by Michel Faber
He sat at the Shoot and flexed his fingers. He’d switched on the air conditioning again and the room was cool. He was dressed in his dishdasha, socks and a pullover, feeling reasonably comfortable if somewhat ridiculous. He had prayed. God had confirmed that there was nothing more urgent or important right now than making contact with his wife. The mission was going well; it could go better still if he devoted himself to it every minute of every day, but God did not expect such superhuman dedication. In another place, far away from this one, God had joined together a man and a woman, and the man had allowed himself to neglect his wife. It was time to make amends.
Dear Bea, he wrote.
I’ve written too little and too late. I’m sorry. I love you very much. I wish you were here with me. Today I found out that Ella Reinman – that skinny woman at the USIC meetings who looked like a meerkat – was some sort of psychologist who was assessing you, and that she disqualified you from coming here. This news upset me enormously. I felt so outraged on your behalf. Who is she to judge your suitability for a mission like this on the basis of a few snatches of conversation? She only saw you a couple of times and you’d come straight from work and your head was still full of that. You’d had no time to unwind. I can still see that Reinman woman so clearly – her weird head sticking out of her cashmere polo-neck. Judging you.
The sun is going down here. Finally. It’s a lovely time of day and lasts for many hours.
I will try harder to paint you a picture. It’s been a shock to me how bad I am at describing things in letters. It’s a shortcoming we never had to face before, being together every day of our lives. It’s made me read the Epistles in a different light. Paul, James, Peter and John didn’t say much about their context, did they? Scholars have to dig between the lines to get even the faintest clue about where the apostles might have lived at the time. If only Paul could have spent a few words on describing his prison . . .
Speaking of which, my quarters here are driving me
He paused, then deleted the incomplete sentence. To complain about his living conditions to Bea, who had recently suffered so much discomfort and inconvenience, would be in bad taste.
Speaking of Paul, he tried again, the verse you alluded to is a bit different in its verbatim form and I’m not sure I agree that ‘bearing one’s own burdens first’ is what Galatians 6:5 is really getting at. It’s a tricky chapter and the focus changes from verse to verse but overall I think Paul is talking about striking a balance between dissuading others from sin and keeping in mind that we are sinners ourselves. It’s not the most crystal-clear passage he ever wrote (and this one was hand-written, too, not dictated like some of the other epistles!) and I must admit that if I were trying to paraphrase it for the Oasans I’d have my job cut out for me. Fortunately, there are plenty of other Bible passages whose meaning is much more transparent and which I’m confident will be vivid and meaningful for my new friends in Christ.
Again he paused. Pictures. Bea needed pictures. Where were the pictures?
I’m sitting at the shoot wearing my dishdasha and the olive-green pullover and black socks. I look like a complete berk, I imagine. My hair is growing longer all the time. I’ve considered hacking it shorter with some scissors or even establishing a relationship with the USIC hairdresser, but I’ve decided to let it go until I’m back with you again. You cut my hair better than anyone. Plus, it’s a like a symbol of what we do for each other. I don’t want to lose those little rituals.
He thought some more.
I’m so glad to hear that your hand is healing up. You need that hand, and not just for work! I wish I could feel it pressed against the small of my back. Your hand is warm and always so dry. I don’t mean that in a negative way. It’s just that it’s never clammy, it’s always soft and dry, like the finest leather. Like an incredibly expensive glove without any seams. Oh boy, that sounds terrible. I don’t have any future as a metaphysical love poet, do I?
Sorry to hear about Joshua. Poor thing, what a state he’s in. All I can say to give us hope is that although cats are creatures of habit, the habits don’t necessarily stay the same forever. Remember how Joshua went through a phase of attacking/chewing your nursing shoes and then he suddenly moved on to something else? And remember how when we had poor old Titus, we thought we’d have to take him back to the animal shelter, because he went through a phase of howling all night and we were completely exhausted? And then one day he just stopped doing it. So let’s not despair about Joshua. The broken window and the wind have obviously spooked him but now that the house is warm and quiet again, I’m sure he’ll calm down. I think you’re wise not to pull him out from under the bed. He’ll come out himself when he’s ready. I also don’t think there’s any need for you to sit in a state of nervous tension when he’s on your lap, afraid to move in case he jumps off. He will sense that you’re anxious and it may reinforce his own anxiety. My advice is, make a gentle fuss of him when he first jumps on your lap. Enjoy him being there. Then, when you need to go to the toilet or fetch something from another room, tell him affectionately that you’ve got to get up now, and lift him smoothly and swiftly down onto the floor. Stroke his head once or twice and then walk away. Train him to understand that these interruptions are temporary and no big deal.
