The Messenger by Mindy Haig
“Enhance your wardrobe! I do love to listen to you, Carlowe. You make me laugh. So you need to go shopping?”
“I truly did only intend to stay the one day.”
“You came all the way from Germany to the United States to stay for one day?” she asked, taken aback, as she took my hand in her own.
“No, I came from Sudan. I left Germany years ago.” I told her, but suddenly, her eyes changed. It was almost as though a different woman was looking out at me through them. And a voice that seemed to come from within her more so than from her lips, spoke to me. “Sudan? Tell me where?”
“A tract of land near a bend in the Nile River.”
“Along a trade route.”
“Yes.” I said watching her eagerly. But in a flash, the look was gone.
“Sudan? I guess you can’t just run on home and pick up a few things.”
“No.”
“Where are you staying, Carlowe?”
“A boarding house a few block south of here.”
“The Bluebell House?”
“Yes.”
“I will pick you up at eleven in the morning, we’ll enhance your wardrobe,” she said as we walked outside. She kissed my cheek, but I had an overwhelming urge to pull her tight to me and kiss her passionately.
And my traitorous eyes must have told her that because she blushed a bit but her smile glowed. Then without another word she turned and walked away.
* * *
I wanted to know more about this man who preached my father’s words to the masses. I asked casually at the Boarding House that evening. I thought my status as a foreigner would garner me some information, but it seemed such was not the case. Answers varied widely depending on whom I asked and what their station happened to be. Those I thought would answer most honestly were most reluctant to speak to me, so while the Negroes felt discriminated against by the white people, they seemed to reciprocate the prejudices of that place quite handily.
The proprietor’s wife seemed most willing to give me information. Whether she was just accommodating my curiosity or she found that same fascination in my curious eyes that Delilah found I could not say. According to the lady, the Reverend was following in the footsteps of his father and continued to preach in the church of his father. He was well educated, going so far as to receive a doctorate degree. He was married with small children whom he took pains to protect. He traveled quite extensively in the south with his message of equality among all men. Separate but Equal was a fallacy, there was no equality in segregation. He staged various sit-ins and peaceful protests wherein the people of color made it clear that they were not going to accept their designation as a lower class; they were tired of giving in to the rules of the white people. But passive protests rarely remained such. Police inevitable came and stirred the pot. Arrests were made. The cries of injustice spread.
My hostess shook her head.
“Why do you roll your eyes so?” I asked her.
“Mr. Ambrosi, politicians can be great fools. Clearly they have never been mothers,” she laughed.
“Nor have I, might you explain?”
“Sir, when my child wants a cookie and throws a tantrum, I don’t meet his demands and give it to him. I don’t get down on my knees and comfort him. And I certainly don’t come with a paddle and tan his backside publicly. I treat a petulant child like a petulant child. Best thing to do is shake your head sadly and walk away. If you want the behavior to stop, you have to give it a blind eye, let that child know there is no reward for that sort of conduct. Now the police here, they think they are being clever arresting the Reverend for some old charge that probably had no standing in the first place. They go and pull a stunt like they did yesterday and the whole world is going to feel sympathy for these poor people just listening to their preacher and getting beaten in the street. You see how that looks bad on all of us folks here?”
“Yes. I see.”
“Now if they just let those people listen to the word and go back to their homes peacefully, then nobody else be looking at the foolishness here. If they really need to arrest the Reverend than do so under cover of night when he’s alone with his private circle. When nobody is looking, nothing happens,” she paused. “Mr. Ambrosi, how many men do you think feel they have the right to beat their wives or their children?”
“Hopefully not many, good woman.” I answered in surprise.
“Hopefully, but you know there are men like that. Now if a man decides that is his right and he does it in the privacy of his home, nobody going to interfere. He do that in the street, and it becomes a crime. What our good officers did yesterday was a crime as much as if they went into the house of God and dragged people out for hearing the Lord’s Prayer. We don’t want the eyes of the nation looking at us like we are all demons. We don’t need to pour gasoline on the Reverend’s fire,” she sighed.
“So you would like his message to go unheard?” I asked.
“No. He’s a good man. They are good people. I have had a number of them under my roof and they don’t cause trouble. I have never been treated with disrespect by any guest here. They work hard just like everybody else, maybe even harder because they get treated badly in many places. They have families and they want a better future for their children just like everyone else. It’s a good message, maybe it is even the will of God as he says, but there are many good people in Albany too and now the world is looking at us like we are all oppressors and slave drivers. The Reverend, he tries very hard to keep his public appearances peaceful, I think. But still, he needs the police to act the fool and further his cause so I can’t say how pure his motives are.”
“The man is sitting in a jail cell refusing bail to try to make things better for others.” I told her.
“Now that’s just foolishness. He’s just drawing attention to a matter that is within his control. He knows he could spend a lifetime refusing his bail, but that’s not going to do his cause any good. They need a leader or they’ll find a new one.”
“Have you met him?”
“No Sir, I have not. I have stood on the street and listened to him though. I think he would be a fine man to converse with. He is well spoken and he has a kind smile.”
