by Les Cowan
“Particio and Jorge are part of the leadership team,” David explained over his shoulder to Gillian and Alison as Mariano got them going. “They’re Chilean – all the South Americans are big carnivores, even more than the Spanish – so they think barbecuing is an art form. Any excuse.”
“Estupendo,” Gillian shouted over the noise of the engine. “I approve of men cooking. We need more of that in Scotland.” Alison just nodded. She felt she didn’t have much to say and remained preoccupied with what might be happening to Jen right now. At the same time she tried to get used to all the attention and support, painfully aware that the whole enterprise was on her behalf. Anyone giving her help or expressing support was such an unusual sensation it was a bit disorientating. Sometimes she felt “a lone parent” should be spelled “alone parent”. Now here she was, in Spain, with people who had already put themselves in danger for her and her family and were willing to do so again. It was wonderful and frightening. She looked out of the window and hoped her make-up wasn’t smudging.
The other weird thing was the Christian connection. Her mother’s “churchiness” was always something she had despised. Yet the people who were helping her now were church leaders. If these people didn’t genuinely believe what they said then they deserved an Oscar. Until she was disillusioned she was prepared to give them the benefit of the doubt.
By this time Mariano had navigated them onto an urban motorway. They were leaving the city behind. She guessed they were heading for the suburb where everybody lived – Torrejón de something or other. Just when she was about to ask how long they might be, she heard Mariano calling back that they were going to take a slight detour. Torrejón wasn’t far but David wanted to drive by the Warehouse 66 building and Mariano also wanted to show him the site of their latest church plant. Alison didn’t even know what a church plant was but assumed it wasn’t an ornamental garden. They pulled off the motorway and into the teatime traffic. Wherever they were it was busy. Mopeds and motorcycles were buzzing everywhere, jockeying in and out of lines of cars and long articulated buses. Roadside kiosks were selling newspapers, cigarettes and lottery tickets on every corner. Open air cafés were crammed with young people hanging out with their friends or old men drinking cerveza or coffee. They twisted and turned through the traffic until they seemed to be moving into a more industrial area past furniture warehouses, construction yards, and vehicle depots. Pulling round one last corner they came to a large open area surrounded by a fence. Mariano got out, unlocked a gate, and pulled in.
“We’d love to pull the fence down,” he said, “but we get enough vandalism with it up. There are those that do not like what we are doing. Anyway, there you are. The building we owe to the Americans but a lot of what goes on inside was built by David Hidalgo.”
“Sorry for the detour everyone,” David said quickly. “I know we’ll be here tomorrow; I just wanted a quieter look round first.”
He approached the front doors and peered in. Then he stood back and took in the whole facade. It was just a warehouse – no windows, no architectural merit, no presence, just a large sign with the name and the same logo as on the van. He walked along the parking area, past the separate entrance to Semilla de Esperanza, the Seed of Hope church bookshop, round the corner past the bins and utility installations, then round the back past bags of rubbish, left-over builder’s waste and rubble and finally along the fourth side to the main entrance. Coming back in the morning would be a happy occasion, with old friends to reconnect to and relationships to renew, but there was a bit of unfinished business to be dealt with. As he walked he prayed, haltingly at first. It didn’t come easily after so long. He prayed for all the people who met in there week by week, then for the leadership, then for the enterprise that had brought him back to Spain. Please God, might they find the girl and all get home again in one piece. But all the while he was aware of a deeper issue. It was something he’d been putting off for a long time. Raúl Álvarez.
