by Michel Faber
He seldom looked in mirrors. In his daily routine at home, he acted on the assumption that after he’d showered, shaved and pulled a comb through his hair (straight back across the scalp, no styling), there was no way a mirror could help improve his appearance further. During the years when he was permanently wasted on booze and drugs, he’d begun many mornings examining his reflection, assessing the damage from the night before: cuts, bruises, bloodshot eyeballs, jaundice, purple lips. Since he’d straightened out, there was no need; he could trust that nothing drastic had happened to him since he’d last checked. He would notice the length of his hair only when it started to fall in his eyes, whereupon he would ask Bea to cut it for him; he was only reminded of the deep scar between his eyebrows when she’d stroke it tenderly with her fingers after lovemaking, frowning in concern as though she’d noticed for the first time that he was injured. The shape of his chin only became real to him when he was nestling it in the soft hollow of her shoulder. His neck materialised inside her palm.
He missed her. God, how he missed her.
The weather is dry just now, he typed. I’m told it will be dry for the next ten hours, then it will rain for several hours, then be dry again for ten hours, then rain, etc. All very reliable. The sun is very warm, but not scorching. There are some insects but they don’t bite. I’ve just had a proper meal. Lentil stew and pitta bread. Very filling, if a bit on the stodgy side. The pitta bread was made from local flowers. The lentils were imported, I think. Then I had a chocolate pudding that wasn’t really chocolate. I wonder if it would have passed muster with you, given your highly developed tastes in that area! It tasted fine to me. Maybe the chocolate was real but the pudding was made of something else – yes, that’s it.
He stood up from the table and walked over to the window, allowing the warm light to blaze on his skin. He was aware that the tinted-glass rectangle, big as it was, showed only a tiny fraction of the sky out there, yet even this circumscribed portion was too big to take in at once and suffused with an indescribable variety of subtle colours. Bea, receiving his missives, would be gazing at a glassy rectangle too. She would see nothing of what he saw, not even his ghostly reflection. Only his words. With each inadequate message, her view of him got fainter and foggier. She had no choice but to imagine him in a void, with odd details floating around him like space debris: a plastic ice-cube tray, a glass of green water, a bowl of lentil stew.
My dear Bea, I want you. I wish you were standing here with me, with the light and warmth of the sun on your naked skin, and my arm around your waist, my fingers cradling your ribcage. I’m ready for you. I wish you could verify how ready! If I close my eyes, I can almost feel my chest settling against your breastbone, your legs wrapping themselves around me, welcoming me home.
There is so little said in the New Testament about sexual love, and most of it consists of Paul heaving a deep sigh and tolerating it like a weakness. But I feel certain Jesus didn’t see it that way. It was He who talked of two lovers becoming one flesh. It was He who showed compassion to prostitutes and adulterers. If He could feel that way towards people who misused sexual desire, why would He be disappointed if they were happily married instead? It’s significant that the only miracle He ever performed for ‘non-emergency’ reasons, but just because He wanted to cheer people up, was at a wedding. We even know He had no problem with being caressed by a female, or He wouldn’t have allowed the woman in Luke 7 to kiss His feet and wipe them with her hair. (That’s as sexy as anything in Song of Solomon!) How did His face look, I wonder, while she was doing it? An old-fashioned religious painting would no doubt depict Him staring stonily ahead, ignoring her as if nothing was going on. But Jesus didn’t ignore people. He was tender and solicitous towards them. He wouldn’t have made her feel like a fool.
I know John says, ‘Love not the world, nor the things of the world. For all that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, and the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but of the world. And the world passeth away, and the lust thereof: but he that doeth the will of God abideth forever.’ But that’s a different point, a point about ALL the mundane stuff we concern ourselves with, all the baggage of being physical beings. And I think John is being too harsh on people. He assumed the Second Coming would happen in his own lifetime – it might come any day, maybe tomorrow afternoon, certainly not centuries in the future. All the early Christians thought that, and it made them intolerant of any activity that wasn’t urgently focused on Heaven. But Jesus understood – God understands – that people have a whole life to live before they die. They have friends and family and jobs, and children to give birth to and raise, and lovers to cherish.
My dear, sexy, wonderful wife, I know you are with me in spirit, but I’m feeling sad that your body is so far away. I hope that when you read this, it will be after a long, refreshing night’s sleep full of good dreams (and undisturbed by Joshua!). In a few hours or days from now, my desire to hold you will still be unfulfilled, but I hope to be the bearer of some glad tidings on another front.
