by Michel Faber
‘And just as that li’l ol’ steak is starting to yell “ouch”,’ said the TV chef, ‘you pull him out of the pan, see?’
‘Cut out the pauses,’ said the white guy.
‘Then you drown him in a generous slug of this wine, like so . . .’
‘. . . chose it because there’s such a huge market for books about Jesus,’ recited the voice of Theo Grippin. ‘I mean . . . uh . . . look at The Da Vinci Co . . . out Jesus. I mean . . . uh . . . Jesus. I . . .’
‘This is difficult,’ complained Nuri. ‘If I make a mistake, we have to record the whole thing again.’
‘No sweat. We got him right there.’
‘I would find this a lot easier if the TV was off, man.’
‘Just cut out a few pauses, Nuri; it’s a camcorder, it’s not rocket science.’
‘Meanwhile, the eggplants are sautéing along nicely there . . .’
‘There is no silence ever anymore in our place,’ lamented Nuri. ‘We used to enjoy the silence.’
‘There’ll be plenty of silence soon enough.’
‘How about now, man?’
‘The news is on in five minutes.’
And so it went on. Theo Grippin’s voice hiccupped its way backwards and forwards through his confession, repeating phrases like ‘faked the scrolls’ and ‘my greed’ over and over. ‘Et voilà! ‘ exclaimed the TV chef. ‘That’s French for dee-lish.’
Theo’s arms were going numb again. He was bound slightly less uncomfortably than before, because last time he’d been slumped unconscious while the men were tying him up, whereas this time he’d tried to position himself in such a way that only his arms and ankles were pulled askew. He’d also been permitted, just before his video performance, to take a piss in a jumbo soft drink cup, so the pressure on his bladder had eased. Inconveniently, however, he now felt a growing fullness in his bowels, despite not having eaten for a day and a half.
If he survived to write a book about his captivity, he might have to go easy on the uro-gastrointestinal stuff, if he didn’t want to come across like Malchus.
‘The search continues,’ said the news anchor-woman, ‘for the two men who abducted controversial author Theo Grippin from Pages Bookstore in Penn Plaza, Manhattan on Tuesday. The kidnappers set off flares which set the store alight, causing the deaths of three people. One other person seriously injured in the blaze has died this morning in Bellevue Hospital. He was Martin F. Salati, a literary agent. In a separate incident in Placitas, Santa Fe, a man was killed during a public bonfire of copies of Grippin’s book The Fifth Gospel. The man poured gasoline on the books, unaware that an aborted attempt had already been made to light the fire. The stream of gasoline ignited and exploded the gasoline can, engulfing the man in flames. Santa Fe City councillor John Delacruz had this to say:’
‘In my opinion, this book should not be called The Fifth Gospel, they should call it The Fire Gospel. I appeal to all citizens ever’where to please calm down. If you got to read this thing, then read it, but don’t risk your life over it. Remember, it’s only a book.’
Damn right! Theo wanted to yell across the room, but he held his tongue. Abruptly, the TV switched off and the apartment was quiet at last.
‘What you do that for?’ said the white guy.
‘We’ve seen enough.’
‘Have it your way, Nuri.’
There was a pause. A screwtop was twisted off a bottle, releasing a sharp hiss.
‘We shouldn’t have burned those people down,’ said Nuri.
‘We didn’t burn anybody down. There was a fire, an accidental fire.’
‘We shouldn’t have burned those people down,’ Nuri repeated. His tone was not particularly anguished or argumentative, more like the deep, long-digested regret felt by someone who sold off all his treasured childhood possessions years ago and wishes he had them back.
‘They were supporters of Grippin,’ said the white guy. ‘They came to sit at his feet.’
‘There were chairs,’ Nuri pointed out.
‘I mean they came to admire him. To worship him, almost! You heard them applaud, Nuri. They would’ve asked for autographs if they’d got the chance.’
‘We never discussed burning them down. The flares were only to make smoke.’
‘It’s regrettable. Those folks died sooner than they shoulda, maybe. But they’re gonna be burning in Hell forever, Nuri. That’s a lot longer than a half hour in a bookstore.’
