by Tamar Myers
Julia had been taught to pray away her troubles, and she was attempting to do just that when a woman who quite resembled her very own aunt Irene in temperament knocked sharply on her door and then entered without waiting to be admitted.
“You have five minutes,” the strange woman said without preamble.
“I beg your pardon?”
“To gather your things and get downstairs.”
“But where am I?”
“You’re in Leopoldville, of course. The Interdenominational Missionary Guesthouse.”
Julia stared at the woman, waiting for an introduction.
But instead, the woman consulted a tiny silver watch, which was her only adornment, and tapped her foot impatiently. “Time’s awasting. No time to chitchat.”
“What happens in five minutes?”
“Hurry.” She glanced around, and seeing that Julia’s largest valise had not even been opened, she picked it up and carried it out with her. This was the same suitcase that Julia’s father had joked contained the Colossus of Rhodes. That was before he’d asked her seventeen-year-old brother, Willard, to help him load it into the back of their wood-paneled Chevrolet station wagon. How that same valise managed to get to the third floor of the Leopoldville guesthouse would forever remain a mystery.
Sure enough, only a minute or two later, a pickup truck came roaring into the compound of the guesthouse. The driver leaned on the horn, and within seconds the ridiculously strong woman was back again. This time she grabbed Julia by one of her biceps and began leading her downstairs.
“Please,” Julia protested. “You don’t need to be so rude.”
“It’s a small plane,” the hostess said. “Downdrafts are building up. You’ll see.”
Julia was then pushed up into the cab of a battered blue pickup truck. The driver, who cheerfully introduced himself as Hank, was a white man—but a very rude white man as well, because he couldn’t even trouble himself to hop out of his precious truck and say hello properly. So much for manners in the Belgian Congo, Julia thought.
But then her feelings of rebuke faded almost as soon as they drove away from the guesthouse, because a world of magic began opening up outside its gates. The Belgian sector of Leopoldville consisted of wide, tree-lined boulevards. The exotic trees—mango, banyan, jacaranda—had whitewashed trunks and they arched over the streets in places, creating tunnels of foliage and offering blessed shade. On either side of the boulevards, practically hidden by bougainvillea, lantana, and hibiscus, stood the stately garden villas of the government elite and the well-off merchants.
But even the homes of the less important whites benefited from the verdant splendor, although no doubt this mantle of tropical foliage was cared for by a coterie of native servants. Thus it was that all the white-occupied zone of Leopoldville appeared to Julia’s eyes—bloodshot and jet-lagged though they were—as tidy and prosperous.
Therefore it came as a rude awakening, a total shock even, to suddenly find that they had driven across an invisible line and into a shantytown of the worst description. Even in Hamilton (which is the city nearest to Oxford, Ohio), there did not exist a slum to equal one as horrible as the one Julia beheld on her first outing in the Congo. The structures that lined both sides of the road could not be called houses; the word shack was even too grandiose for them.
These “things” had been built from empty wooden beer crates and sheets of corrugated iron. They were tied together with torn strips of plastic and dirty bandages. Cardboard covered the gaps and cement blocks held things down—or up. Whatever became available was put to use as shelter material, which in one case did include a kitchen sink.
Julia was furious at the Belgians for allowing this. “This is unbelievable,” she said. “Shame on the Belgians yet again.”
“This isn’t the Belgians’ fault,” Hank, the driver, said. “These people don’t have jobs. These people are here on their own volition to sponge off their relatives.”
“That, sir, is the exact sort of racism I heard back home in Ohio. I certainly did not expect to hear it from the lips of a missionary.”
Hank had the nerve to chuckle at that. “This is a first,” he said. “I was born here in the Congo, at a mission called Djoka Punda. I have lived here most of my life, and I have never been called a racist before. Anyway, what you see around you is the product of a system of entitlement based on bloodlines. It exists in many tribes, and it can be beneficial for an individual’s survival.