Love,
Peter
Grainger emerged from her vehicle blinking, ready for their rendezvous. She hadn’t changed her clothes – still the same cotton top and slacks, a bit crumpled by now. Her headscarf was inelegantly slung around her neck, speckled with water-drops from her hair, which stuck up from her scalp like the fur of a rain-drenched cat. He wondered if an alarm clock had jolted her from a deep sleep and she’d only had time to splash a few handfuls of water on her face. Maybe it was insensitive to oblige her to drive him again so soon. But when they’d parted, she’d emphasised that she was at his disposal.
‘I’m sorry if this is inconvenient,’ he said. He was standing in the shade of USIC’s accommodation wing, just outside the exit door nearest his own quarters. His rucksack hung on his back, already slippery with sweat.
‘It’s not inconvenient,’ she said. Her damp hair, exposed to the attentive air, began to emit faint, spidery plumes of steam. ‘And I’m sorry I was grouchy on the way back this morning. The sight of religious passion always freaks me out.’
‘I’ll try not to be too passionate this time.’
‘I meant the alien,’ she said, pronouncing the word without any sign of having taken Peter’s little lecture to heart.
‘He didn’t mean to unnerve you, obviously.’
She shrugged. ‘They give me the creeps. Always. Even when they keep real quiet and don’t get too close.’
He ventured out of the shade and she stepped aside, away from the vehicle, allowing him access to the trunk, which she’d swung open for him. The engine was purring in readiness.
‘You think they mean you harm?’ he said.
‘No, it’s just the sight of them,’ she said, turning her head towards the horizon. ‘You try and look at their face and it’s like staring into a pile of entrails.’
‘I thought of foetuses myself.’
She shuddered. ‘Puh-lease.’
‘Well,’ he said cheerily, stepping up to the vehicle, ‘that’s us off on the wrong foot again.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he observed Grainger sizing up his rucksack as he unhitched it from his shoulders. She did a slight double-take as she registered that it was his only luggage.
‘You look as if you’re going hill-walking. Your little knapsack on your back.’
He grinned as he tossed the bag into the trunk.
‘Val-de-reee!’ he sang in a mock-operatic baritone. ‘Val-de-raa! Val-de-reee! Val-de-ra-ha-ha-ha-ha . . . ’
‘Now you’re making fun of one of my idols,’ she said, placing her fists on her hips.
‘Sorry?’
‘Bing Crosby.’
Peter looked at her in bemusement. The sun was still quite near the horizon, and Grainger was silhouetted in front of it, the crooks of her arms framing triangles of rosy light. ‘Uh . . . ’ he said. ‘Did Bing Crosby sing “The Happy Wanderer” too?’
‘I thought it was his
song,’ she said.
‘It’s an ancient German folk tune,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know that,’ she said. ‘I thought it was a Bing number. It was all over the airwaves last year.’
He scratched the back of his head, taking pleasure in the bizarreness of everything today: the endless sky with its outsize sun, the playground under the gazebo, his strange new parishioners waiting for another taste of the Gospel, and this dispute over the authorship of ‘The Happy Wanderer’. The air took advantage of his raised arm to find different entry points into his clothing. Tendrils of atmosphere licked him between his sweaty shoulderblades, twirled around his nipples, counted his ribs.
‘I didn’t know Bing Crosby was back in fashion,’ he said.
‘Those artists are beyond fashion,’ declared Grainger, with undisguised fervour. ‘Nobody wants mindless dance music anymore, or cheap, sleazy rock.’ She imitated an arrogant rock star striking a chord on his phallic guitar. Disdainful though the gesture was, Peter found it attractive: her thin arm, slamming against the invisible guitar strings, pushed her bosom out, reminding him how soft and malleable the flesh of a woman’s breast was. ‘People have had enough of all that,’ she said. ‘They want something with class, something that’s stood the test of time.’
‘I’m all for that,’ he said.
Once they were safely sealed inside the vehicle and driving into the wilderness, Peter raised the issue of communication again.
‘You wrote to my wife,’ he said.
‘Yes, I sent her a courtesy message. To let her know you’d arrived safely.’
‘Thank you. I’ve been writing to her myself, whenever I can.’
‘That’s sweet,’ she said. Her eyes were on the featureless brown horizon.
‘You’re sure there’s no possibility of organising a Shoot for me in the Oasan settlement?’
‘I told you, they don’t have electricity.’