My pastoral role here in the USIC base has been pretty limited, I must admit. I’ve done one funeral service, as you know, and afterwards I had a good discussion with a few of the mourners who stayed behind, particularly a woman called Maneely who said she’d felt the presence of God and seemed keen to take it further. But I haven’t seen her since except for once in the corridor coming out of the mess hall where she said ‘Hi’ in a nice-to-see-you-but-don’t-stop-me-I’m-busy sort of tone. Everyone is busy here. Not in a frantic way, just getting on with what they do. They’re not as low-key as the Oasans, but there’s definitely less stress than you’d expect.
In fact, I’d have to say that the USIC personnel are an amazingly well-behaved and tolerant lot. They don’t quarrel much at all. Just a bit of teasing and low-level bickering sometimes, as you’d expect in any context where a bunch of very different people are trying to get along. As far as I’m aware – and I’ve only just realised this, talking to you now – there’s no police force here. And the strange thing is, it doesn’t seem strange, if you know what I mean. All my life, when I’ve walked around the streets or been in workplaces or at school, I’ve immediately sensed how instinctively, how INTENSELY people resent other people. Everyone’s continually at the limit of their patience, on the brink of losing their cool. You sense the potential for violence. And so the concept of a police force seems logical and necessary. But in a context where everyone’s a grown-up and they’re just getting on with their appointed tasks, who needs a bunch of guys in uniform circling around? It seems absurd.
Of course, part of the credit has to go to the booze-free environment. In theory, alcohol is available here – it costs a preposterous amount, a substantial chunk of the USIC staff’s weekly wage – but nobody buys it. They occasionally make jokes about intending to buy it, they josh each other about procuring booze the way people josh about having sex with people they’d never truly have sex with. But when it comes down to it, they don’t seem to need it. Some of the men make references to taking drugs, too. I’ve learned that this is just male bravado, or maybe an affirmation of who they used to be, once upon a time. I can sniff drugs a mile off (so to speak) and I’m willing to bet there aren’t any here. It’s not that the USIC staff are fitness freaks or health nuts – they’re quite a mixed bag of physical specimens, with some borderline obese ones, some runty ones, and quite a few who look like they used to inflict a lot of punishment on themselves. But they’re in another phase now. (Like Joshua soon will be, God willing!)
What else did you raise? Oh yes, gambling, I’ve seen no evidence of that, either. I’ve asked plenty of people how they fill their time. ‘We work,’ they say. And when I specify ‘But what do you do in your lei
sure hours?’, they cite harmless activities – they read books about their area of expertise, they flip through old magazines, they go to the gym, they swim, they play cards (not for money), they wash their clothes, they knit fancy covers for pillows, they hang out in the mess hall and talk about work with their colleagues. I’ve listened in on the most extraordinary discussions. A pitch-black Nigerian and a pale, blond Swede will be sitting shoulder to shoulder, drinking coffee and swapping ideas about thermodynamics non-stop for an hour, in vocabulary of which I understand about three words in every ten. (Mostly ‘and’, ‘if’ and ‘so’!) At the end of the hour, the Swede will say, ‘So, my idea’s dead in the water, eh?’ and the other guy will just shrug and flash him a big grin. That’s normal for a Tuesday evening here! (I use ‘Tuesday’as a figure of speech, of course. I haven’t the foggiest notion what day it is anymore.)
Oh, and another leisure activity. A bunch of them also sing in a choir – a glee club, they call it. Easy, popular old songs. (No Frank Sinatra, I’ve been assured by a lady who urged me to join, but nothing gloomy or difficult either.) I haven’t seen any evidence that any of them write stories or paint or sculpt. They’re average people, not in the least arty. Well, when I say average, I don’t mean of average intellect, because they’re obviously highly skilled and smart. I mean they’re interested only in practicalities.
As for sexual harassment
There was a knock on the door. He saved what he’d written as a draft and went to meet the visitor. It was Grainger. Her eyes were bloodshot and swollen from weeping, and the sight of him standing there in a gown, pullover and socks was not sufficiently comical to bring a smile to her lips. She looked in desperate need of a hug.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said.
19
He would learn it if it killed him
On Peter’s bed lay a pile of things Grainger could not quite identify. Or at least, she was obviously having trouble imagining what the hell they were doing there.
‘Let me help you out,’ said Peter with a smile. ‘They’re balls of wool.’
She didn’t comment or even say ‘Uh-huh’, just stood motionless, staring at the bed. There were only three possible places for a visitor to sit in Peter’s quarters – two chairs and the bed. One chair was positioned in front of the Shoot, whose screen displayed his private correspondence with his wife, the other chair was occupied by a large stack of papers, and the bed was covered with a mound of multicoloured balls of wool. Purple, yellow, white, baby blue, scarlet, grey, lime green and many more. Each had a large sewing needle stuck in it, trailing furry thread.
‘I’m making booklets,’ he explained, motioning to the stack of papers. He fetched up a finished one and splayed it open against his chest, showing her the woollen binding sewn through the folded middle.
She blinked in bemusement. ‘We could have given you a stapler,’ she said.
‘I tried that,’ he said. ‘And discovered that the Oasans are worried about pricking themselves on staples. “Needle-needle hiding from finger”, as they put it.’
‘Glue?’
‘Glue would just dissolve in the watery atmosphere.’
She continued to stare. He guessed she was thinking there were too many colours, too much wool, for the purpose.
‘This way, each Jesus Lover can have their own personal copy of Scripture,’ he said. ‘The different coloured thread makes each one unique. That, and my . . . er . . . haphazard sewing technique.’
Grainger raked a hand through her hair, in a this-is-all-too-weird gesture.
Peter tossed the booklet onto the wool-pile, and hastened to remove the stack of Scripture printouts from the chair. He motioned to Grainger to sit. She sat. She rested her elbows on her knees, clasped her hands, stared at the floor. Thirty seconds of silence followed, which, in the circumstances, felt quite long. When she finally spoke, it was in a dull, uninflected tone, as if she were musing to herself.
‘I’m sorry Austin showed you that dead body. I didn’t know he was going to do that.’
‘I’ve seen bodies before,’ he said gently.
‘It’s horrible the way they still look like the person but the person is gone.’
‘The person is never gone,’ he said. ‘But yes, it’s sad.’
Grainger raised a hand to her mouth and, with abrupt vehemence, like a cat, chewed at the nail of her pinkie. Just as abruptly, she desisted. ‘Where did you get the wool from?’
‘One of the USIC personnel gave it to me.’
‘Springer?’
‘Of course.’
‘Gay as pink ink, that guy.’
‘That’s not a problem here, surely?’
Grainger sighed and let her head sag low. ‘Nothing is a problem here. Haven’t you noticed?’
He gave her another half a minute, but it was as though she was mesmerised by the carpet. Her bosom rose and fell. She was wearing a white cotton top with sleeves not quite long enough to cover the scars on her forearms. Each time she breathed in, her breasts swelled against the thin fabric of her top.
‘You’ve been crying,’ he said.
‘I haven’t.’
‘You’ve been crying.’
She raised her head and looked him in the eyes. ‘OK,’ she said.
‘What’s causing you this pain?’
She managed a smirk. ‘You tell me, doctor.’
He knelt at her feet and got himself comfortable. ‘Grainger, I’m no good at this cat and mouse stuff. You came here to talk to me. I’m ready. Your heart is grieving. Please tell me why.’
‘I guess it’s what you’d call . . . family problems.’ She fiddled with her fingertips. He realised she’d once been a smoker and was hankering for the comfort of a cigarette – which made him realise, furthermore, how strange it was that none of the other USIC personnel exhibited those mannerisms, despite the high likelihood that some of them had been heavy smokers in their earlier lives.