What should his attitude be to such a man? It was Álvarez and his kind who had put him through the living hell of losing Rocío, losing his ability to do his job and right up to the edge of losing his faith. But praying for enemies was fundamental to the faith. Forgive us our sins as we forgive those that sin against us. Just as much and no more. So he had to pray for Álvarez. ‘Please God, give him what he deserves’ didn’t seem to quite fit the spirit of the thing. What then? ‘Father forgive them for they know not what they do’ was Jesus’ prayer but Álvarez knew exactly what he was doing. He just didn’t care. Was a man like that worth goodwill? Was he even redeemable? Hard as it had been to imagine some of the changes David had seen in the life of Warehouse 66 he had to admit that none of these matched up to what it would take to change Álvarez. He wasn’t a man in need, a victim desperate for freedom; he was the cause of the misery that the church tried to alleviate. So ‘Show him the error of his ways’ perhaps? Hard to imagine. The only change Raúl would want would be less police hassle and more buyers, which meant more misery for the young of Spain. Finally, though, David corrected himself. What Raúl thought, felt, and wanted wasn’t his affair. He was only responsible for himself and his own attitudes. It was ironic that it was Raúl’s reign of crime and terror in Edinburgh that had been the means of restoration from the harm the very same man had done in Madrid. So even despite the mayhem and misery, sometimes, somehow, there can be good consequences unintended. David thought of his favourite Old Testament story – Joseph and his brothers after they were reunited in Egypt. In spite of having every right and the power to carry out his revenge, what was it Joseph said to them? ‘You meant it for evil but God meant it for good.’ Unintended consequences. That’s to say, unintended by them but a bigger plan seemed to be at work. Was he now in the middle of such a bigger plan? It was Raúl’s liking for underage girls and the search for Jen that really bonded them. Unintended consequences. By the time he rounded the last corner he knew he was at least a little closer to where he should be.
“That’s fine,” he said. “That’s all I needed.”
Mariano shrugged.
“Ok. Venga. Vamos.”
From the industrial area of Warehouse 66 where nobody lived, they drove to a housing area of flats packed-in like left luggage. “This is Fronteras,” Mariano said, nodding towards rows of six-storey flats, the alleyways between them, beaten up cars abandoned in front of them and small shops that had sprung up in the vacant spaces between the pillars that supported the flats. Slung across the balconies outside the flats were washing lines heavy with T-shirts, jeans, and underwear. Most vacant spaces within reach of a spray can were decorated with various messages, instructions, and advice. Alison felt sadly at home.
“I live somewhere like this in Edinburgh,” she said.
“Oh,” Mariano replied. “Well, you will not need me to tell you about it. We have a constant programme in the church to look for places like this and plant churches where we can. We have three already, two more planned, and this is the latest we’re thinking about. It’s where the immigrant families live. Immigrants and gypsies – if they decide to give up travelling. Drugs and crime are problems but not the greatest problem.”
“What’s that?” Gillian asked.
“Do you remember, Juan?” Mariano asked. Juan looked down then back at him.
“Hopelessness,” he said. “When I lived in a place like this there was no one to give us hope. People got into debt, stole, cheated, took drugs – all in the hope that things would improve, but they never did. Bringing the good news to these people is what changes lives. Not just better education and welfare. This is a good work Mariano. May God bless it.”
“Bien hecho Mariano,” added David. “You’ll have to come to Edinburgh and help us plan something new there.”
“I know where you can start,” Alison said.
“Bueno. Anyway, who is hungry? The Chilenos will have burned everything to ashes if we don’t a
rrive soon. Or they will have eaten it, which is worse. What do the English say? ‘Home James and don’t spare the horses!’”
The barbecue smell hit them as soon as Mariano stopped the van and opened the doors. They came into the back yard of a modest suburban house with a large colourful garden full of guests all coming in their direction. David was squeezed almost to death. Everyone wanted to find out how he was, to say how much they had missed him, and to wish him God’s blessing. Almost the same level of greeting was accorded to Juan and then in turn to the women. Mariano’s wife Maria apologized profusely for the length of time they had been shut in the van. She was a petite, pretty girl with tight dark curls and a sunny smile that dominated her face despite a clear scar running from the corner of one eye down almost to her chin.
“You must forgive him,” she said. “Warehouse 66 is his life and his hobby. Be careful not to ask him anything about it or you will regret it! Let me show you your rooms then you can freshen up and join us to eat.”
