The Book of Strange New Things

by Michel Faber

  ‘Things?’

  ‘Food, mainly. You’ll have noticed that the mess hall isn’t serving right now.’

  He nodded, and a ticklish trickle of sweat ran down his face. ‘I can’t really figure out how the day/night routine is supposed to work, if it’s dark for three days straight. I mean, right now, it’s officially night, yes?’

  ‘Yes, it’s night.’ She rubbed her eyes, but gingerly, so as not to dislodge the lenses.

  ‘So do you just let the clock decide when the days begin and end?’

  ‘Sure. It’s not much different than living in the Arctic Circle, I guess. You adjust your sleep pattern so that you’re awake when everybody else is.’

  ‘What about those guys in the mess hall right now?’

  She shrugged. ‘Stanko’s scheduled to be there because he’s on night duty. The other guys . . . well, people get insomnia sometimes. Or they get all slept out.’

  ‘What about the people of Oasis – the . . . uh . . . natives? Are they asleep right now? I mean, should we wait until the sun comes up?’

  She faced him with an unblinking, defensive stare. ‘I have no idea when they sleep. Or even if they sleep. To be straight with you, I know almost nothing about them, even though I probably know more than anyone here. They’re . . . kind of hard to get to know. I’m not sure they want to be known.’

  He grinned. ‘Nevertheless . . . I’m here to know them.’

  ‘OK,’ she sighed. ‘It’s your call. But you look tired. Are you sure you’ve had enough rest?’

  ‘I’m fine. What about you?’

  ‘Fine also. Like I said, give me an hour. If, in that time, you change your mind and want to sleep some more, let me know.’

  ‘How would I do that?’

  ‘The Shoot. There’s a scroll-down menu behind the USIC icon. I’m on it.’

  ‘Glad to hear there’s one menu that’s got something on it.’ He meant it as a rueful comment on the mess hall, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he worried she might take them the wrong way.

  She opened her door, he did the same on his side, and they stepped out into the moist swirling dark.

  ‘Any other advice?’ he called over the top of the vehicle.

  ‘Yes,’ she shot back. ‘Forget the denim jacket.’

  The power of suggestion? She’d told him he looked tired and he hadn’t felt tired when she said it, but he felt tired now. Befuddled, too. As though the excessive humidity had seeped into his brain and fogged his thoughts. He hoped Grainger would escort him all the way back to his quarters, but she didn’t. She led him into the building through a different door from the one he’d used as an exit, and, within half a minute, was bidding him au revoir at a T-junction in the corridors.

  He walked off in the opposite direction from her, as she clearly expected him to, but he had no clear idea where he was going. The passage was empty and silent and he couldn’t recall having seen it before. The walls were painted a cheerful blue (turned somewhat darker by the subdued lighting) but were otherwise nondescript, with no signs or pointers. Not that there was any reason to expect a sign pointing to his quarters. USIC had made it clear, during one of the interviews, that he would not ‘in any way, shape or form’ be the official pastor of the base and shouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t much call for his services. His true responsibility was to the indigenous inhabitants. Indeed, that was his job description in the contract: Minister (Christian) to Indigenous Population.

  ‘But you do have a minister for the USIC personnel’s needs, surely?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Actually, at the moment, no,’ the interviewer had replied.

  ‘Does that mean the colony is officially atheist?’ Bea had asked.

  ‘It’s not a colony,’ another of the USIC interviewers said, with an edge to her voice. ‘It’s a community. We do not use the word colony. And we do not promote any faith or lack of faith. We’re looking for the best people, that’s all.’

  ‘A pastor specifically for the USIC staff is a fine idea, in principle,’ the first interviewer reassured them. ‘Especially if he – or she – had other useful skills. We’ve included such individuals in the team at various times in the past. Right now, it’s not a priority.’

  ‘But my mission is a priority?’ Peter had said, still scarcely able to believe it.

  ‘We would classify it “urgent”,’ the interviewer said. ‘So urgent, in fact, that I must ask you . . . ’ He leaned forward, looked straight into Peter’s eyes. ‘How soon can you leave?’

  Now there was a light glowing around the next bend in the corridor, and a faint harmonious noise which he identified, after a moment, as piped music. He had walked too far, failed to spot his own room, and ended up back at the mess hall.

