Gift of Revelation (7 page)

Drained from the experience of the protest, I staggered into my room, my heart pounding like a Zulu war drum, my mouth dry, my legs without strength. Elsa followed me into my room, overcome by what she had just witnessed. A damnable slaughter! A government massacre! She immediately cut on the radio and tuned it to a pirate station that was broadcasting about the protest. The man reading the newscast had a deep baritone voice. She translated his words for me as I put on some water for tea.

“Today's protests occurred in Khartoum, Omdurman, Burri, Al-Daim, El Obeid, and Sennar. The police and soldiers used extreme force during the clashes with protesters,” the announcer intoned. “The marchers attacked the security forces with sticks and rocks, but they proved no match for the tear gas and live bullets. A large number of protesters were seriously injured, and many were killed, among them students and activists. The government has not released any list of the wounded or dead.”

Elsa sat on a chair facing the window and lit a cigarette before checking on our friends in the street below. “We still have company. I'm not surprised that they haven't arrested us.”

“Give them time,” I wisecracked.

The BBC reporter motioned for me to cut the radio up, putting a hand to her ear. “An official with Amnesty International said the authorities must rein in the security forces to prevent them from using such excessive force, which is in violation of international law. He added that firearms should not be used to disperse demonstrations under the law. Also, he called on the government to launch an impartial investigation into the protests, to ensure that those who were responsible for such a loss of life be brought to justice.”

Elsa roared with laughter, saying that it was a crock. “Nothing will be done. Reverend, you did all right out there. I thought you would panic and start to run, but you didn't. Proud of you.”

I smiled weakly and continued making the tea. I didn't feel heroic.

“You don't have anything stronger than this tea,” she said, frowning at the cups. “No, you wouldn't, would you?”

“No, I don't.” I watched her smoke with her head thrown back.

“Reverend, I don't buy this religious tripe,” she said. “Jesus or Allah. In my life, I've seen so much misery and suffering caused by religion. Look at the Middle East. Look at this place here. I know you believe, but everything in this world cries, ‘No, there is no God.'”

I poured the hot tea into a cup for myself. “I've run into nonbelievers before. You'll never believe. You have a closed mind. That means you will dismiss everything that does not fit into your belief system.”

“You're wrong there,” she protested.

“I don't think so. If you can't see it, then you don't believe. You're prejudiced against religion. No amount of investigation of the facts would convince you of the existence of Jesus. Or even Allah.”

“That's bull. If there was evidence that you could show me in this world, I'd become one of your biggest believers. You can believe that.”

I searched around the cupboard for anything sweet for the tea. My fingers moved things around, but I found nothing.

Elsa was hammering away at the idea of a deity. “I'm right to be skeptical about Jesus. How can you believe in Him with the madness in the world? Humans live at a hectic pace, and they love to sin, have their vices, and kill. Nobody cares about a loving, merciful God. They don't act like it.”

“Some of us do,” I replied. “We know that if God didn't hold us in His grace, we would not survive.”

She watched me find a saucer to place on top of the steaming cup. “Life goes by too quickly to believe in such rubbish. It's a fraud.”

“Do you believe in miracles?” I asked.

“No, I don't,” she said firmly. “Jesus did not rise from the dead. He did not heal the sick or resurrect the dead or turn water into wine. He was not a great magician, like in a circus or a carnival. He did not die for our sins, nor will He return to judge us for our sins.”

“I'll continue to pray for you,” I said, smiling.

Elsa gave me a sarcastic laugh, mocking my Christian generosity and evangelism, ridiculing my faith, like a good sinner should.

“Reverend, I know the Bible too,” she said. “As a modern sinner, I'm pretty up to date. Supposedly, the Gospel accounts of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John tell everything about Jesus's life and resurrection. The accounts differ greatly from each other. They're essentially tall tales, fantasy and myth.”

Disgusted, I kept my mouth closed. I found a seat near her and sipped my tea. For several minutes, we remained silent, aware of the increasing tension between us, listening through the thin walls to people in the hallway talking in Arabic.

Elsa stubbed out a cigarette butt, and then she lit another cigarette. “Earlier, you asked me if I'd ever been married. To answer your question, yes. In fact, I'm still married to a Scotsman who is involved in the banking industry in London. He wants a divorce. I guess he doesn't love me anymore.”

“Sometimes we let love die,” I replied.