By the time Gillian and Alison came back down Jorge had just announced that everything was ready.
An orderly queue formed at the grill as Patricio and Jorge stood like TV chefs dishing out steaks, sausages, chops, and chicken legs with great aplomb. Next was the salad table with fresh lettuce and peppers, olives, anchovies, roast vegetables, and potatoes done in the Spanish style, boiled with white wine and herbs before being deep fried in olive oil. Next were drinks – the ever-present cerveza plus freshly squeezed orange juice, ice cold water, and vinos both blanco and tinto. The dozen or so kids present had their own table with soft drinks and burgers. A cluster of what Gillian took to be Warehouse 66 leaders and helpers had already huddled round David and Juan, exchanging greetings and news. One of the women with quite good English was looking after Alison explaining different dishes to her. Gillian found herself next to Mariano and Maria.
“I’m amazed at what you’re doing here,” she said. “And I wouldn’t have thought of Fronteras as an easy place to start a new church.”
“And you would be right of course, Señora,” Mariano replied, taking a bite out of a chicken leg. “It is not easy but at least people there know they have a problem. It’s much more of a challenge with people who think everything’s perfect. They have some money, a nice house, they go on holiday to Ribadeo, they get their children into a good school. They think they are well off but they don’t know they need something money can’t buy.”
“And there’s another problem too,” Maria added. “The evangelicals – people like us who believe more in personal relationship than just a religion – we were banned under Franco so people are suspicious. They think we are a cult and are going to take all their money and brainwash them. Also they don’t want to associate with the sorts of people who do respond – the drug addicts, prostitutes, gypsies, immigrants.” Gillian nodded.
“That’s funny,” she said. “In Scotland people think of the church as something for the middle class. People go to church to be respectable and show off. Not so much now of course but it still has that sort of reputation.”
“I understand,” said Mariano. “I studied in Oxford for three years, and that was what it was like there. We are different at Warehouse 66. We say ‘theologically conservative but culturally liberal’. So you can wear what you like, have your hair any way you like, listen to what music you like, vote how you like, have any number of tattoos and piercings and we don’t care. But if you’re cheating on your wife or fiddling your taxes we do care. And we always invite people to make a personal commitment, believe the Bible and follow its teachings. So the exact opposite of what I saw in the churches I went to in England.”
“Did you become a Christian in England then?”
“No, here in Spain. My brother got involved with drugs and we sent him to every rehab we could find. It was very expensive but my family had money so we paid. Nothing did him any good. When we could think of nothing else we sent him to Betel. That changed his life.”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t heard of that. What’s Betel?”
“Betel is the Spanish word for Bethel, the place in the Bible. It is a Christian drugs rehabilitation ministry. They have more than a dozen churches all made up of former addicts and have planted something like thirty-five more. When you become a Betelito and get off drugs you are expected to help others like yourself. It is very successful but so many of their pastors are HIV positive they need more leaders all the time.”
“And is your brother a leader in a Betel church now?”
“He was but he died of AIDS a few years ago. Before he died I decided to follow his lead. Then I got involved in Warehouse 66 and met David.”
“Everyone here seems to think very highly of him, don’t they?”
“David?” Maria smiled. “We love him. He was our leader for so long. He led the church to be the way we are. But he is terrible. He never thinks he has done anything important. And he worries. He always thinks it will fall apart tomorrow. So we have to tell him to be more Spanish and not so Scottish. Live for today – leave mañana to the Lord.”
Gillian laughed. “I know what you mean. We Scots are always thinking something horrible is just round the corner. I just hope we can go home with a good outcome from this trip.”
“Claro,” agreed Mariano. “And your friend, Alison, how is she? It is a difficult situation for her. I can understand a little of what she is feeling.”
“It must be dreadful for her,” agreed Maria, glancing over to where Alison was. Right then she had a group around her and was being well looked after.
