The Book of Strange New Things

by Michel Faber

  Peter I know you don’t want to hear this but I’M IN TROUBLE. Things are falling apart at a terrifying rate. Some of it I’ve told you about and a lot of it I haven’t. Any other husband, once he got wind ofg what’s been going on here would have offered to come home by now. Or at least made noises about it.

  I#m writing this at 5 AM after a sleepless night and I’m almost hallucinating wioth stress and I will probably regret sending you this when I#ve finally had some sleep. But you’ve alwayts been on my side in the past and now you’re hurting me and I don’t know where to turn. Have you given ANY THOUGHT AT ALL to how it might make me feel when you inform me that Grainger, the person who seems to be closest to you up there, is a female and that you’ve ‘just spent some time with her’ and that she’s very ‘vulnerable’ but you’re happy to report that she ‘opened up’ more today than she’s done for you before? I’m sure it will be a wonderful breakthriough for you both when she lets you call her by her first name and you finally ‘get to the bottom’ of why she’s hurting (maybe it will coincide with the happy day when this other woman you’ve been ministering to, Maneater or whatever she;s called, is ready to ‘take it further’) – but Peter has it occurred to you that I might be just a teensy bit ‘vulnerable’ too!

  I know you lovbe me and I#m sure you are not doing anything bad withj Grainger but I wish you thought a bit more cvarefully about the language tyou use when talking about her and you. You devote so much time andf energy to pondering exactly the right words to choose in your Bible paraphrases for the Jesus Lovers but when it comes to communicating with me, your inbfinite attention to nuance deserts you.

  It’s nice that you are having such vivid memoeries of our wedding but it would be a lot better for me if you had some vivid memories of the woman you left behibnd a few months ago and what she might need right now.

  In tears,

  Bea

  There was another message, sent a mere two minutes later. He opened it, hoping it might be some sort of retraction or softening of the blow – not an apology exactly, but a step back, a second thought, maybe an admission that she was drunk. Instead, she didn’t even call him by name.

  As for the rat, PLEASE let’s not pretend – it was NOT as frighjtened as me. I’m sure it was having a simply marvellous time being a rat and it’s overjoyed that our neighbouirhood is choking on its own waste. I just don’t know what to do. Lots of people are driving tyheir garbage to other parts of town and dumping it anywhere they think noeone will catch them doing it. I wou;ldn’t be surprised if a lot iof the filth that’s scattered over our street comes from drive-by dumpings. The police seem powerless to stop it. They seem powerless to stop anything. Tbey just drive arounfd in their squad cars, talking into their handsets. What use is that? What are we paying them for? They’re just watching us go under.

  The washing machine gurgled loudly as it sluiced one load of water away to make room for another. Dense white suds clung to the inside of the glass-fronted door. Too much soap. His fault.

  He got up from his chair and wandered aimlessly around the room. His heart was beating hard and his intestines felt heavy as clay in his midriff. A stack of Bible booklets lay ready next to the bed, their spines neatly sewn in colourful thread, a labour of many hours during which he had been blissfully unaware of any bad thing.

  Dear Bea, he wrote,

  I was devastated to get your letter and I’m sorry I’ve made you feel so hurt. I hope for your own sake – for both our sakes – that the extremity of your distress when you wrote to me was partly due to the state you were in at that moment. All those typos (very unlike you) made me wonder if you’d been drinking. Which is not to suggest that your grief isn’t valid, only that I hope you’re not feeling this much hurt and anger all the time.

  But of course the fault is mine. I can’t explain or excuse the way I’ve been treating you. The closest I can come is to say that this journey – the first time we’ve been apart for more than a few days at a time – has revealed a frightening lack in me. I don’t mean a bad attitude (although that’s obviously how you see it) I mean a problem with the way my brain works. I find it almost impossible to keep a grip on things that aren’t in my immediate orbit. We’ve always faced life together and I suppose our togetherness masked this deficiency. When you first met me I was bombarding my system with every toxic substance I could throw at it, and once I cleaned up I blithely assumed that the alcohol and the drugs hadn’t inflicted any permanent damage, but I’m now forced to consider that maybe they have. Or maybe I’ve always been like this. Maybe it’s what sent me off the rails in the first place. I don’t know.

  How can I reassure you about our baby? It’s true I’ve been worried in the past about whether I’m cut out for parenthood. It’s true that the responsibility is daunting. But it’s not true that I never intended or wanted to have children with you. I want to very much. By the time I get back home, I suppose you’ll be heavily pregnant and I hope you’ll consent to take time off work. You shouldn’t be doing heavy lifting and going through all the stress of the hospital when you’re growing a child. How about going on maternity leave as soon as I return? We could relax and prepare things properly.