‘Couldn’t a Shoot run on batteries?’
‘Sure it could. You can write on it anywhere. You can write a whole book if you want. But to actually send a message, you need more than a machine that lights up when you switch it on. You need a connection to the USIC system.’
‘Isn’t there a . . . I’m not sure what to call it . . . a relay? A signal tower?’ Even as he uttered the words they sounded foolish. The territory stretching into the distance ahead was stark and empty.
‘Nope,’ she replied. ‘We never needed anything like that. You’ve got to remember that the original settlement was right near the base.’
Peter sighed, leaned his head hard back against the seat. ‘I’m going to miss communicating with Bea,’ he said, half to himself.
‘Nobody’s insisting you go and live with these . . . people,’ Grainger reminded him. ‘That’s your choice.’
He kept silent, but his unspoken objection might as well have written itself on the windscreen in front of them in big red letters: GOD DECIDES THESE THINGS.
‘I enjoy driving,’ added Grainger after a minute or two. ‘It relaxes me. I could’ve driven you there and back every twelve hours, easy.’
He nodded.
‘You could’ve had daily contact with your wife,’ she carried on. ‘You could’ve had a shower, a meal . . . ’
‘I’m sure these people won’t let me starve or get filthy,’ he said. ‘The one who came out to meet us looked clean enough to me.’
‘Suit yourself,’ she said, and revved the accelerator. They jumped forwards with a gentle whiplash effect, and a quantity of damp earth was thrown up behind them.
‘I’m not suiting myself,’ he said. ‘Suiting myself would mean taking you up on your generous offer. I have to consider what’s best for these people.’
‘God knows,’ she muttered, then, realising what she’d just said, graced him with a big self-conscious smile.
The landscape was no more colourful or varied now that the sun had fully risen, but it had its own sober beauty, in common with all endless vistas of the same substance, whether it be sea, sky or desert. There were no mountains or hills, but the topography had gentle gradients, patterned with ripples similar to those in wind-swept deserts. The mushroom-like blossoms – whiteflower, he supposed – glowed brilliant.
‘It’s a lovely day,’ he said.
‘Uh-huh,’ said Grainger, matter-of-fact.
The sky’s colour was elusive; the gradations were too subtle for the eye to discern. There were no clouds, although occasionally a patch of air would shimmer and become slightly blurry for a few seconds, before shivering back into transparency. The first few times Peter observed this phenomenon, he stared intently, straining to understand it, or perhaps appreciate it. But it just made him feel as though his eyes were defective, and he quickly learned to shift his gaze elsewhere whenever the blurring began to occur. The roadless earth, dark and moist and sprinkled with pale blooms, was the most restful sight. Your eyes could just relax on it.
Overall, though, he had to admit that the scenery here was less beautiful than he’d seen in, well, quite a few other places. He had expected mind-boggling landscapes, canyons shrouded in swirling mists, tropical swamps teeming with exotic new wildlife. It suddenly occurred to him that this world might be quite a dowdy one compared to his own. And the poignancy of that thought made him feel a rush of love for the people who lived here and knew no better.
‘Hey, I’ve just realised!’ he said to Grainger. ‘I haven’t seen any animals. Just a few bugs.’
‘Yeah, it’s kind of . . . low diversity here,’ she said. ‘Not much scope for a zoo.’
‘It’s a big world. Maybe we’re just on a sparse little bit of it.’
She nodded. ‘Whenever I go to C-2, I could swear there’s more bugs there than at the base. Also, there’s supposed to be some birds. I’ve never seen them myself. But Tartaglione used to hang around C-2 all the time, and he told me he saw birds once. Maybe it was a hallucination. Living in the wilderness can do scary things to the brain.’
‘I’ll try to keep my brain in reasonable condition,’ he promised. ‘But seriously, what do you think really happened to him? And to Kurtzberg?’
‘No idea,’ she said. ‘Both of them just went AWOL.’
‘How do you know they’re not dead?’
She shrugged. ‘They didn’t vanish overnight. It was kinda gradual. They would come back to the base less and less often. They became . . . distant. Didn’t want to stick around. Tartaglione used to be a real gregarious guy. Blabbermouth maybe, but I liked him. Kurtzberg was friendly too. An army chaplain. He used to reminisce to me about his wife; he was one of those sentimental old widowers who never remarry. Forty years ago was only yesterday for him, it was like she’d never died. Like she was just slow getting dressed, she’d be along any minute. