by Michel Faber
Turning a corner, he found himself passing alongside the windowed exterior of the mess hall. The sun blazed on the glass, making it difficult for him to see through, but he got a vague impression of the tables and chairs and the people gathered in there. He waved blindly into the haze, in case anyone had spotted him and might be waving to him. He wouldn’t want them to think he was snubbing them.
Averting his eyes from the glare, he caught sight of something unexpected: a large gazebo, situated a couple of hundred metres from the main building. Its canopy was bright yellow, made of canvas or sailcloth, slackly stretched over the support struts. Peter had once conducted a wedding under such a structure; he’d also seen them at the seaside and in public gardens. They provided shelter from sun and rain and could be easily dismantled, although this one looked more permanent. There was movement inside its shade, so he ambled over to investigate.
Four – no, five – people were under the gazebo, dancing. Not in pairs but alone. Actually, no, maybe they weren’t dancing: maybe it was a Tai Chi session.
Approaching nearer still, Peter saw that they were in fact exercising. This place was a sort of outdoor gym, furnished not with high-tech electric treadmills and ergometers but with simple wooden and metal structures that resembled children’s playground equipment. Moro was there, pumping her legs on the padded sidebars of a weighted wheel. BG was there, lifting sandbags on a pulley. The other three were unknown to Peter. Wet with sweat, all five applied themselves to their brightly painted mechanisms, stretching, pacing, twisting, bowing.
‘Yay, Peter!’ called BG, without interrupting the rhythm of his workout. His arms, as he flexed them to raise and lower the bags, were as thick as Peter’s legs, and the knots of muscle bulged as though inflated by a puffer. He wore baggy shorts that reached down to his calves and a skimpy cotton singlet through which his nipples poked like rivets.
‘That looks like hard work, BG,’ said Peter.
‘Work, play, it’s all the same to me,’ BG replied.
Moro didn’t acknowledge Peter’s arrival, but then the position she was in – flat on her back with her legs in the air, pedalling – might have made that problematic. She wore a white shalwar whose waistband had slipped under her hip-bones, and a sleeveless T-shirt that left her midriff bare. Sweat had saturated the fabric, rendering it semi-transparent; she breathed loudly and rhythmically. BG had an unimpeded view.
‘On top of it, man, on top of it,’ he exclaimed.
At first, Peter took this to be a bawdy pun. It would fit in with the sexualised banter on the ship and BG’s generally bullish air. But as he looked into BG’s face, he realised that the man was abstracted, gazing at no particular object, focused on his own exercise. Moro might or might not be registering on his consciousness as a blur of movement, but as a woman she was invisible to him.
There was another female here, too, a tall, sinewy Caucasian with sparse red hair pulled into a ponytail. Her legs dangled inches off the ground as she supported herself between two parallel bars. She smiled at Peter but it was a smile that said ‘Let’s be properly introduced someday when I’m not so busy.’ The two unknown men were similarly preoccupied. One stood on a low pedestal with a swivel base, his eyes fixed on his own feet as he gyrated his hips. The other sat on a spider-like structure with many rungs, and was touching his cheeks to his knees. His hands were interlocked behind his head, as tightly as the metal rungs in which he’d hooked his feet. He was a closed circuit of exertion. He heaved himself forward, and one of his knotty vertebrae seemed to pop out of his skin and fly into the air. Actually, it was an insect. The gazebo was a harbour for grasshopper-like bugs which settled calmly on the humans here and there, but mostly just crawled on the canvas, green against the yellow.
The gazebo area contained enough equipment for a dozen people. Peter wondered if it was bad form not to join in. Maybe he should pick a gadget and do a small workout, just a few minutes – enough to be able to walk away without seeming to have come here solely to spectate. But he’d never been a formal-exercise kind of guy and he would feel foolish pretending. Anyway, he was a newbie and surely people could understand that he needed to check the place out.
‘Nice day,’ remarked Moro. She’d stopped pedalling and was taking a breather.
‘More than nice. Beautiful,’ said Peter.