This seemed to satisfy the Arab. He resumed editing Theo’s confession.
‘And . . . and that’s all I have to say, really,’ said the voice of Grippin. ‘And . . . and that . . . And that’s all . . .’
While Nuri was out delivering the videotape to the nearest TV station, the white guy stayed at home. Theo had hoped it would be the other way round, i.e. white guy out and Nuri in, because he suspected he might be able to communicate on a more . . . what was the word? . . . humane level with Nuri. But evidently the white guy suspected the same thing.
Theo laid his head on the arm of the armchair, trying to find a position of less discomfort. The implications of what he had just done were sinking in. Millions of people who’d merely resented him before would now hate him with a passion. Christians and non-Christians alike would spit on him in the street. And for what?
Good question, good question. A hundred times in the last few weeks he’d been asked by interviewers what his motives were in unleashing The Fifth Gospel on the world, and he’d given various bullshit answers. But underneath it all, he’d nourished a secret ambition, an ambition he’d scarcely admitted to himself. He was not, by nature, an altruistic guy; he had never had much time for idealists. But when it came to The Fifth Gospel, he had been forced under relentless probing to uncover the illicit idealism hidden inside him: he wanted to help the human race evolve. He wanted to give them the means to break their addiction to religion, to stop worshipping the dead and start solving the problems of the living. Malchus’s innocently devastating memoir would blow away two thousand years of mumbo-jumbo and light the flame of reason, and millions of spiritual cripples would throw away their crutches and take responsibility for themselves.
Go easy on the hubris, lover, Jennifer would no doubt have said.
Anyway, that hope was erased. Soon, the cringing confession of Theo Grippin would be broadcast; every country where the book had been sold would run the footage of literature’s most despicable con man. Forget the flame of reason; the only flame the world would want to light would be under Theo Grippin.
Then again, would people really believe his confession was genuine? Could anyone be that credulous? Probably. If there was one thing the Pandora’s box of Amazon customer reviews had taught him, it was that there was no fiction so outrageously, laughably, arrogantly false that somebody somewhere wasn’t moved to tears by its truth. Maybe he should have planted some clues in his performance, odd gestures or rhythmic eye-blinks to convey coded meanings that could be extracted by detectives. Although, given that he had zero idea of this apartment’s location or the identities of his kidnappers, it was difficult to imagine what hidden meanings he could’ve attempted.
How long till the videotape was delivered and Nuri returned? The Arab had promised not to be long: how long was not long? Even assuming that the apartment was somewhere in New York City – which was by no means certain – the whereabouts of the nearest TV studio were equally unguessable. Moreover, there was no clock within Theo’s range of vision, and his wristwatch was useless on his swollen wrist, pinioned behind the armchair in a tangle of twine. Despite all these indications that there was no point trying to predict when the Arab would come back, Theo felt he should try to keep track of time. It was the sort of thing that survivors did, people who kept their head in a crisis. He considered counting to sixty over and over, logging the minutes with a click of his parched tongue.
‘Virgin Galactic plans to fly five hundred passengers a year into space, at a cost of 200,000 dollars each . . .’
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The TV was on again, which in theory ought to have made it easier to calculate the passing minutes and hours, but in fact made it harder. A swirling vortex of inane infotainment emanated from the box, frenetic and casual, tedious and tantalising, always on the edge of a climax, never getting started, permanently stalled and in a hurry, promising to return in a moment.
It wouldn’t be so bad if he could see the images instead of merely hearing the voices. Tied to the chair, he could see only what was right in front of him, which was a bookcase filled with paperbacks whose gaudy spines he couldn’t decipher without glasses. If he twisted his head, he could catch a glimpse of the closed door to the bathroom.
‘Controversial rapper Bad Boy Ammo is suing the Toyota motor company for using his image without permission. He claims that an advertisement depicting a cartoon street punk attempting to steal the hubcaps from a Toyota Omega is modelled on his likeness. Bad Boy’s lawyers have denounced the ad as “vile” and “tasteless” and have filed a lawsuit for 1.5 million dollars in damages.’