  One thing neither of us has mentioned for a while is money. It’s not the factor that we focused on when this mission came up – we were both excited about the project for its own sake. But on the other hand, I will be paid a great deal – more than either of us has ever earned for anything. In the past, once our living expenses were covered, we always ploughed any extra income into the Lord’s work. We’ve funded a lot of worthwhile things. But our child is a worthwhile thing too and I’m sure God will understand if we give the other projects a rest. What I’m suggesting is this: Let’s use the money from this mission to move house. Judging from what you’ve been telling me, it’s becoming very unpleasant, even dangerous, to stay in the city. So let’s move to the country. It would be a much better environment for our child to spend his/her formative years in. As for our church, by the time I get back they’ll have managed for six months without me and I’m sure Geoff will be delighted to carry on as pastor, and if he isn’t, someone else will step forward. Churches shouldn’t get too fixated on a particular shepherd.

  As I write this, it’s all becoming clearer in my mind. I was thinking at first that you should go on maternity leave, but as I think about it more, it would make much better sense if you actually quit. A decision which is probably long overdue. The people who run that hospital have caused you so much heartache over the years and it never improves. You can fight them to the last of your energy and they’ll just carry on regardless. Well, let’s leave them to it. Let’s both devote ourselves to being parents, and start a fresh phase of our lives.

  All my love,

  Peter

  ‘Hi,’ said Maneely. ‘Your ear looks sore.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘It’s crusted over now.’

  She had joined him in the mess hall, where he was sipping tea and trying to persuade himself to order some food. He smiled in welcome, but knew that his nausea and distress must be evident on his face. She, by contrast, looked upbeat and relaxed. She’d had a haircut which suited her. Maybe she’d even had it dyed, because he remembered her as mousy and she was honey-blonde now. Then again, the light in the mess hall had a honeyish tinge. His tea glowed bright orange like a well-brewed beer.

  ‘I’ve been kind of avoiding you,’ Maneely said. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I just assumed you were busy,’ he said diplomatically. Was this going to be the day when she accepted Jesus into her heart? He didn’t feel up to it.

  She drank some strawberry soymilk through a straw before getting stuck into a large serving of imitation sausage and mashed potato.

  ‘Your hair suits you,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘You’re not eating?’

  ‘I’m . . . taking things slowly today.’

  She nodded understandingly, as though tolerating a man with a
hangover. Several generous slices of sausage disappeared into her mouth and she chased them down with another slurp of soy. ‘I’ve been thinking about our conversation after Severin’s funeral.’

  Here it comes, he thought. Lord, please give me grace. ‘Well, you know I’m here for you.’

  She smirked. ‘Except when you’re in Freaktown getting your ears fried.’

  ‘It’s not so bad,’ he said. ‘I just have to be more careful.’

  She stared him straight in the eyes, serious again. ‘Look, I’m sorry about what I said.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I think I got you all excited.’

  ‘Excited?’

  ‘Severin was kind of a pal of mine. Not in a romantic way, but we . . . solved a lot of problems together. On various projects. When he died, it hit me hard. Put me into a real vulnerable state. At the funeral, you gave a great speech, and I kind of got half-convinced about . . . you know . . . all this God and Jesus stuff. But it’s not me. I’ve thought it over, and it’s just not me. I’m sorry.’

  ‘There’s no need to apologise. It’s like apologising to gravity or light. God is just there, whether we acknowledge him or not.’

  She shook her head and ate some more. ‘For a second there I thought you were comparing yourself to the forces of gravity or light.’

  He winced. ‘Sometimes I don’t express myself very well. I’m just . . . I’m going through . . . ’ The awareness of Bea’s anger coursed through his system like an infection. He thought he might faint from it. ‘I have problems like anyone else.’

  ‘I hope they get resolved,’ said Maneely. ‘You’re a good guy.’

  ‘I don’t feel so good right now.’

  She blessed him with a sisterly smile. ‘Hey, you’ll feel better soon. It’s all perceptual. Chemical, even. Feeling down, feeling up, it’s a cycle. You wake up one morning and the whole thing looks different. Trust me.’

  ‘I appreciate your encouragement,’ said Peter. ‘But addressing problems that need to be addressed isn’t a matter of . . . you can’t be that passive. We have responsibilities. We’ve got to try to make things better.’

  Maneely slurped the last of her soy and shoved the glass to one side. ‘This is about home, right?’

  ‘Home?’ Peter swallowed hard.

  ‘When I get stressed about stuff that’s out of my control,’ Maneely counselled him, ‘I often remember an ancient poem. It’s, like, thousands of years old. It goes: Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.’

  ‘Written by a guy called Reinhold Niebuhr,’ Peter said. ‘Except that he actually wrote “God grant”.’

  ‘Well, maybe, but it works just as well without.’ Her gaze was level, seeing right through his pedantry. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about home, Peter. This is home now.’

  ‘I’m going back soon,’ he protested.

  She shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  He spent the next couple of hours walking outside, circling the compound. He considered walking all the way to the Oasan settlement. How long would that take him? Weeks, probably. It was a mad idea, mad. He needed to be here to receive Bea’s next message. She would be asleep now. She would be asleep for hours yet. They should be sleeping together. Being apart was wrong. Simply lying side by side did more for a relationship than words. A warm bed, a nest of animal intimacy. Words could be misunderstood, whereas loving companionship bred trust.