‘Sure is,’ said Moro, and swigged some water from a bottle. One of the green insects had attached itself to her top, between the breasts, like a brooch. She paid it no mind.
‘Did the coffee come out?’ said Peter.
She looked at him uncomprehendingly. ‘Coffee?’
‘The coffee I made you spill.’
‘Oh, that.’ Her expression implied she’d engaged with a dozen challenges and activities since then, and could hardly be expected to remember an event so trivial. ‘It wasn’t coffee.’
‘Whiteflower?’
‘Chicory and rye extract. And yeah, just a bit of whiteflower. To give it body.’
‘I must try it sometime.’
‘It’s worth trying. Don’t expect the most wonderful thing on earth and you won’t be disappointed.’
‘A sound philosophy as a general rule,’ he said.
Again she looked at him as if he was talking gibberish. He smiled, waved and walked away. There were some people you would never click with, no matter how many times you tried, no matter how many shared experiences came your way, and maybe Moro was one of those. But it didn’t matter. As the USIC interviewers had reminded him at every opportunity, he wasn’t here for her.
Reluctant to go back inside just yet, Peter strayed further and further from the USIC base. He would be in trouble, he supposed, if he got suddenly tired or unwell, but it was a risk he was willing to take. His health and endurance would be tested to the limit soon enough anyway, when he delivered himself to the Oasan settlement with no supplies apart from a Bible and the clothes he stood up in.
Stark against the horizon towered two silos or chimneys, he wasn’t sure which. Obviously not the Big Brassiere, judging from the shape, but what it was he couldn’t guess. No smoke coming out, so maybe they were silos after all. Might this be one of the many things that Grainger had explained to him, as she escorted him off the ship? The conversation they were supposed to have had, which he had so embarrassingly forgotten, threatened to grow to mythical proportions: a grand tour of everything, with scripted commentary answering all conceivable questions. He should bear in mind that there was a limit to how much she could have passed on to him at first sight.
He walked towards the silos for ten, twenty minutes, but they didn’t get any closer. A trick of perspective. In cities, the buildings and streets gave you a more accurate sense of how far or near the horizon was. In natural, unspoiled landscapes, you didn’t have a clue. What looked like a mile or two might be several days’ journey.
He should conserve his energy. He should turn around and make his way back to the base. Just as he’d made this decision, however, a vehicle drove into view, coming from the direction of the silos. It was a jeep identical to Grainger’s, but as it came closer he could see it wasn’t Grainger at the wheel. It was the big, butch-looking woman who’d been talking to BG in the mess hall earlier on. She smoothed the car to a standstill right nearby and wound down the window.
‘Running away from home?’
He smiled. ‘Just exploring.’
She gave him the once-over.
‘You done?’
He laughed. ‘Yes.’
She tipped her head in a get-in gesture and he complied. The interior of the vehicle was messy – there wouldn’t have been room for him in the back – and humid, without air conditioning. Unlike Grainger, this woman evidently didn’t feel the need to exclude the Oasan atmosphere. Her skin was shiny with sweat and the spiky tips of her bleached hair drooped with moisture.
‘Time for lunch,’ she said.
‘Seems we just had lunch,’ he said. ‘Or was that breakfast?’
&n
bsp; ‘I’m a growing girl,’ she said. Her tone tipped him off that she was aware she was hefty but couldn’t care less. Her arms were well-muscled and her bosom, encased in a bra whose underwiring pushed against the fabric of her white T-shirt, was matronly.
‘I was wondering what those are,’ said Peter, indicating the silos.
She glanced up at the rear-view mirror as they got under way. ‘Them? They’re oil.’
‘Petroleum?’
‘Not exactly. Something like it.’
‘But you can convert it into fuel?’
She sighed ruefully. ‘Well now, that’s a question that’s got other questions hanging off of it. I mean, which way do you go? Design new engines to work with the new fuel or monkey around with the fuel so it works with the old engines? We’ve had some . . . discussions about that, over the years.’ The way she pronounced the word ‘discussions’ suggested a personal stake in the matter, and a degree of exasperation.