“Reverend, I work really hard as a journalist,” she said sadly. “I come home after one of these butt-kicking assignments and find my prince of a husband hasn't done anything. He just stretches out on the sofa, smokes his cigar, and drinks whiskey. I resent that.”

“Does he work hard too?”

She breathed out streams of smoke through her nostrils, like an upset dragon from a fairy tale, then said she realized he had a tough job. “I know he works hard too, but it's not like me doing the news. As you can see by what we did today, gathering news is not a lark. He accuses me of disregarding what he does for a living.”

“Do you?”

Her head nodded. “There's no point to love or marriage.”

“I'm sorry you feel that way, Elsa.”

“My husband told his divorce lawyer that I always seemed angry at him, that I barked at him about everything, that I believed everything he did was wrong.”

“Well, was he being truthful?”

“Reverend, maybe so, maybe not. He also told the lawyer that I was a nympho, that I wanted sex too much. Yes, he was good, but that was not his only talent. Toward the end, my husband burnt out sexually. White men often do. All I wanted was someone who wanted me, desired me, and thought I was hot.”

“Desirable?” I mused at her romantic wish list.

“Yes, every woman wants that,” she said, rolling her eyes. “But there were other things. He wasted our future. He wasted our money on drink and gambling. He wasn't really committed to the relationship anymore.”

“How do you know he wasn't committed to it?” I was angry at how she made it all his fault. I wished I could hear his side of things.

Elsa dismissed me with a wave of her hand. “I no longer loved him. I didn't want to fix him. I just wanted to get away. It was over, finished.”

I put on my philosophical hat, lecturing her about the obligations and responsibilities of marriage. “We have to face up to the vows. It means ‘for better or worse' and 'til death do us part.' We have to endure the stress and anxiety at the lowest points in the marriage, while sticking to the vows of loyalty and trust.”

“Marriage is a big lie, just like religion,” she bellowed fiercely. “The truth of the good marriage is the opposite. You think the other person will change and things will get better. It's all a big lie. Things never get better. It never changes.”

I continued to drink the tea. “I guess it all boils down to problem solving. Finding solutions. Finding options. Refusing to fail.”

She grimaced at me and my rosy viewpoint. “Our relationship was too empty, too cold, too destructive. It was a dead marriage. You don't know what you're talking about. We did horrible things, horrible things, irresponsible things, to each other that put our marriage in jeopardy. We sent it over the cliff.”

“And it is beyond repair? You cannot go back?”

“No, Reverend, the marriage is kaput,” she growled. “The Bible doesn't tell you how to fall in love or how to sustain a dead marriage. Nothing in the holy scriptures tells you to learn to cope with the differences between you and your supposed soul mate.

“You're shameless and very selfish,” I retorted.

“And you're a good man, Reverend,” she said, smiling victoriously.

“Thank you, Elsa,” I said, holding up my cup.

“I bet that's not all you're good at,” she said, flirting.

Bone tired, I put the cup on the table and made a face that revealed my total disappointment with her. She was being a witch. Suddenly, I wanted to take a nap. I threw her out of my room. She was mad, but she left. What we didn't know was that Addie had been listening outside the room and was not pleased.

A short time after Elsa's departure, Addie knocked on my door, giving three loud knocks. When I opened it, she glared at me with daggers in her eyes, went to the chair, and sat with her accusing finger pointing at my face. She was wearing a white blouse and jeans, and she was sweating profusely. Her hair was down and tied off in a long ponytail. I could tell she had been storing all this tension and now she was going to let me have it.

“Clint, what are you doing?” she said with an edge to her voice.

By the way, Addie was wearing glasses. I'd never seen her in eyeglasses before, didn't know she wore them.

“What am I supposed to have done?” I asked.

Addie was furious. “What are you doing with Elsa?”

“Nothing. I know I've been spending a lot of time with her, but she knows everybody who is anybody. I have many questions, and she knows the answers to some of them. After all, this is her turf, and she knows the players well.”

Her voice softened into a low moan. “You left me, Clint. You left me all alone. I didn't know where to find you. Looked all over for you.”

“Elsa took me to one of the protests by Sudan's opposition,” I said. “It was incredible. It reminded me of the civil rights marches in the sixties. I tell you, there is more to this country than is ever printed in the American media. A lot more.”

“Clint, wasn't that dangerous?”

“Not really.” To my surprise, she was really worried about something happening to me. I couldn't figure her out. She ran hot and cold in her feelings toward me.