  He returned to his quarters, worked on Bible paraphrases, and moped. Waves of hunger plagued him, interspersed with the urge to vomit. More hours passed. Finally, after having checked the Shoot in vain at least a hundred times, he was put out of his misery:

  Dear Peter,

  No time to write a long letter as I’m about to go to a funeral but I am still very distraught and exasperated with you. Am making a special effort however to check my spelling so that you don’t accuse me of being drunk. Actually I’d just about recovered from that one when hey presto, you suggest I become an unemployed rural housewife!

  Sorry, I know sarcasm is unhelpful.

  I’ll write again when I’m back from the funeral. Although I may have to spend some time with Sheila first. She’s going through hell.

  I do love you, insane as you are,

  Bea

  At once he responded:

  Dear Bea,

  It lifted my spirits so much to hear (read) you say that you love me. I’ve barely been able to function all day for grief at the trouble between us. You are so much more important to me than my mission.

  Although you don’t say so in so many words, it’s obvious from your message that Billy Frame committed suicide after all, despite the concern we all felt for him and your recent efforts to offer him support. I can still picture him the way he was when he was a little kid and he was beaming with pride at the wall hanging he and the other children made for us. How awful for Sheila. I can only imagine how stressed you must be by all of this. The fact that you used the word ‘Hell’ to denote something other than eternal separation from God speaks volumes.

  I’m sorry you interpreted my suggestions about moving to the country as a plot to turn you into an unemployed rural housewife. I’m sure there will be jobs out there – probably even nursing jobs, less horrible ones (probably) than what you have now. Nor am I suggesting that I’ll spend all day chopping wood or growing vegetables (even though I’ve become quite a happy fieldworker out here). There may be a church that needs a pastor. But whatever work opportunities there are (or aren’t), we should leave it in the hands of the Lord.

  I’m deeply sorry about the thoughtless way I have spoken about Grainger and Maneely. Yes, they are females but my role in their lives is strictly pastoral – or would be if they were open to the Lord’s grace, which they don’t seem to be. Maneely has just told me in no uncertain terms that she is not interested.

  Words are my profession but I don’t always use them wisely, nor are they always the best way of getting things across. I wish I could just hold you and reassure you. I’ve let you down in the past, in worse ways than I’m doing now, and we got through it together because we love each other. That love is based on communication but it’s also based on something that’s almost impossible to describe, a sense of rightness when we’re in each other’s company, a sense we only connect with when we’re with other people who aren’t right for us. I am missing you so much, darling.

  All my love,

  Peter

  ‘What you want won’t be easy to arrange,’ Grainger told him shortly afterwards.

  ‘But possible?’

  The simplemindedness of the question irked her. ‘Everything’s possible if you throw enough labour and resources at it.’

  ‘I don’t want to cause havoc for USIC,’ he said, ‘but this is very important to me.’

  ‘Why not just come back to base at shorter intervals? You might be in better shape if you did.’

  ‘It wouldn’t work. The Oasans live at their own pace. I need to be among them, share in their routines. I can’t just drop in and then get whisked away all the time. But if I had a Shoot out there . . . ’

  ‘ . . . we might never see you again.’

  ‘Please. My wife needs my support. I’m missing her. And maybe whatever you’d have to build to make the Shoot work would come in useful for some other purpose. Once it was there.’

  She narrowed her eyes. He realised belatedly that he hadn’t asked her how she was or made any pleasantries before hitting her with this demand.

  ‘I’ll see what we can do,’ she said.

  Dear Peter, he read as soon as he got back.

  I wish you had offered to come home instead of reminding me how much money we stand to make if you stay. Yes, I know that it was tremendously laborious and expensive for USIC to invite you. If you’d offered to leave now I probably would have argued you out of it. But it would have been nice to think that you felt enough concern to co
nsider it as a possibility, which you plainly didn’t. It’s clear you are 100% determined to serve out your time. I understand: it’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance.

  Your urgings for us to move to the countryside have stirred up my emotions because it’s only natural for someone in my position to wish desperately that we could just escape all the fiascos and start afresh in idyllic surroundings. But then my common sense kicks in and I’m exasperated with you. Do you have any idea what the countryside is really like? Do you ever read newspapers? (Rhetorical question – I know I’m the one with that sordid habit.) The countryside is a wasteland of decaying factories, bankrupt farms, long-term unemployed, ugly supermarkets and charity shops. (Hey, I wonder if the supermarkets have unsold reserves of chocolate desserts? Now there’s an incentive . . .) The money you’ll be paid for your USIC appointment is substantial but it’s not a fortune and a fortune is what we’d need to set ourselves up. There are still picturesque, safe, middle-class bits of rural Britain where I’m sure our child would have a nicer start than here in the city but they come at a very steep price. If our child was dumped in some godforsaken town where half the population is alcoholic or on drugs, and the schools are full of low achievers and social work cases, we’ll be no better off. You say, leave it in the hands of the Lord, but whose decision would it be to move in the first place? Yours.