“It goes like this. A person who has something is expected to share his resources with his relatives who are without. The closer the relatives are—that is, the more blood that they share—the more it is that the fortunate person is expected to share. But this sharing thing not only extends to half siblings; in some tribes it extends to cousins and their children as well. For example, if a hunter kills an antelope, he will receive only a small piece of meat, because the rest will all have to be shared. It is possible even that his wife—or wives—will get none.”
Julia waved her hands impatiently. “But this? This is just poverty. What explains this? I don’t understand.”
“Lady, you fire questions off like a machine gun,” Hank said.
“Do you, or do you not, have the answer?”
“Yes, in a minute.”
Julia’s ears burned. Mother and Dad, Minister Jones, everyone whom she knew and genuinely cared for, had at one time or another lovingly beseeched her to leave her famous temper behind in the United States when she set out for Africa. It wasn’t that Julia was intentionally mean; to the contrary, she was known for her kind heart. It was that Julia was passionate—particularly about matters of justice. “A modern-day Deborah,” her minister once called her.
“The Africans who work as domestics for the Belgians live in little cement block houses behind the villas,” Hank explained. “Trust me, those servants’ quarters are palaces compared to anything that you see here. But the law of sharing brings relatives by droves to the big city, and since they are not allowed to join their relative on his master’s estate, and there is often no work for them, here they congregate, forming slums. No water, no toilets, no rules, lots of beer, lots of prostitutes—one working person will sometimes be supporting as many as sixty relatives who do nothing but beg for trouble.”
“Well, it still sounds like it’s the Belgians’ fault,” Julia cried indignantly. “Why don’t the white owners allow their servants’ relatives to live behind their mansions—hidden, of course—in some halfway decent quarters? It wouldn’t be any skin off their noses!”
“They don’t do it because they don’t want to encourage the people to leave the traditional way of life. At least not until the tribal people have had some education and are prepared to make the transition. And anyway, how about you, Miss Julia? Would you care to have sixty half-naked people and their goats, sheep, pigs, chickens, dogs, turkeys, pigeons, drums—the whole kit and caboodle—move into a string of rooms behind your house? You’d have to watch where you step because every living thing—people as well—would use your backyard as their toilet.”
“Perhaps I’ve spoken too hastily,” Julia said, her cheeks burning yet again.
She really did try to be an agreeable person, but the people she’d met so far had not made it easy. The Belgian officials at the N’Djili International Airport had been curt, the Africans had seemed subservient, the hostess at the Interdenominational Missionary Guesthouse far from welcoming, and as for Hank—he was uncomfortably handsome.
He had dark curly hair, a deep golden tan, and the greenest eyes she had ever seen on a human being. Starting from the soles of his bare feet, to his narrow hips, moving up to his deep chest and impossibly broad shoulders and then even mashing down his curls, Hank stood a good six feet two inches tall. A strong chin, a Roman nose, and straight white teeth were also components of the picture.
In short, this was not what she had expected in a missionary; they were supposed to look more like Brother Zug. Proper
missionary men were supposed to be doughy and somewhat androgynous, due to their multiple chins and distended paunches. They certainly weren’t supposed to have sex appeal.
How utterly unfair of God to allow the Evil One to put a stumbling block like Hank in her path on day one of her ministry. Just don’t look at him, she kept telling herself. Try not to inhale his scent either. His scent? For crying out loud, she thought, how debased have I become? Hank’s not an animal! Yet the harder she tried not to sneak a peek or accidentally get a whiff of his manly odor, the harder it became to ignore Hank. This was especially the case since he had apparently decided to appoint himself as her tour guide.
“See those mountains outside your window?” he said. “Those are the infamous Crystal Mountains. They are what prevents oceangoing ships from steaming up the Congo River as far inland as Stanleyville. You’ll be flying over them on your way up-country.”
“Up-country?”
She glanced at him just as he grinned. “Yeah, that’s what we call anyplace but Leopoldville. This really isn’t the Congo, you know.”