  When he re-entered, he found that there had been a few changes. The ghostly croon of Patsy Cline had vanished from the airwaves, replaced by cocktail jazz so bland that it barely existed. The two black guys had left. The Chinese guy had woken up and was leafing through a magazine. A petite middle-aged woman, maybe Korean or Vietnamese, with a dyed streak of orange through her black hair, was staring meditatively at a cup in her lap. The Slavic-looking guy behind the counter was still on duty. He appeared not to notice Peter walking in, mesmerised as he was by a game he was playing with two squeezable plastic bottles – ketchup and mustard. He was trying to balance them against each other, tipped at an angle so that only their nozzles touched. His long fingers hovered above the fragile arrangement, ready to enfold the bottles when they fell.

  Peter paused in the doorway, suddenly cold in his sweat-soaked denims and bedraggled hair. How ridiculous he must look! For just a few seconds, the sheer alienness of these people, and his irrelevance to them, threatened to flood his spirit with fear, the paralysis of shyness, the terror that a child feels when faced with a new school filled with strangers. But then God calmed him with an infusion of courage and he stepped forward.

  ‘Hello everybody,’ he said.

  5

  Just as he recognised them for what they were

  In the eyes of God, all men and women are naked. Clothes are nothing more than a fig leaf. And the bodies beneath are just another layer of clothing, an outfit of flesh with an impractically thin leather exterior, in various shades of pink, yellow and brown. The souls alone are real. Seen in this way, there can never be any such thing as social unease or shyness or embarrassment. All you need do is greet your fellow soul.

  At Peter’s greeting, Stanko set the bottles to rights, looked up and grinned. The Chinese guy gave a thumbs-up salute. And the woman, who’d been dozing with her eyes open, unfortunately got a fright and jerked her legs, spilling coffee into her lap.

  ‘Oh my . . . !’ cried Peter, and rushed over to her. ‘I’m so sorry!’

  She was wide awake now. She had on a loose smock and pants, much like Grainger’s but beige. The spilled liquid added a large brown blotch.

  ‘It’s OK, it’s OK,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t that hot.’

  An object flew past Peter’s face, landing on the woman’s knee. It was a tea towel, tossed by Stanko. Calmly she began to swab and dab. She lifted the hem of her dress, revealing two damp patches on her gauzy cotton slacks.

  ‘Can I help?’ said Peter.

  She laughed. ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘My wife uses vinegar on coffee stains,’ he said, keeping his eyes on her face so that she wouldn’t think he was ogling her thighs.

  ‘This isn’t real coffee,’ the woman said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ She balled up the tea towel and placed it on the table, in an unhurried, methodical motion. Then she settled back into her chair, apparently in no rush to change. The jazz muzak lapsed into silence for a moment, then the cymbals and snare drum were tickled by a pair of brushes, the saxophone exhaled, and the noodling began once more. Stanko busied himself with something tactfully noisy, and the Chinese guy studied his magazine. Bless them, they were trying to give him space.

  ‘Have I blown my cha
nce to introduce myself?’ he said. ‘I’m Peter.’

  ‘Moro. Pleased to meet you.’ The woman extended her right hand. He hesitated before shaking it, having noticed that one of her fingers ended at a knuckle stub and her pinky was missing altogether. He took hold and she squeezed, confidently.

  ‘You know, that’s very unusual,’ he said, sitting down next to her.

  ‘Factory accident,’ she said. ‘Happens every day.’

  ‘No, I meant the way you offered me that hand. I’ve met lots of people with fingers missing from their right hand. They always offer the left one for a handshake. Because they don’t want to make the other person feel uncomfortable.’

  She seemed mildly surprised. ‘Is that a fact?’ Then she smiled and shook her head, as if to say, Some people sure are weird. Her gaze was direct and yet guarded, examining him for identifiers that could be logged in the as-yet empty file labelled Missionary From England.

  ‘I just went out for a walk,’ he said, gesturing at the darkness outside. ‘My first time.’

  ‘Not much to see,’ she said.

  ‘Well, it is night,’ he said.

  ‘Even in daylight, there’s not much to see. But we’re working on that.’ She didn’t sound proud or off-hand, just descriptive.

  ‘What’s your job here?’