“I think it is. I can’t imagine what she’s going through. But I think she appreciates all the support of everyone here and back at home.”
“It’s no problem,” Maria said. “We want to help any way we can. You might meet some people tomorrow who can guide you what to do next.”
“I hope so. I’m really looking forward to coming to church. I’ve heard so much about it.”
“I hope we do not disappoint you.”
The afternoon gradually turned into evening. People began to drift off and eventually only the party from Scotland and Mariano and Maria were left. Everything had been washed, tidied, and cleared away without anyone really noticing how it was done. All that remained was to make some coffee, pull some chairs together, and enjoy the relative cool of the evening as the intensity of a scorching Madrid summer day died down.
“So,” asked Mariano, “what is the next step?”
“I’m not entirely sure,” David admitted. “We need to make contact with the Spanish police. There’s someone I used to know in the right department, but they’ve been on leave till now. I think they’re back soon. If I can get in touch we can see what they’ve been told by the Edinburgh police, and then we’ll find out what’s going on. You know we’ve found a way of communicating with Jen?”
“Yes, I was impressed,” Mariano exclaimed “Very ingenious. When was your last message?”
“Just before we left Edinburgh we sent REV 22 20: ‘He who is the faithful witness to all these things says, “Yes, I am coming soon!”’ but we haven’t had a reply yet, so we don’t know how things are right now.”
Mariano nodded. “Ok. We’ll see what the morning brings. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a few things to look over. Unless you’d like to preach of course?” David smiled and held up his hand.
“Muchas gracias – perhaps another time.” Mariano disappeared to do what preachers do the night before church. Alison said she was exhausted and turned in early. Maria went off to prepare a few things for lunch after church, leaving David and Gillian alone for the first time that day.
“So,” he said, “¿Qué piensas de España?”
“Well, I don’t know about the whole of Spain but I love your friends and the food’s pretty good.”
“They’re a great group of people. You would hardly believe when yo
u see them now what some of them have been through.”
“I was talking to Mariano. He’s really friendly – and Maria of course. What did you mean when you said he was an aristocrat?”
“Just that. I think he’s a second cousin to Juan Carlos. Something like that.”
“Juan Carlos? The former king? You’re kidding!”
“No, it’s true. The family disowned him when he joined Warehouse 66. He stood to inherit several million and all sorts of property but it didn’t deter him. Now he’s plain Pastor Mariano.”
“That’s amazing. The whole thing’s amazing – Warehouse 66, Southside, Jen, Raúl, us. I can hardly believe everything that’s happened in the last six months.” Gillian took a last sip of wine and slowly breathed in and out, enjoying the balmy evening air.
“And all because of starting a Spanish class,” David remarked. “It’s a dangerous language you know. Muy romantico. You never know what’s going to happen.”
“Come on though. Neither did you and you were teaching the class.”
“That’s true. Do you know what attracted me to you that very first class – apart from the cape and the floppy hat?”
“I like that cape!”
“I know, so do I. It makes you look like the girl from the Scottish Widows advert.”
“I can live with that. So what was it?”
“You were ‘a woman of kindliness’.”
“A what?”
“‘A woman of kindliness’. Do you know the love story of Ruth and Boaz in the Old Testament? She’s described as a ‘a woman of kindliness’. She’s aware of how others are feeling. Remember when Julie cracked-up in the class. I was useless but you took care of her. Kindliness.”
“Hmm. And you, sir, are ‘a man of integrity’,” she said, giving him a playful poke in the chest.
“How so?”
“Same story. I’ve heard that one. Isn’t Boaz described as ‘a man of integrity’? See, I am learning something. The first Sunday I came to Southside you had decided not to get involved because of everything that had happened before. Am I right? Then you were going to speak about the Good Samaritan and couldn’t do it until you had changed your mind and decided to help. I’m used to people who say and do what’s convenient. You know, office politics, even relationships. You do what you know is right no matter how inconvenient. That’s rarer than you think, you know.”