I laughed at that last assessment. I thanked her kindly and I went to my room.
* * *
I knew there would be no sleep for me that evening, dreams of a time long past were sure to haunt me and I was not prepared to entertain them.
Delilah’s copper eyes seemed burnt into my memory. I could not say for sure if they were a memory or if I just wished them to be, but I lay in bed thinking of her and of all the things she told me. I was not one to get involved in personal relationships. Immediately upon meeting her I reached out to feel her soul. She was quite lovely; I would have seduced her without remorse. I would have taken her Glory in that moment of pleasure. But there was something within her that gave me pause, something I had known before. Never in all my lifetimes had I encountered a familiar soul. Never had I given any thought to the possibility of such an encounter.
But she hated me vehemently last time.
And for some curious reason, I did not want her to hate me again.
CHAPTER 3: ALBANY, GEORGIA – JULY 12, 1962
Delilah arrived at my room prematurely. I had gone to the dining room quite early for breakfast and I lingered over the newspaper believing there was ample time before our eleven o’clock engagement. Therefore I was just stepping out of the shower when the knock came at my door.
“A moment please,” I called from within.
“Am I catching you at a bad time, Carlowe?” she laughed.
“I was not expecting you this quickly, I am just out of the shower.” I admitted as I pulled my trousers on and grabbed a shirt from the wardrobe.”
“Oh if only I had a key! I am missing my chance to see a man made in the Lord's own image!” Delilah giggled.
<
“Say what?” she teased raising her brow at me.
“What you just said about the Lord’s image.”
“Did I say something like that?” she asked feigning innocence and delicately pressing her hand to her chest.
“You are starting to fancy me, I think.”
Delilah breathed in a long slow breath as she looked at me. “I most certainly am not,” she laughed. “But I like the way your eyes looked when you said that, Carlowe!”
“So not even just a tiny bit?” I asked.
“Perhaps a tiny bit. But not more,” she smiled. “Are you ready to go? I have a whole lot of things I want to do today.”
“A whole lot? I thought there would be some awkward shopping and a lovely dinner.”
“There are a lot of hours between those two events, Carlowe!”
“Well, I shall commit myself to you for the entirety of the day, my Lady.” I said with a small bow.
Shopping was not an activity that I enjoyed. I was rather used to having my clothing tailored. And shopping with a woman was an experience better forgotten as far as I was concerned. Delilah wanted me to go into the fitting room and try the garments on so she could see them. She wanted me to purchase casual articles and shorts.
“Shorts? You can’t be serious,” I complained. For someone who was trying awfully hard to capture this woman’s affection, I was behaving quite poorly.
“It is summer in Georgia, Carlowe. We got nothing but heat and humidity here! What are you hiding under those pants that you don’t want anyone to see?” she laughed. “You got skinny legs?”
“No. My legs are perfectly fine. Perhaps a bit pale, we do not wear shorts in Sudan.”
“I suppose not, but you are not in Sudan, Carlowe, and you must know the old saying: When in Rome…”
…do as the Romans do.” I finished and in my head I could see the arena. I could hear the crowd. I could feel the gladius in my hand. That was so many lifetimes ago, so many disappointments ago. But I took the shorts from her extended hand and retreated to the fitting room.
A short while later, I found myself dressed more casually than I would have ever imagined myself in this current century, sitting on a picnic blanket on a grassy hill looking over a small lake. The lush greenness of it was a balm to my years in the hot sand. But the trees and summer foliage taunted me with memories of a paradise that I might have found undeniably beautiful at this age, but loathed beyond all things when I was forced to survive there. Time surely has a way of turning even the most accursed memories nostalgic.
“Delilah,” I started, “Would you tell me about the Reverend?”
“What do you wish to know, Carlowe?”
“Is he a good man? Do you think he truly feels his words as a calling or is he looking for some sort of notoriety?”
“I think he speaks with his heart. There is a passion to his words that must come from a greater source. I think all people are self-serving to some extent. I think that is part of the design flaw of humanity, but I think in his heart he cares more about making a better world than he does about the recognition his work brings him.”
“You believe that?”
“I honestly do. But I have spoken to him a great number of times. I have looked into his eyes and seen what is inside the man. I have seen him play with his children. That does not mean I am above calling him a stubborn fool for sitting in the jail,” she laughed. “What does his message mean to you? You said you came to feel the strength of his spirit, to see if his words came from his soul, what did you mean?”
“His is a message that has been heard before, a number of times, but to different ends each time. Those ends have very much to do with the speaker. There was another preacher who came with a similar message for his time. He promoted the message that all men were equal in the eyes of the Father. He told them we are all entitled to everlasting life. He forgave those who sinned, even against him. It was a message of love, peace and brotherhood. He was trying to make a better world. But his ideas of equality were not well received; in fact for a gentle man he probably spread more fear through the lands than he did tolerance. But he believed his message came from the Father. And he endured many hardships to spread his word.”