Theo dug his head hard into the upholstery of the chair and tried to quell another surge of claustrophobia. If only he could be not so thoroughly trussed up; if only there could be some slack. If only they would agree to tie him to a heavy object by one wrist, or maybe by his neck, doggy-leash style. He would be so grateful, he wouldn’t even attempt to escape. If only he could get the white guy to believe that. Then he could breathe. And maybe escape.
He tried to think of something else. A man called Bad Boy was seeking $1.5 million damages for the pain of being accused, albeit in cartoon form, of bad behaviour. An American sitcom writer had earned multimillions from a show about nothing. A football player had agreed to kick a ball around a field for $10.5 million. And what had he, Theo, got in return for The Fifth Gospel? A lousy $250,000 advance. Plus some hot sex. Plus maybe a few million dollars in royalties, if he survived to spend them.
Hold on a second: why was he thinking such materialistic thoughts? Weren’t people faced with death supposed to have noble epiphanies? Weren’t they supposed to transcend petty obsessions and gain insight into essential truths? What was the deal here? Why was he even capable of resenting the fortunes of footballers and stand-up comedians, when his brain might be hosting its final few thoughts before total extinction? Why was there room for wondering where the book-burners in Santa Fe had procured their sacrificial copies of The Fifth Gospel (a sale is a sale, right?) but no room for transformative wisdom?
Or was that the real lesson here? That human consciousness was too flighty and distractible to submit to the neat discipline of enlightenment, even under pressure of death? When Robert F. Kennedy lay bleeding to death on the pantry floor of the Ambassador Hotel, did he review his contributions to the welfare of America’s poor and disenfranchised, and gain peace in the knowledge that he’d done what he could – or was he noting speckles of unhygienic grime on the ceiling fan? Were Martin Luther King’s last thoughts about the lousy room service he had suffered that morning? Did Abraham Lincoln, when sprawled in the balcony of Ford’s Theater with a bullet in his brain, feel profound gratitude that he’d been permitted to donate the words ‘all men are created equal’ to human history, or did he spend his final few seconds of sentience puzzling over the precise meaning of ‘you sockdologizing old man-trap’, the farcical punchline he’d just heard uttered onstage?
And Jesus? What about Jesus? He hung dying for hours, maybe days; he’d had ample opportunity to conceive all manner of epiphanies and perfect, poignant dying words. Instead, if Malchus was to be believed, he probably spent the whole time focusing on how extremely exquisitely fucking painful it was to have a spike stuck through your wrist. Or maybe he was really, really worried about shitting himself with his mother watching.
Ah, yes: shitting oneself. There was a good reason why Theo might be reminded of that aspect of human potential just now: he was brewing a bout of diarrhoea. It stewed in his lower bowel, sending knife-sharp pains through him. For the last hour already, he’d been playing the dangerous game of allowing his anus to open just slightly and momentarily, every ten minutes or so, to release a small amount of toxic gas. It was inconceivable that the white guy couldn’t smell what was going on, but he continued to sit silent in front of the TV.
‘A hand-tooled genuine cowhide leather sheath is included in the price if you order now!’
Even in his distress, Theo couldn’t help reflecting upon the mysteries of coincidence: to hear the same TV advertisement in his kidnappers’ apartment as he’d happened to hear in a Los Angeles hotel. It was this sort of thing that made people perceive all experience as connected, he was sure. It was this sort of thing that appealed to the mentally ill.
‘So,’ he said, trying to sound casual while raising his voice sufficiently to project it to the other side of the room. ‘How did you guys meet?’
There was no reply. Theo was scared to repeat the question in case it led to another strip of adhesive tape being stuck over his mouth.
The TV started singing, a glee club kind of choir, extolling the virtues of toothpaste. It was a post-ironic commercial, nostalgically yearning for the Eisenhower-era innocence that had been referenced satirically in 1990s commercials until the satire itself got old. We used to make fun of those clean-cut Doris Day types singing jingles in praise of margarine, the new subtext was suggesting, but now we know that those people inhabited a simpler age, a lost paradise.