  ‘Engineering technologist.’

  He allowed himself to look bemused, signalling: Please explain. She parried with a look that signalled: It’s late and I’m tired.

  ‘Also,’ she said, ‘I do some work in the kitchens, cooking and baking, every ninety-six hours.’ She raked her fingers through her hair. There were grey roots under the glossy black and orange. ‘That’s kinda fun, I look forward to that.’

  ‘Volunteer work?’

  ‘No, it’s all part of my schedule. You’ll find a lot of us have more than one function here.’ She stood up. It wasn’t until she extended her hand again that Peter realised their encounter was over.

  ‘I’d better get cleaned up,’ she explained.

  ‘Nice to have met you, Moro,’ he said.

  ‘Likewise,’ she said, and walked out.

  ‘Makes good dim sum parcels,’ said the Chinese man when she’d gone.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Peter.

  ‘Dim sum pastry is a difficult thing,’ said the Chinese man. ‘It’s fragile. The dough. But it’s gotta be thin or it’s not dim sum. Tricky. But she’s good at it. We can always tell when she’s been on kitchen duty.’

  Peter moved to a vacant chair next to the Chinese man.

  ‘I’m Peter,’ he said.

  ‘Werner,’ said the Chinese man. His hand was five-fingered and pudgy, and exerted a carefully measured firmness in the handshake. ‘So, you’ve been exploring.’

  ‘Not much yet. I’m still very tired. Just got here.’

  ‘Takes a while to adjust. Those molecules in you gotta calm down. When’s your first shift?’

  ‘Uh . . . I don’t really . . . I’m here as a pastor. I suppose I expect to be on duty all the time.’

  Werner nodded, but there was a hint of bemusement on his face, as though Peter had just confessed to signing a shonky contract without proper legal advice.

  ‘Doing God’s work is a privilege and a joy,’ said Peter. ‘I don’t need any breaks from it.’

  Werner nodded again. Peter noted at a glance that the magazine he’d been reading was Pneumatics & Hydraulics Informatics, with a full-colour cover photo of machine innards and the snappy headline MAKING GEAR PUMPS MORE VERSATILE.

  ‘This pastor thing . . . ’ said Werner. ‘What are you gonna be doing, exactly? On a day-to-day basis?’

  Peter smiled. ‘I’ll have to wait and see.’

  ‘See how the land lays,’ suggested Werner.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Peter. Tiredness was swamping him again. He felt as if he might pass out right there in his chair, slide onto the floor for Stanko to mop up.

  ‘I gotta admit,’ said Werner, ‘I don’t know much about religion.’

  ‘And I don’t know much about pneumatics and hydraulics,’ said Peter.

  ‘Not my line, either,’ said Werner, reaching over with some effort to replace the magazine in the racks. ‘I just picked it up out of curiosity.’ He faced Peter again. There was something he wanted to clarify. ‘China didn’t even have religion for a long time, under, like, one of the dynasties.’

  ‘What dynasty was that?’ For some reason, the word ‘Tokugawa’ popped into Peter’s mind, but then he realised he was confusing Japanese and Chinese history.

  ‘The Mao dynasty,’ said Werner. ‘It was bad, man. People getting killed left, right and centre. Then things loosened up. People could do what they liked. If you wanted to believe in God, fine. Buddha, too. Shinto. Whatever.’

  ‘What about you? Were you ever interested in any faith?’

  Werner peered up at the ceiling. ‘I read this huge book once. Must’ve been four hundred pages. Scientology. Interesting. Food for thought.’

  Oh, Bea, thought Peter, I need you here by my side.

  ‘You gotta understand,’ Werner went on, ‘I’ve read a lot of books. I learn words from them. Vocabulary building. So if I ever come across a weird word one day, in a situation where it matters, I’m, like, ready for it.’

  The saxophone hazarded a squawk that might almost have been considered raucous, but immediately resolved itself into sweet melody.

  ‘There are lots of Christians in China nowadays,’ Peter observed. ‘Millions.’

  ‘Yeah, but out of the total population it’s, like, one per cent, half of one per cent, whatever. Growing up, I hardly ever met one. Exotic.’

