WRONG NUMBER

(Translation of “Verkeerd adres” from Peper en Zout by Ds M.E Voila, Kok: Kampen (n.d.), a book about the experiences of a Dutch minister in about the 1950’s.)

I’m deeply shocked. What happened? Didn’t get the call from that church? Had a falling out with my church council? Salary raise didn’t go through? Or even worse: burned a hole in my last good suit?

    None of the above. And yet I’m deeply shocked. By a phone call.

    It was around five o’clock, and the phone rang. I rushed to it (rushing is the only way to silence the thing). Before I had a chance to say my name, he had already begun:

    “So, there you are at last? You surely know why I’m calling. If you think your old aunt is calling you, you’re dead wrong . . . .”

    I was already shaking, but it got much worse. I realized he had dialed the wrong number, and I tried in vain to cast my name like oil upon the waters of his agitated spirit. But he ranted on:

    “You’ve turned into a gentleman of leisure, have you? Well, let me tell you something: that car better be back home today, or you’ve seen the last of me!”

    A light dawned. He thought he was talking to the local auto mechanic, who has almost the same number as I do.

    “And don’t go thinking I’m the one sitting idle. I work, you hear? I work for my daily bread—I don’t sit around smoking cigars all day. . . .”

    I felt something had to be done.

    “Pardon me,” I stammered.

    This was a complete disaster.

    Apparently, the oil had hit the fire instead of calming the waters.

   “Case, don’t get me started with your ‘pardon me.’ ‘pardon me,’ ‘pardon me’ —what's next, should I tip my hat to you? Well, you know what you should do? Take off those gloves of yours and use your wrenches!”

    Now I began to recognise the voice. Yes, I couldn’t be mistaken. It was one of the deacons—a shopkeeper, a decent guy—and I had never heard him like this before.

    I was shaken. And I also remembered that the auto mechanic was a deacon too. I realized serious spiritual stakes were involved here. A dreadful brotherly quarrel. Intervention was needed. I began preparing a little speech in my mind, working in a few Bible texts, and launched into it:

    “Now listen—”

    But apparently, he still had steam to blow off.

    “Yeah, yeah, I know—busy, busy, and no staff. Staff? Man, don’t talk to me about staff! Then you roll up your own sleeves. That’s what I do! I’ve already called three times and I’ve been waiting for that car since two o’clock. Why don’t you get under it yourself? Oh, pardon me, that would dirty your fingers—hadn’t thought of that. With customer service like yours, your business won’t last long. You ought to start a beauty salon, and give ladies perms all day. And then go around all day saying: ‘pardon me.’ Well, just you wait!—”

    I felt I shouldn’t say another word. Besides, I was developing a sneaking admiration for this wordsmith and didn’t want to embarrass him by revealing my name.

    I hung up, but I was deeply shaken. So this is what they’re like, I thought, when you’re not around.

    That Sunday, both of them were in the consistory room. Impeccably dressed in black.

    I glanced sideways at the auto mechanic’s hands: his fingernails were rimmed with black. The shopkeeper was late—he had brought an elderly sister to church in his car. So the car was fine again (I mean the car, of course).

    I considered making a move to reconcile these two enemies. But to my astonishment, they were standing together, chatting and laughing amiably, and after the service, they offered each other a cigar and the one gave the other a friendly jab in the ribs.

    That was my final shock.