‘And who won?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘The chemistry guys. They figured out how to adapt the fuel. It’s like . . . changing the design of the butt so the butt fits the chair. But hey, who am I to argue.’
They drove past the yellow gazebo. Moro had left, but the other four were still hard at it.
‘Do you ever exercise there?’ Peter asked. The woman still hadn’t volunteered her name and it felt awkward to ask it now.
‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘But my job is more physical than some other people’s, so . . . ’
‘You’re a friend of BG’s?’ said Peter. They would be back at the base within seconds and that would be it, conversation over.
‘He’s a fun guy,’ the woman said. ‘They should have called him BS. You never know what will come out of his mouth. Keeps things interesting.’
‘Where did he stand on the fuel question?’
She snorted. ‘No opinion. That’s BG! It takes a lot of muscle to be that weak.’ She slowed the vehicle down and parked it neatly in the shade of the main building. ‘But he’s a great guy,’ she added. ‘We get along great. Everybody gets along great. It’s a great team.’
‘Except when you disagree.’
She reached forward to pull the key from the ignition. Her upper arm, just below the shoulder, sported a tattoo. ‘Sported’ was probably the wrong word, since the tattoo involved the vestiges of a name, rendered illegible under a later design of a snake crushing a rodent.
‘Best not to think about winning and losing here, Mr Preacher Man,’ she said, swinging the door open and heaving her body out. ‘Take a deep breath and count to a million.’
9
The choir resumed
Peter did not wish to count to a million. He was ready now. Pacing his quarters, itching for his rendezvous. His rucksack was packed and he’d already tested its weight on his shoulders. As soon as Grainger was ready to take him, he would go.
His Bible, much annotated, dog-eared and interleaved with paper place-markers, was stashed in the rucksack along with his socks, notebooks and so on. He didn’t need to consult it just now: the relevant verses were deeply engraved in his memory. Psalms was the obvious resource, the first port of call if you needed courage in the face of a huge, possibly dangerous challenge. The valley of the shadow of death. Somehow, he doubted that he was about to be taken there.
But then, he had a very poor instinct for danger. That time in Tottenham when he almost got knifed – he would have just kept talking to that street gang as they grew in number and pressed more closely and aggressively around him, if it hadn’t been for Beatrice whisking him into a minicab.
‘You are completely insane,’ she’d said to him as the doors slammed shut and obscenities ricocheted off the car’s surface.
‘But look, some of them are waving to us,’ he’d protested, as they accelerated away from the mob. She looked, and it was true.
Dear Peter, she wrote.
What thrilling news, that the Oasans have already heard of Jesus. It doesn’t surprise me, though. Remember when I asked USIC what contact there’d been with Christians so far? They were cagey, keen to maintain their ‘USIC is non-religious’ stance. But there must have been quite a few Christians among the personnel over the years and we both know that if you put a real Christian anywhere, things happen! Even the smallest seed can grow.
And now you’re there, my darling, and you can plant more. Many more!
Peter noted that she wasn’t mentioning Kurtzberg. Evidently, when she wrote this, she hadn’t yet received his most recent message. Maybe she was reading it right now, at exactly the same moment as he was reading hers. Unlikely, but the thought of such synchronous intimacy was too seductive to resist.
Don’t agonise about the fact that I’m not there with you. If God had meant us to go on this mission together, He would have fixed it so we did. I have my own little ‘missions’ here, not as ground-breaking or exotic as yours, but worthwhile all the same. Wherever we are, life throws lost souls into our path. Angry, frightened souls who ignore the light of Christ while cursing the darkness.
Mind you, Christians are capable of ignoring the light of Christ, too. There’s been a ridiculous fuss in our church since you went away – a storm in a teacup but it has caused me some grief. A few of our congregation – the older members, mostly – have been grumbling that we’ve got ‘no business’ preaching the word of God to ‘aliens’. The argument goes that Jesus died for humans only. In fact if you pressed Mrs Shankland on the issue, she’d probably tell you that Jesus died for white middle-class English people from the Home Counties! Geoff has been doing a reasonable job as pastor overall but he’s acutely conscious of being a ‘stand-in’ and he wants to be popular. His sermons are sincere but safe, he never lays anything on the line like you do. So . . . the grumblings go on. ‘Why not China? There’s millions needing it there, dear.’ Thanks, Mrs Shanks, for those words of wisdom.
