Tête-à-Tête-Tête

This is the second installment of a novel-length book written and published in blog form. If you are a late comer, see the Table of Contents above for the first post. The comments will be closed on this entry, but a discussion thread will be posted by the next day after this post appears. Text begins below – for Facebook or news aggregator readers, please click continue below to read at Tête-à-Tête-Tête.

Morning comes early in the newspaper business. Roger felt he had an advantage by not fighting it. He was up at three-thirty in the morning, without the aid of an alarm clock. By four-thirty, he was eating breakfast in his office, looking over his bits of the early press run, taking phone calls, and catching up what details hadn’t already been cleared up over cell the prior evening.

Around the time the city started coming to life outside his window, a knock came on his office door. When he opened it, he found the Reverend Djammous standing outside. For a split second he questioned whether his sister was behind this. But, no. She understood where lines were drawn where it came to personal favors and the news. Still, a paragraph mention of a mission program to Africa didn’t warrant an un-announced and in-person visit from a foreign pastor. There was some figuring yet to do.

“Come in. Reverend Djammous. I heard you speak last night. How are you doing?”

In his careful French-African accent, Djammous replied, “Mr. Lambert. So good to meet you. Yes, I heard you were with us. I hoped to get a word with you after the service I did not have a chance.”

“Well, I have a few minutes now. Can I get you a cup of coffee or anything?”

“No, no. You’re kind to give me some of your time. That is all I ask.”

“What’s on your mind, then?” Roger motioned to the leather chair next to his desk, and when the preacher had taken it, he circled around himself to sit facing him from the other side.

Djammous watched out the window for a moment at a misty rain. Then he said, “I won’t take too much of your time, sir. I hope you found something for your paper in the service last night?”

This wasn’t an unexpected question, so Roger was ready with a reply – courteous without being too patronizing he hoped, “yes. Our editorial policies for reporting on the efforts of individual congregations are relatively flexible, but something of this type never gets more than a paragraph or two. I personally was very moved by the reports of Lebanon’s work on your continent… did you know they also support a number of other missions around the world, including Zambia and Kenya? … Anyway, I hope that we didn’t lead anyone to expect a full page write-up, but there will be a mention.” Saying so, he sat back and hoped that this response would merit gracious acceptance, and the rest would be pleasant and brief conversation.

“You are very kind. The people at Lebanon will be grateful. They’re lucky to have you in the family. Did April mention that she was hoping to join us in Chad this year?”

“Really? What? She hasn’t said anything to me about that at all.”

“Well, you left quickly last night. I didn’t think she told you. She talked to me after you left. I believe she will ask you to help take care of Tony while she travels. She told me that.” He chuckled.

This wasn’t like April. Generally so down to earth. Sure, she had changed some since she got religion – became spirit filled, as she called it. But to leave Tony? For Africa? Roger sat in shocked silence wondering where this was coming from. Times past, long past now, something not nearly so big as this would have come following several all-night phone calls between the two siblings. Now, this. And this guy from Africa knows about it ahead of me. “I should talk to her.”

“Yes, of course you should. But, I do have a reason to be here, and I promised not to take too long…”

“Umm… yeah… what else?”

“I want you to help us. Of course the people from here who are in Chad try to stay in regular correspondence with their close friends and family. But they want to be able to communicate with the entire community. It was my idea. You cannot blame April. Would your paper have room, one time each month, for a column called ‘Letters from Africa’? April and I can gather posts and reports from the others and we can translate some stories from our villagers, and we can mail them to you on a compact disc. The mission has a small personal computer, you know. I am not a salesman, Mr. Lambert, but I can assure you that these stories will be compelling to your readers. I believe that one day you might even syndicate them to other papers in communities that support our mission.”

Roger studied Djammous for a moment. He guessed about forty years old. Balding, but his features were sharp and even. A handsome man. Not a salesman? Then why did he have Rev. in front of his name? What can you tell from a face? From a manner of speaking? Not much. He’d be silly to offer even just a monthly column on no more assurance of newsworthy content than he was getting. He knew he was being played. April would be there. This would be her project. He’d hear more from her this way. That’s why they came to him instead of another paper. He’d have her gratitude. And, sure. He could pull the strings if he decided. The paper owed him a favor or two, if nothing else. But, he didn’t like being used. And he didn’t like using the paper to play favorites with pet projects.

“I see, Reverend. Yeah, I think I understand what you’re asking. I’m sorry, I can’t give you an answer on that right away. I’ll have to think about it. And, of course, I’ll have to run it past the editorial board. I can’t just create a new column by fiat, you know. It sounds interesting, though.”

“Fine. Africans know patience. It is in our blood. We will wait to hear from you. You are not very religious yourself, are you Mr. Lambert?”

Not sure if this was a subject change, as he half hoped, or a new angle of attack, he answered the question the way he had learned to answer very religious people. “It isn’t that. It’s just that I’m a bad Christian. I don’t find enough time for God. It’s a good thing he forgives people like me, you know?”

It turned out that this was a change of subject. The conversation continued pleasantly. And briefly. Roger was grateful. Time to smoke.

—–

The check had been signed nearly two months prior. The satellite phone had been shipped to N’Djamena a week later. Over the next few weeks other supplies had arrived piecemeal in the WorldWide Reconciliation warehouse. For two days all of this road over an array of unpaved roads, where even that much was available, in the back of a 1985 Mercedes cargo truck covered with an olive green tarp. Now, it had arrived in Ounianga Kebir. Jacob hung back from the crowd of people vigorous and intent on unloading the assortment of tools, hardware, dry food, clothing and fabric, and medical kits. He could wait out the absolute chaos that was the arrival of a supply run. But he waited close by and peered through the crowd. And waited. When a crate came off the truck that looked to be the right size and type was passed down through the mob of handlers and shunted from individual to individual until it landed next to a stack of fabric bolts, he made a bee-line for it. More eyes than his were on it – curious eyes caught by modern packaging that looked out of place coming from this truck. There was reason to be glad it arrived safely, without having been misplaced somewhere that it might have made someone a nice profit somewhere along the long roads it had traveled.

Jacob and the satellite phone made their way directly into the mud-brick house he shared with Marty Douglas and to the far corner where stayed the precious assortment of communications equipment, including a shortwave radio, Jacob’s personal notebook computer, a dot-matrix printer (this was Jacob’s idea, since toner and ink cartridges would be in short supply, but mono-color ink ribbons could be had surplus from N’Djamena), a portable LCD television and DVD player, other odds and ends, and – now – a satellite phone. Phone assembled, Jacob went outside. He was practiced at starting the gasoline generator that provided power to his little electronics corner. With it running, he went back inside to take full advantage of the few hours of generator time that it would take to charge the new battery.

He worked the laptop and shortwave for hours, most of his time spent writing an e-mail update for the home church website to be ready to send when he had satellite connectivity. It was after dark when he felt the battery had charged enough and he was ready to dial into the makeshift ISP he had set up in the church office back home. He dialed and… no connection. He waited. Still nothing. He checked to see that he had power. He checked the accompanying paperwork to be sure the account had been pre-activated. He disconnected the data port and carried the unit to the door to try outside. When he opened it, he was hit with a blast of rain. In shock, he missed a beat before slamming the door to. He stared at a good sized puddle of rainwater and mud slurry in the floor. Then he scampered around the room looking for a dry cloth to pat down the phone receiver, and then himself. He heard lightening crack – closeby. He flipped the switch on the power strip, then unplugged the strip from the generator.

Gasoline was precious. As soon as Jacob recovered his senses, he was back outside sliding the choke on the generator. He saw a few other figures moving: tossing parcels from the stacks outside the mission toward shelter or loading them back into the truck. Others corralling goats into a makeshift stable. Others engaged spastically in some unidentifiable pursuit, presumably related to the unexpected torrent of rain. He went to join them.

Rain was a rare blessing year round in Ounianga Kebir. October held little exception. Underground aquifers supplied Yoa Lake. This and various irrigation projects related to the lake or the subterranean water sources provided what water was available to the town and surrounding areas that were regularly trafficked. There was one cistern, near the mission, but most of the year it played a bigger role as the butt of cynical jokes than it did as a water collection device. By morning, it was full. It remained full as woman after woman filled jar after jar. After the women stopped coming, it refilled quickly and the surface rippled and danced with heavy drops that continued to fall.

By nightfall again, the whole town was in shock. The transport drivers and guard from N’Djamena bedded down in the sanctuary room of the mission, on the dais that held the pulpit, since the rest of the floor had become damp. Mission workers attended to them, bringing them warm food and dry blankets. Any road out of Ounianga Kebir would be hopelessly impassable until the return of normal October weather. Everyone counted themselves fortunate that the supply truck had arrived before the downpour.

By week end, the rain still continued. Moods in the town and in the mission were becoming tense and, in ways, fearful. Rain still flooded the streets. Ordinary daily life was on hold. A few short breaks in the weather had allowed Jacob to get the satellite phone working and to successfully connect the notebook and send and receive e-mail. This buoyed his spirits, and Marty’s, but didn’t do much for anyone else. Using the shortwave he gleaned what he could on the weather. The outlook wasn’t good as far as he could tell. It had started as a fast moving low pressure front over most of Lybia’s and part of Egypts Mediterranean coasts, then tapered as it spread southward to a point on the northern tip of the Plateau Keynar. Now the whole system appeared to be stalled out, drowning cities and villages all along that swath. Though it was difficult to be certain from the scattered broadcasts he was able to pick up, it appeared to Jacob that there might yet still be days left. He knew well enough that the mission and village had between them almost no expertise in how to cope with an emergency of this kind. His prayers became more frequent, and more pragmatically petitionary.