Julia held her tongue. Aunt Marl, the woman who had taught her the Tshiluba language, had also been kind enough to clue Julia in on a few facts that she had better bear in mind if she wished to make her adjustment to the mission field as smooth as possible. First, she was to remember that missionaries were people too. Heat, hunger, thirst, exhaustion, loneliness—all those things could make them every bit as cross as the next person. However, being the good Christians that they professed to be, they took their troubles to the Lord in prayer, and usually did a fairly good job of reining in their emotions. When their emotions did get the best of them, however, they were more likely to act out against the natives than against their fellow missionaries.
Julia had been shocked by Aunt Marl’s candor; no adult had ever spoken so honestly to her—and none had since. Julia’s feelings must have shown on her face, because the dear woman had tried to put an arm around Julia. But stubborn Julia had pretended to suffer from claustrophobia.
Aunt Marl had been clueless. “Oh dear,” she’d said. “That could be a problem as well. After they get over their initial fright, the children will want to crowd around you, touch your skin, feel your hair. You’ll be like the Pied Piper wherever you go.”
“But eventually they’ll get used to my presence, right?”
“Mmm—possibly. Listen, dear, I want to warn you about something.”
“Yes?”
“Sex.”
Julia had laughed nervously. “Aunt Marl, I thought you said—well, it sounded like—”
“Let’s hope it sounded like ‘sex,’ because that is what I said. Do you think that you could say that word, Julia?”
She’d squirmed. “No—not here. Not in front of you.”
Aunt Marl had smiled. Ruefully, perhaps.
“As I understand it,” she’d said, “you are to be posted at Mushihi Station, which is in Bashilele territory. The Bashilele are an extremely handsome people—both the men and the women. They are tall and long of limb, altogether well proportioned. The men have muscular chests, shoulders, and biceps, and flat abdomens. Correction: some of the young men have abdomens like washboards.”
She’d emitted a deep, throaty sigh, almost a growl. “Ach, the women, such beauties! They have long, graceful necks and full breasts of the most pleasing shape. They too have small waists, but generous, wide hips that add to their allure. I warn you, young lady, and mark my words, and mark them well; it is impossible to look upon a Mushilele and not give God the glory for his creation.”
“Amen,” Julia said. What else should she have said? For she had just been privy to a heartfelt prayer from a humble missionary who could see God’s artistry in a tribe of savages. Unfortunately, Aunt Marl was not quite through with her.
“Ah, but you see,” Aunt Marl said as she paused to shake a bent, arthritic finger at Julia, “the other edge to this sword is that it is impossible to look at a healthy Mushilele of a certain age without having thoughts of lust flit through your mind like cirrus clouds on a windy spring day. The more you try to block out these thoughts, the harder it becomes, and they’ll push into your mind like weeds—even during the most sacred moments.
“For example,” Aunt Marl continued, “you might be on your knees praying—kneeling on cold, gritty concrete, mind you, and you will find yourself staring at a headhunter’s loincloth just inches from your face. You will find yourself wondering what is behind that little curtain of woven palm fibers. Would the world end if you flicked that little curtain aside with your index finger? What harm is there in just looking?
“Surely that is not adultery—is it, Julia? Show me one place in the Bible where it says that just looking is adultery. And please don’t mention Noah and his son, Ham. The Bashilele were not my children. Besides, this is hypothetical. You do understand that much, don’t you?”
Julia was gobsmacked. It had never occurred to her that adults, real adults—the kind with wrinkles and liver spots—ever had these kind of thoughts, much less found them hard to resist. She had thought that she was the only person in the world who was so spiritually bankrupt that she couldn’t manage to keep those sort of physical thoughts at bay. After all, Julia and her college roommate had never even engaged in such intimate conversation.
“A penny for your thoughts,” Hank said, and she could feel the color rushing to her cheeks.