Well, my darling, I really must go now and have a shower (assuming the plumbing hasn’t gone bung again) and rustle up something to eat. Supplies of my favourite comfort foods continue to be conspicuously absent from the supermarket shelves (even the horrid but serviceable ‘lo-fat’ rollettes have been out of stock for days!) so I’ve been forced into the arms of another dessert, a sort of chocolate and raisin éclair made by the local baker. Probably just as well: I should be supporting local businesses anyway.
On which edifying note, much love from your excited and admiring wife!
Bea
Peter tried to picture Mrs Shankland. He had obviously met and talked to her; he’d met and talked to everyone in the congregation. His mind was a blank, though. Maybe he knew her as something other than Mrs Shankland. Edith, Millicent, Doris. She sounded like a Doris.
Dear Bea, he wrote,
Let’s groom Mrs Shankland for a mission to China. She could convert a thousand people per hour with a few well-aimed words.
Seriously, things have begun moving quickly now, and I may not have another opportunity to write to you for some time. A couple of weeks, even. (A couple of weeks for you – a few days for me, if you know what I mean.) It’s a scary prospect but I feel I’m in the Lord’s hands – ironically at the same time as I’ve got the feeling that I’m being used by USIC for some purpose that has yet to be revealed.
Sorry to sound so mysterious. It’s USIC’s secrecy about Kurtzberg and their caginess about the indigenous people in general that’s made me feel this way.
To my great relief, I’m finally over my jetlag or whatever it should be called in the circumstances. I’m sure I would benefit from some more sleep and I’m not sure how I’m going to manage that with 72 hours of sunshine coming up, but at least the sense of disorientation is gone. My urine is still bright orange but I don’t think it’s dehydration, I think it’s something to do with the water. I feel quite well. Rested, if a bit restless. Actually, I’m buzzing with energy. The first thing I’m going to do (once I finish this letter to you) is pack a bag and get myself driven back
to the settlement (officially called C-2, although some of the men call it ‘Freaktown’ – charming, eh?) and just be left there. Dumped, if you like. It’s no good being ferried about in some sort of protective bubble, venturing out for a quick meet & greet while a USIC chauffeur is parked nearby with the motor running. And if I have my own vehicle, that still seems to say, I’m paying a visit, and I’ll leave when I’ve had enough. Bad message! If God has a plan for me here, among these people, then I must deliver myself into their hands.
OK, that might not have been the wisest course of action for Paul among the Corinthians and Ephesians, but I can hardly claim to be in hostile territory, can I? The most hostility I’ve had to endure so far is Severin being in a bit of a snit with me on the way over. (Haven’t seen him since, by the way.)
In my excitement about what’s to come, I must try to remember what I have & haven’t described to you so far. How I wish you were here with me, seeing it with your own eyes. Not because it would save me the trouble of trying to describe it (although I must admit my lack of skill in that department is becoming ever more obvious!) but because I miss you. I miss living through the visible moments of life with you. Without you at my side, I feel as though my eyes are just a camera, like a closed-circuit camera without film in it, registering what’s out there, second by second, letting it all vanish instantly to be replaced by more images, none of them properly appreciated.
If only I could send you a photo or a movie! How quickly we adjust to what’s provided for us and want MORE . . . The technology that allows me to send these words to you, across unimaginable distances, is truly miraculous (– a blasphemous assertion??) yet as soon as I’ve used it a few times, I think: Why can’t I send pictures as well?
Peter stared at the screen. It was pearlescent grey, and his text hung suspended in the plasma, but if he adjusted his focus he could see his ghostly visage: his unruly blond hair, his big bright eyes, his strong cheekbones. His face, strange and familiar.