Walter
Trobisch:
|
||
 |
The earth came closer. The concrete of the runway appeared. The wheels touched, jumped a little, touched again, rolled. The engines howled. The plane slowed down, turned, taxied toward the airport building, stopped. I had arrived. I unfastened my seat belt, threw my winter coat over my arm, grabbed my hand baggage, and struggled down the aisle toward the rear exit. The African stewardess nodded to me with a smile. “Good-bye, sir. I hope you had a good flight.” “Thank you,” I answered, and went carefully down the narrow steps of the landing ramp. I felt the heat like a blow. Blinded by the bright sun, I joined the other passengers walking toward the airport building. Halfway between the plane and the building, a young girl was standing, looking the passengers over carefully as if she were searching for someone in particular. She wore a stewardess’s uniform. Suddenly, she took a step in my direction and pronounced my name. “How did you recognize me?” I said. “I saw your picture on the back cover of one of your books. I am Miriam. I wrote you a letter once.” Miriam? I searched my memory. “Did I answer?” “Yes, you did. You said that a broken engagement is a lesser evil than a divorce.” Now I recalled her letter. I put down my bags and looked at Miriam. She was small, fine-featured, had vivid brown eyes which sparkled below her intelligent forehead. Her long, dark hair, almost bluish-black in color, was in a neat roll at the back of her neck. “You wrote,” I said with a smile, “that you were afraid that your feelings for your fiancé were not quite deep enough for marriage.” “And you said I should listen to my feelings. Girls feel it usually sooner than boys do.” Now I remembered her case in full. She was a year older than her fiancé, had four more years of education and a better salary than he. That worried her. “But, you see, I can’t just leave him. He loves me, and, in a way, I love him too. Sometimes I don’t know how I feel.” “Well, Miriam, we can’t talk here. Can we continue as I go through passport control?” She took one handle of my heavy bag, and I took the other handle in my right hand. I tucked my briefcase under my left arm, and we started toward the building. “Excuse me,” she said, “but I have to talk to you. When our pastor told us that you would be here only four days, I decided to see you before the others come. I work for the airline. This is why I could come out here.” “Do you belong to Pastor Daniel’s church?” “Yes. He has also come to meet you. You’ll see him after you go through customs.” While we were lining up for the passport control, I had the impression that she still wanted to talk. She had made a real effort. It had taken a lot of courage for her to address me, so I didn’t want to disappoint her. “Miriam, I wonder why you got engaged to that young man in the first place, before you knew more about him?” “In our country, we can’t talk to a boy and go out with him unless we are engaged. We can’t have boyfriends. In your book, you say one should not get engaged unless one is well acquainted with the other. But we can’t get acquainted unless we are engaged.” It was my turn now to show my passport. “Are you a tourist?” the officer asked me. “I’m supposed to give some lectures in a church here.” “About what?” “Marriage.” He gave me a brief glance, then stamped my passport without further comment. Miriam and I walked over to the place where the checked baggage would be unloaded. “If I leave him, he said he would commit suicide.” “Suicide? You think he really means that?” “I don’t know, but I’m afraid he does.” “Perhaps it would be good if I could talk to him.” “That would be wonderful. He’ll be in church tonight too.” “Then you must introduce him to me after the meeting.” “Thank you,” she said with relief. “Thank you very much.” From the relieved tone of her voice, I concluded that this had been her wish all the time—to arrange a talk between her fiancé and me. My large suitcase arrived. Miriam spoke to the customs officer in the native language. He waved us on. The door swung open, and we entered the waiting room. Pastor Daniel stepped forward, grasped both my arms in the African way of greeting, and then hugged me. “Welcome,” he said. “You are very welcome indeed.” “Yes, I finally made it,” I said, and put down my briefcase. “I’m glad you’re here. May I introduce you to my wife, Esther?” He motioned me to a tall, intelligent-looking woman in her middle thirties who stood behind him. Esther wore a dark green dress with a black design and had a yellow scarf on her head. On her left arm, she had a baby, and at her right hand, a little boy, about three years old. She left him and offered me her hand in the Western way, while looking aside shyly. “Welcome to our country,” she said. The little boy stared at me curiously. But when I bent over to greet him, he hid behind his mother’s skirt, grabbing it with both hands. “We watched you get off the plane,” Daniel said. “We were in the restaurant on the first floor. You started your work exactly one minute after you arrived. Did you know Miriam before?” “No, I didn’t, but we had corresponded. She recognized me from the picture on the back of my book.” Miriam was somewhat embarrassed by this time. She excused herself because she had to go back to work and promised to be at church in the evening. We walked out to Daniel’s car on the parking lot in front of the building. It was a Volkswagen. His wife got into the back seat with the two children. I sat with Daniel in front. “How long is it now since we first met, Daniel?” “Exactly two years.” I had met Daniel only once, and then it was at an international conference for church leaders. He had urged me at that time to come and talk to his congregation. I