‘People keep telling me that nobody here has any family to speak of,’ he said. ‘La Légion Étrangère, as Tuska puts it. But yes, I haven’t forgotten. I pray for Charlie Grainger every day. How is he?’
Grainger snorted and, because she’d just been crying, sprayed some snot onto her lips. With a grunt of irritation, she wiped her face on her sleeve. ‘God doesn’t tell you?’
‘Tell me what?’
‘Tell you if the people you’re praying for are OK.’
‘God isn’t . . . my employee,’ said Peter. ‘He’s not obliged to send me progress reports. Also, He’s well aware that I don’t actually know your dad. Let’s be honest: Charlie Grainger is just a name to me, until you tell me more.’
‘Are you saying God needs more data before he can . . .?’
‘No, no, I mean that God doesn’t need me to tell Him who Charlie Grainger is. God knows and understands your father, right down to . . . to the molecules in his eyelashes. The purpose of my prayer is not to bring your dad to His attention. It’s to express . . . ’ Peter groped for the right word, even though he’d had this same conversation, more or less, with many people in the past. Each time felt unique. ‘It’s to convey to God my love for another person. It’s my opportunity to solemnly voice my concern for the people I care about.’
‘But you just said my dad is just a name to you.’
‘I meant you. I care about you.’
Grainger sat rigid, jaw clenched and eyes unblinking. Tears welled up, glimmered, and fell. For a few seconds it looked as if she might start sobbing outright, then she pulled herself together – and got annoyed. Annoyance, Peter realised, was her defence mechanism, a prickliness that protected her soft underbelly like porcupine spines.
‘If prayer is just a way of voicing concern,’ she said, ‘what’s the point of it? It’s like politicians expressing their “concern” about wars and human rights abuses and all that other bad stuff they’re gonna sit back and let happen anyway. It’s just empty words, it doesn’t change a damn thing.’
&n
bsp; Peter shook his head. It felt like years since he’d been challenged like this. In his ministry back home, it was an almost daily encounter.
‘I understand how you feel,’ he said. ‘But God isn’t a politician. Or a policeman. He’s the creator of the universe. He’s an unimaginably huge force, a trillion times bigger than the solar system. And of course, when things go wrong in our lives, it’s natural to be angry, and to want to hold someone responsible. Someone who isn’t us. But blaming God . . . It’s like blaming the laws of physics for allowing suffering, or blaming the principle of gravity for a war.’
‘I never used the word “blame”,’ she said. ‘And you’re distorting the issue. I wouldn’t get down on my knees and pray to the laws of physics, ’cause the laws of physics can’t hear me. God is supposed to be on the case.’
‘You make Him sound – ‘
‘I just wish,’ she said, ‘that this magnificent, stupendous God of yours could give a fuck.’ And, with a strangled gasp of pain, she broke down and started weeping aloud. Peter leaned forward, still kneeling, and put his arm round her back as she convulsed. They were awkwardly matched, but she leaned forward in the chair and pressed her small head into his shoulder. Her hair tickled his cheek, arousing and confusing him with its intimate softness and alien smell. He missed Bea with a rush of distress.
‘I didn’t say He didn’t care,’ he murmured. ‘He cares about us very much. So much that He became one of us. He took human form. Can you imagine that? The creator of everything, the shaper of galaxies, got Himself born as a human baby, and grew up in a lower-class family in a small village in the Middle East.’
Still sobbing, she laughed into his pullover, possibly snotting it. ‘You don’t really believe that.’
‘Believe me, I do.’
She laughed again. ‘You are such a nutcase.’
‘No more than anyone else here, surely.’
They kept still for a minute, not speaking. Grainger had relaxed now that her anger was purged. Peter drew comfort from her warm body – more comfort than he’d expected when he reached out to her. No one, since BG and Severin had hauled him out of his crib on the flight, had made contact with his flesh other than to shake his hand in greeting. The Oasans were not touchy-feely people, not even with each other. They occasionally stroked each other on the shoulder with gloved hands, but that was about it, and they possessed no lips to kiss with. It had been a long time – too long – since he’d had this contact with a fellow creature.