‘Filth,’ said the white guy. He seemed to be addressing no one in particular, certainly not Theo. ‘Human garbage. Scum, scum, scum, scum.’
‘Excuse me,’ called Theo. ‘I really, really need to go to the bathroom.’
There was a couple of seconds’ pause, then an almighty crash as a table laden with plates and cups was kicked over. Theo gasped in surprise as the white guy’s face abruptly hovered inches from his own. It was a terrifying visage: beaded with oily drops of sweat, bug-eyed with fury, grey skinned, panting breath that was sweet with medication.
‘You gonna sit tight,’ he hissed. ‘You gonna sit tight until this is over.’
‘Until what’s over?’
The white guy’s eyes seemed to effervesce with pain. He was almost nose to nose with Theo.
‘All this,’ he choked, and waved his arm wildly behind him, sweeping across the whole room, the whole world.
And His Chains Fell Off From His Hands
In the space of an hour, or maybe two hours, or possibly three, a thousand and one lives were chronicled for several seconds each. Celebrities came to prominence, achieved their dreams, went into rehab, and died. Sportsmen were bought and sold. Musicians were permitted to play a snatch of song before being swept aside by commercials. Politicians explained why they were right, and actors enthused about their latest movies, and a woman from Bermuda showed off her cat, which weighed forty-eight pounds. Theo couldn’t see the cat, of course, but a voice told him that it was approximately as heavy as a six-year-old boy, which conjured up quite a vivid picture. Other voices told him about a coachload of schoolchildren in Lahore who’d fallen into a ravine, the terrible danger posed to the universe by the Lizard Men of Ultima 6, his very last chance to get a genuine replica Dupont lighter for only $99.99, his unrepeatable final opportunity to get a genuine non-replica Hermès keychain for $49, and how Chantal was determined to go through with the wedding even though Jo-Jo had given her positive proof that Brad seduced her own mother.
Theo thought he might be slipping into delirium. The door kept opening and then a few more minutes would go by and it would open again, because it hadn’t opened before, he’d only wished it had, and then a few more minutes would go by, and finally the door would open, for real this time, and then a few more minutes would go by, during which the door was evidently still closed, and all the while, voices on the TV were laughing and hissing and gibbering.
Finally the door opened.
‘What’s that smell?’ said the Arab, as soon as he’d stepped into the ap
artment.
‘Never mind the smell,’ said the white guy. ‘What happened with the tape?’
Nuri closed the door behind him, removed his coat with a rustle of nylon. ‘I delivered it to the TV station.’
‘What took you so long?’
‘It’s two bus rides. And I had to wait for the right moment.’
‘Are you sure they got it?’
‘As sure as I can be.’
‘Did you actually see somebody unwrap it?’
‘Of course I didn’t. Relax, man. This, they are not gonna ignore. It will be all over America by tomorrow. Tonight, maybe, even!’ He sounded boyishly pleased. He was waiting for his pat on the back.
‘I’ve been going out of my mind here, Nuri,’ said the white guy, his voice made even uglier by an asthmatic wheeze. ‘Thinking you’d screwed up.’
‘You gotta trust me, man! What’s got into you? Whatever happened to, you know: “Two men, two faiths, one mission”?’
‘Sit down, Nuri,’ said the white guy wearily. ‘We gotta watch TV until that thing comes on.’
But Nuri was not so easily bidden. ‘Oh, come on, man. You know how I feel about television. Jewish sitcoms, Jewish news, soap operas . . . It’s bad for the brain, man! We used to talk all the time. Now we don’t talk.’
‘Sure we talk.’
‘Not like before.’
‘Well, the situation has changed.’
There was a pause.
‘What are we going to do with Grippin, man?’
said Nuri.
‘Nothing.’
‘We can’t do nothing.’
‘Sure we can do nothing.’
‘You said we would drive him upstate and let him go in the woods.’
‘That was assuming we had a car. We had to dump the car. So what do you think we’re gonna do now, carry him fifty miles on our backs? Take him for a trip in the bus? “Oh, and one ticket for our pal with the blindfold and the adhesive strip on his mouth”?’
‘You told me the woods.’