It was amazing how fast the human brain could operate if it had to. In a nanosecond she thought up and discarded several plausible scenarios. In the end she settled on a much-scaled-down version of the truth.
“For some reason, I was thinking about what my Tshiluba teacher, Aunt Marl, said in regard to the Bashilele tribe. She seems to think that they are an uncommonly attractive people.”
That’s when Julia became keenly aware that Hank’s gaze was on her, instead of on the road. And it remained there until she was forced to speak again.
“Watch out for the goat!” she cried. “You almost hit that goat.”
“Not by the hair on its chinny-chin-chin.”
“You’re still staring at me,” she said, “instead of the road. Did I say something wrong?”
“Is this Marl Boatwright you’re speaking of ?”
“Yes, do you know her? I mean, she’s been retired from mission work for centuries.”
She stole a glance just in time to see Hank smile, but it was very short-lived.
“More like fifteen years,” he said. “Julia, I’d like to think that I have limits, thresholds of behavior that I won’t cross no matter what, and gossiping is one of them. I’ve seen the harm that gossip has done—is doing—to my own life, but in your case I am going to ask your permission to make an exception. I don’t want you walking into a lion’s den without being warned; you might step on its tail.”
Julia may have been sexually naive, but she was quite an accomplished gossiper. Everything was grist for her gossip mill, which had been spinning like a hamster’s wheel all through college. Granted, gossiping was not the Christian thing to do, but her friends had consoled one another with the thought that they were only young once, and that they were guaranteed to grow out of this phase (hadn’t their parents?). Besides, they were saved; wasn’t this all that mattered? After all, gossiping—if the stories that you passed around were true—was such a small sin that it didn’t even appear on the list of the “big ten.”
“You should definitely tell me,” Julia said to Hank. “It is much better that I find out from you than from a complete stranger.”
Hank nodded; oh sweet, sweet Hank. Did he not remember that the two of them had only met less than an hour ago?
He exhaled sharply before getting right down to business. “Marl Boatwright got too chummy with a native,” he said.
Then Julia inhaled sharply. “Oh my gracious! I can’t believe that.”
“You better believe it,” Hank said, “because every word of it is true. In the beginning, Marl was s
urprisingly discreet about it—they both were. In fact, the affair was ended, and it might never have come to light, except that she thought she was pregnant. So she arranged a trip to Luluabourg, the provincial capital, and had a test done at a Belgian hospital. The results were negative, but they were also leaked by the doctor, who happened to know our mission doctor. And there you have it, the only sin greater than murder in the eyes of the Mission Board: adultery with a native.”
“And you don’t believe that’s wrong?”
“Forgive me, Miss Julia, but what I believe is none of your business, is it?”
Maybe so, but he didn’t have to be so rude about it, thought Julia. As a consequence they rode in silence for the rest of the way. Therefore, she was quite relieved when they pulled off the main road and onto a wretched side lane. Soon after that Hank stopped to unlock a padlock that gave access to the world’s shortest runway, bar none. If it was any comfort—which it was not—the plane in which Julia was to fly was also of Lilliputian proportions.
“I fueled her up last night,” said Hank, “and the flight plan has already been radioed in to the tower at the main airport. That means we can leave at any time”—he glanced at his watch—“within the next six minutes.”
Although Julia was still too annoyed at him to laugh at such foolishness, she did at least try hard not to be a stick in the mud. “Shouldn’t we hang around until we see the whites of the pilot’s eyes?”
“You already have,” he said, laughing.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Oui, mademoiselle,” he said. “As luck would have it, I am not just your chauffeur, but your own personal pilot as well.”
“You? A pilot?”
“Ah, now that hurts. What’s the matter, don’t I look the part? S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle, do not allow the lack of a proper uniform to put you off; no bush pilot worth his salt wears a uniform. Then again, I’m not even a proper bush pilot. I’m just a friend sitting in for a friend. The regular pilot assigned to this flight is Carl Naysinger, who happens to be suffering from another bout of malaria.”