  Peter drew a deep breath, fighting nausea. He hoped he was only imagining the sensation in his head, of his brain shifting position, adjusting its fit against the lubricated shell of his skull. ‘The Chinese . . . the Chinese are very focused on family, yes?’

  Werner looked pensive. ‘So they say.’

  ‘Not you?’

  ‘I was fostered. To a German military couple based in Chengdu. Then when I was fourteen they moved to Singapore.’ He paused; then, in case there might be doubt, he added: ‘With me.’

  ‘That must be a very unusual story for China.’

  ‘I couldn’t give you stats. But, yeah. Very unusual, I’m sure. Nice folks, too.’

  ‘How do they feel about you being here?’

  ‘They died,’ said Werner, with no change of expression. ‘Not long before I was selected.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Werner nodded, to confirm agreement that his step-parents’ demise was, in the final analysis, a regrettable event. ‘They were good folks. Supportive. A lot of the guys here didn’t have that. I had that. Lucky.’

  ‘Are you in touch with anyone else back home?’

  ‘There’s a lot of folks I’d like to touch base with. Fine people.’

  ‘Any one special person?’

  Werner shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t rate them one over the other. All unique, you know. Talented. Some of them, I really owe. Like, they helped me. Gave me pointers, introduced me to . . . opportunities.’ His eyes went glassy as he reconnected, momentarily, with a distant past.

  ‘When do you go back?’ said Peter.

  ‘Go back?’ Werner took a second or two to decode the question, as though Peter had voiced it in an impenetrably thick accent. ‘Nothing scheduled for the foreseeable. Some guys, like Severin for instance, have been back and forth, back and forth, every few years. I’m like, why? It takes you three, four years to hit your stride. Acclimatisation-wise, expertise-wise, focus-wise. It’s a big project. After a while you get to the point where you can see how everything joins up with everything else. How the work of an engineer ties in with the work of a plumber and an electrician and a cook and a . . . a horticulturalist.’ His pudgy hands cupped an invisible sphere, to indicate some sort of holistic concept.

  Suddenly, Werner’s hands appeared to swell in size, each finger balloo
ning to the thickness of a baby’s arm. His face changed shape, too, sprouting multiple eyes and mouths that swarmed loose from the flesh and swirled around the room. Then something hit Peter smack on the forehead. It was the floor.

  A few seconds or minutes later, strong hands hooked under his shoulders and heaved him onto his back.

  ‘Are you OK?’ said Stanko, strangely unfazed by the delirious see-sawing of the walls and ceiling all around him. Werner, whose face and hands were back to normal, was likewise unaware of any problem – except the problem of a sweat-soaked, foolishly overdressed missionary sprawled insensible on the floor. ‘Are you with us, bro?’

  Peter blinked hard. The room turned slower. ‘I’m with you.’

  ‘You need to be in bed,’ said Stanko.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ said Peter. ‘But I . . . I don’t know where . . . ’

  ‘It’ll be in the directory,’ said Stanko, and went off to check.

  Within sixty seconds, Peter was being carried out of the mess hall and into the dim blue corridor by Stanko and Werner. Neither man was as strong as BG so they made slow and lurching progress, pausing every few metres to adjust their grip. Stanko’s bony fingers dug into Peter’s armpits and shoulders, sure to leave bruises, while Werner had the easy job, the ankles.

  ‘I can walk, I can walk,’ said Peter, but he wasn’t sure if that was true and his two Samaritans ignored him anyway. In any case, his quarters weren’t far from the mess hall. Before he knew it, he was being laid down – or rather, dumped – on his bed.

  ‘Nice talking with you,’ said Werner, panting slightly. ‘Good luck with . . . whatever.’

  ‘Just close your eyes and relax, bro,’ advised Stanko, already halfway to the door. ‘Sleep it off.’

  Sleep it off. These were words he’d heard many times before in his life. He had even heard them spoken by men who’d scooped him off a floor and carried him away – although usually to a dumping-place much less pleasant than a bed. On occasion, the guys who’d lugged him out of the nightclubs and other drinking-holes where he’d disgraced himself had given him a few kicks in the ribs before hoisting him up. Once, they’d tossed him into a back street and a delivery van had passed right over him, its tyres miraculously missing his head and limbs, just tearing off a hunk of his hair. That was in the days before he was ready to admit there was a higher power keeping him alive.