had not been able to accept his invitation until now. We drove silently for awhile. Then I tried to tell him how I felt. “I’m afraid about tonight, Daniel. I feel entirely unprepared. I would like to know a little bit more about the people before I talk to them.” “If you can stay only four days, we have to start tonight.” I could see that. “Is this the first time you are in our city?” he asked. “Yes, I’m sorry to say that it is. I’ve been in other African countries before, but never in your country. I know a little about your customs, but nothing about your particular problems.” “This could also be an advantage,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Our young people are looking forward very much to your lectures.” “And the older ones?” “There is some resistance. They feel that talks about marriage do not belong in the church. Especially sexual matters are taboo to them. I guess it’s about the same all over Africa. How is it in America and Europe?” “Basically, it’s the same. Christians are embarrassed to talk about sex, and those who do talk about it are very often not Christians.” “Anyway, you should be careful, at least during your first lecture, not to talk too much about sex. And be as simple as possible. Avoid abstract nouns and simplify terms. You’ll have to use short sentences, so that I can interpret them sentence by sentence.” “I shall do my best. Do you have a blackboard in church?” I said. “This can be arranged.” By now, we had reached the downtown area. Except for the people, it didn’t look too much different from an American or European city sidewalks, neon signs, tall buildings of banks and insurance companies, hotels, restaurants, travel agencies, supermarkets, and the constant rush of thick traffic. “Is your family well?” It was Esther. “Thank you for asking. They are fine.” “How many children do you have?” “Five, but they are a little bit older than yours.” “Weren’t they sad when you left?” “They wanted to come along. Four of them were born in Africa. They feel this is their home.” “Is your wife going to come?” “I hope she can join me during the weekend.” “Wonderful!” I started to think about my wife and how much easier it would be tonight were she along. If only we could speak together. The more I thought of her, the more lonesome I felt. “We wanted to invite you to stay in our home,” Daniel explained. “But we decided instead to put you up in a hotel. It’s not very quiet in our home, for we have callers all the time. Also, there may be some people who want to talk to you who would not come to the parsonage.” “I would have liked to stay with you,” I answered, “but I can see your point.” “Will you have supper with us tonight?” Esther asked. “Thanks, Esther, for the invitation, but I’m afraid I have no time. I have to change now. I’m still wearing my winter clothes.” “Well, I just wanted to know. Daniel never tells me when he brings guests home. Nor do I know when he’ll be home for meals.” There was a brief, strained silence in the car. We stopped in front of a hotel. Esther stayed in the car with the children, while Daniel accompanied me inside. After I had registered, he followed me to my room. It was a neat-looking single room with bed, desk, and telephone. In front of the window was a living-room area with sofa, armchair, and a small table. The room had a good atmosphere. Here, one could have talks. “I’m sorry I can’t pick you up for the meeting,” Daniel said, “but I shall send one of our members to bring you to the church.” “I wish you could stay, Daniel, to give me advice on what to say tonight.” Daniel paused for a moment and closed his eyes. Then he looked straight into my face. “God will give you something. Give us what He gives you.” With that he left. He is a good counselor, I thought. I wished I could help his people as he had helped me now. I went to the window and gazed out. My room was on the fourth floor, so I could look over the roofs of the neighboring buildings. I had seen them from above, from the plane. Now they were closer, very close. I am under one of them, I thought. Not above, but under. I took a shower and changed. Then I removed the notes of my first lecture from my briefcase and spread them out on the desk. I started to read them. But they did not talk. Suddenly, the telephone rang. It was the hotel switchboard operator. “Just a minute, there’s a call for you.” A woman’s voice came on and asked for my name. “I read in the paper that you will speak tonight on marriage. Is that right?” “Yes.” “I would like to ask you a question. Is it always wrong to leave your husband?” What a question! I thought, and then asked her, “Why do you want to leave him?” “He won’t marry me.” “I thought he was your husband.” “We are living together. He says, ‘When you live with me, it’s like I married you.’ And yet he didn’t marry me. He often promises me a wedding, but then he always postpones it. So I am married, and I am not married. I am all confused. What makes marriage a marriage?” “How long have you been living together?” “For more than a year.” “Do you have children?” “No, he doesn’t want any.” I could just imagine the problems. “He is very good to me,” the voice said. “He pays for my education. He takes me to school in the morning and picks me up at night.” “Takes you to school? How old are you?” “I’m twenty-two. My parents were not able to give me a good education. So I’m catching up now.” “Where do your parents live?” “In a small village several hundred miles from here.” “Couldn’t you go back to your parents and return only under the condition that a marriage is arranged?” “That’s impossible. My parents threw me out of their house when I started to live with him. They don’t approve of him.” “Why not?” “He’s European.” This explained many things: that he had money, didn’t want a child, and wanted ‘free love.’ “Well, you really are in a difficult situation. Could you come and see me here in the hotel?” “No, he wouldn’t allow that. He never allows me to go out by myself.” “Why don’t you bring him along?” She laughed. “He would never come.” “Could you come to my lecture tonight?” “I have classes tonight. Besides, he doesn’t want me to go to any church.” “How do you spend your weekends?” “I stay home. When he goes out, he locks me up in the house.” “Where does he go?” “I don’t know. He never tells me.” I was speechless. Then I heard her voice again. “But what can I do, Pastor? What can I do?” The old question. “I don’t know,” I said, “I really don’t.” “Can you at least pray with me?” ‘Pray…? Are you a Christian?” I had hardly asked the question when I regretted it. What would it matter? The answer came. “No. My parents are Moslem. But I was educated in a Christian school. There was no other school in the village.” Pray! I must admit that I had never prayed over the telephone, let alone with a person I had never seen. Then I thought, Why not? Did it matter whether I saw and knew her? Did not God see and know her, just as He sees and knows me? If we couldn’t meet in this hotel room, why couldn’t we meet in God? So I prayed. I said that I had no solution. I asked God to show us a solution. When I said “Amen,” she hung up. The quietness of my room engulfed me. I stared at the lecture notes in front of me and felt helpless. They seemed to have no relationship to life. Then it came to me with a start that I had forgotten to ask the girl for her name and telephone number. What a mistake! There was no chance to get in touch with her. Would she call back? The telephone rang again. I picked up the receiver eagerly, hoping it would be she. But it was the operator. “There’s a gentleman in the lobby waiting for you.” “Tell him I’ll be right there.” I thrust my notes in my briefcase and went down to meet him. A distinguished-looking man in his thirties, wearing a well-tailored suit, introduced himself as Maurice. He had come to take me to the church where I was to give my lecture and led me to his car. “Are you married?” I asked, as a way of starting conversation. “No, not yet.” “How old are you?” “Thirty-four.” Thirty-four and not married. What could be the reason for that? I thought. Then Maurice continued: “I lost my father in my early childhood. I had to take care of my mother. Besides, I wanted to finish my studies first and have a decent job. I’m business manager for a construction company. Also, it’s not easy to find a girl to marry.” “What makes it so difficult?” “The getting acquainted. I don’t know where to meet a girl.” “Do you have one in mind?” “Yes, I do.” “And what does she say?” “I don’t know. I haven’t talked to her yet.” “Why not?” “The only place I can meet her is in the bus. I know which bus she takes when she goes to school in the morning. I take the same one and try to have a chat with her between two bus stops.” “How old is she?” “I don’t know. Not more than sixteen, I guess.” I gasped. Could this be possible? Here was a fine-looking, distinguished gentleman who had a good job with much responsibility, yet he was pursuing a young schoolgirl in a bus! “Why do you choose such a young girl?” “The older ones are either spoiled, or already married. Do you think it’s a mistake?” “Well, you must think that when you are sixty, she will be forty-two.” “Maybe I should think about that.” “Are we going directly to the church? It’s quite a long way,” I said. “I made a detour,” Maurice answered, “in order to introduce you to one of our greatest problems. Here is our ‘red-light district.’” We had left the downtown area. Hundreds of small mud huts with thatched roofs were on both sides of the unpaved road. There must have been thousands of people living in this area. “What makes a woman become a prostitute?” “Many of them are barren women who are sent away by their husbands because they don’t have children.” “What makes them barren?” “The doctors say it is mostly because of venereal diseases which they often get from their husbands who have been infected by prostitutes. It’s a vicious circle. Some of them are widows who are trying to make a living in this way so that they can keep their children. If they should remarry, they would lose their children to their deceased husband’s family.” We drove silently for a while before we left the district and came to the paved road again. Then we stopped in front of the church. When we entered, the people were already singing. It was filled to the last pew, men sitting on the left side and women on the right. When Maurice led me down the center aisle, some heads turned curiously, but almost unnoticeably. Daniel was in the first pew and motioned to me to sit beside him. He gave me a hymnbook and pointed out the stanza they were singing. I could read, but not understand the words. But the tune sounded familiar, so I joined in. It felt good to be doing something together with the congregation before I had to address them. During the last stanza, Daniel closed his hymnbook and told me to go first. I mounted the few steps to the pulpit. He followed me and stood by my side so that he could translate. While they were singing the last line, I had a chance to get an impression of the congregation I was to address. There were quite a few older people filling the front pews. The younger generation, by far in the majority, were sitting more toward the back. They sat close together, their heads with the dense black hair reminding me of a velvet carpet. No one looked up at us. I whispered to Daniel the passage I was going to read. He opened his Bible. I opened my English Bible. Then I began. |
