a very painful one, and it kept me awake for a whole week, since I had no doubt that it would hurt him deeply.  After all he had always been extremely honest with me and, frankly, I couldn't find any real defect in his personality.  I lost about fifteen pounds, within a fortnight.  My