Then Addie totally floored me when she said I was lusting after Elsa, this foreign white woman, and wanted to go off with her. She stared at me all the time she said this.

“We're doing nothing wrong, Addie,” I said.

“I was standing outside the door and heard everything,” she admitted. “I heard her talking to you, telling you intimate things. She has designs on you. She wants you to make love to her. You don't see it, but I do.”

Addie was starting to get on my nerves. Her behavior was very peculiar. Why was she saying these things? Where was the free-spirited, spontaneous woman I met in Alabama?

“I assure you nothing happened,” I replied. “Elsa told me that you were sick. I heard you had tummy trouble. Do you need a doctor?”

“It passed. Something I ate.”

I stood there, defending myself against her jealousy. There had been nothing intimate between Elsa and me. Only a little innocent flirting, on her part. That didn't count.

“Let's go down to my room,” she said, sniffing. “I can still smell her here. Her sour sweat. Come, my lusty pastor.”

We made our way downstairs. Inside her cubbyhole-sized room, I gazed around and noticed the decor was very similar to mine. The air conditioner, like the one in my room, was barely operating. Still, it was better than being outside.

“All you need is a scandal over here, and you will never stand in the pulpit again,” Addie remarked with venom. “Everything is sex to these women. You thought you had problems with your crazy wife and her actions. I don't think you've gotten over it. Maybe you just don't like black women.”

I sat on her bed. “That's not the case.”

“I'm a country gal, and I've seen things,” she said. “White folk fear you mating with their women, but they're proud to say they slept with a black wench. They feel like a man if they do that. I recall my daddy saying he had to look the other way if a white woman walked by. If he didn't, that could cost him his life.”

“Addie, that was years ago,” I explained. “The world has loosened up since those horrible times. We don't have black bucks and mammies and coons anymore. Heck, we even have a black president.”

“But that time is in my blood,” she said. “I'm a product of the South and that tradition. Every black boy and man in the South knows about the wicked sexual appetite of the white woman. The sacred myth of the lily-white queen. Even now, they know that if you step out of line, you can get in trouble behind those pink ladies. It's the Southern way of life.”

“Would you want your sister to marry a black buck?” I joked.

“Do you want a cold Coke?” she asked, ignoring my words.

“Sure. Where did you get them?”

“I just want to warn you about Elsa,” she said. “Something's not right about her. I feel it. I saw how she was watching you, like she had a real bad hunger for you. I know her . . . that type. They don't like to hear the word
no.
She'd get off getting you to herself, and I don't want to see that happen.”

“I never got that from her, any of that,” I said.

“Clint, do you trust her?” She handed me the soda.

I drank some of it, It was very frosty. “I see nothing indicating I should beware.”

“You're lying through your teeth, and you know it.”

“No, no, no.” This was getting nuts.

She picked up a blouse that was hanging over a chair, as she'd just washed it, and put it on a hanger. “Elsa's all about herself. She doesn't care at all about us, except about getting you alone.”

“She had me alone,” I countered. “Nothing happened.”

“What do you think she wants?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

“What do
you
want, Clint?” She stopped and looked at me.

“All I want is a quiet and productive life,” I said. “I want to forget the past. I want to live in the present. I want to enjoy Africa and Sudan. I want you to enjoy it as well.”

She walked into the bathroom, ran cool water over her face. “I wonder how many black lovers she has had. Probably too many to count.”

When she came back into the room, she was still jabbering away on the “Elsa the tramp” theme. “Elsa's thinking of you only in sexual terms. You're just a conquest, a notch on her belt. I'm sure she doesn't want to live with you in London. Her family and friends would probably abandon her. The men would label her a slut or worse.”

I leaped up, spilling the soda. “Stop this! I knew you could be jealous, but this is going too far. Enough is enough.”

She stepped up to me, her face close to mine. “Maybe I should take my black butt back to Alabama. At least black people know what's what. You can ignore this warning, but Elsa is up to no good. She's gonna hurt you. Watch and see.”

Fed up, I left her room and went downstairs to the lobby, where Elsa was surrounded by a group of big black men and was smiling and laughing as she poked at a small black puppy. The reporter lifted the puppy up and yelled, “His name is Clint.” They all laughed loudly. I went upstairs, insulted and humiliated, and thought about what Addie had said.

Addie was a country gal, but a wise country gal.