“Are you equating the Reverend to the Lord Jesus, Carlowe?”
“I am not saying this man is the Son of a God if that is what you are wondering, I merely wish to know if he feels that sort of conviction. I wish to know if he has a spirit strong enough to carry this message forth.”
“Why does it matter to you?”
“That is a difficult question, Delilah. The one called Jesus had a soul so strong that though they killed the mortal body he proved there was life everlasting and his message remained. But there are many whose motives are not as pure. Many a king has tried to expand his kingdom to erase the pride of nationality. Some thought that when all races blended into one there would be no more jealousies, no more need for war."
Even in Berlin there was a message that was not so different. The distinction comes from within the man who speaks it to the people. The Furor was very convincing. He wanted to force equality by making a pure race and expelling or eradicating all that did not fit his idea. But he was not a man who had any Glory within him. His vision was made solely to promote himself and those like him to an elite ideal; it was not the hand of the Father upon him. As such his plan was carried out with pain and death,” I paused. “I came to see if this man spoke with his soul or with pain and greed.”
“Would you thwart him if you thought he was abusing his power?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I only came to see if the message was worth hearing.”
“I think you would find that his heart is in his quest, Carlowe. He does not speak for the sake of speaking. He tries hard to get his followers to be passive in the face of confrontation. He speaks out against war and senseless violence. I believe in his words and I want to see his actions come to their fruition.”
We ate the lunch she packed as I pondered her words.
Delilah was lying on her side beside me leaning casually on her elbow as she gazed at me. “Tell me something about yourself, Carlowe.”
“I enjoy hearing you say my name," I replied instantly. The words just slipped out.
She tipped her head back and laughed. “That is not what I meant! Tell me something personal. Tell me about your family or where you took your schooling.”
That was a more difficult question than she could possibly know. “Greece. I had a private teacher in Greece.”
“Are you Greek?”
“No.”
“Truly you are a man of the world, aren’t you?” she smiled. I can only imagine what it would be like to live in another country, and learn another language and culture. You must speak a number of different languages.”
“Yes, I do.”
She looked at me expectantly, waiting.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You are not very forthcoming with information! I thought you would tell me what languages!” she laughed. “Tell me about school in Greece, Carlowe. I mean, why Greece? Was that where your family lived? Did you have friends there?”
“I did not have family there. It was more of a boarding school so to speak. I made a very fine friend, we were very similar, both seeking the approval of our fathers, both striving to make a good impression upon our teacher. I freely admit he was a much better student than I was. I had, perhaps still have to be fair, a tendency to debate quite rigorously.” I smiled. “He followed our teacher’s lessons as though they were religion to him.”
“You speak as though you cared very deeply for him.”
“He was the closest thing to having kin that I have known.”
“Was? You parted ways?” she asked carefully.
“No. H
“I am sorry, Carlowe…”
“We were both strangers in that place, our teacher was a good man, a brilliant man, but he regarded all non-Greeks as sort of barbarians. I think he thought kindly of us, but his words, his phrasing sometimes hurt my friend. He asked me if I though our teacher meant us when he spoke like that. I did not like to see him hurt. I told him I did not think our teacher would take pupils whom he thought of as less than worthy.” I paused looking at her for a long moment. “Do not take this badly, I think he was rather like you, his parents were different nationalities and unwed. He felt penalized for what he was all his life. He wanted to make a better world. He died trying and I think there is some Glory in that.”
“Yes. Yes, there is Glory in standing on your principles,” Delilah smiled. “What was his name?”
“Alexander.”
“Alexander,” she repeated wistfully. “I was also privately taught,” she said rolling onto her back and looking away into the distance. “My father enrolled me in a very good school when I was the proper age. I dressed like the other children, I spoke like the other children, but they looked at me like I was the Boogey Man. To the white children I was a Negro girl and they did not want me in their school. And it wasn’t just the student, the parents were equally as cruel.”
“Was that the first time you felt that sort of bias?” I asked her.
“No!” she answered with a sort of resignation in her laugh. “The first time I felt different, the first time it mattered to me, it was something my Father’s sister said.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Delilah.”
“There are many things I don’t have to do, Carlowe, and there are many things I would like to do. Sometimes I do things I don’t wish to do and I am too timid to do those things I dream about. This time I am going to say and do as I please if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind,” I answered quietly.
“My daddy was very involved in prosecuting my mama’s killer. He was afraid for me because he actively spoke out against the violence in the street and the intolerance and the police ignoring the crime. He sent me to live with his sister and her family for a time. My older cousin Vivienne took one look at me and said, ‘what is she, Mama?’ My Auntie said: ‘she is your cousin Delilah and she is a guest in our home.’ My uncle didn’t like it any better. I heard them arguing about me one night when I should have been sleeping. My Uncle was saying that my daddy was a disgrace and I had no business pretending to be a white child and some other things that I didn’t understand at three years old. My Auntie said: ‘For Heaven’s sake, Daniel, she’s just a child. She can’t help being what they made her. You should pity her instead of berating her, she has to live with what they done.’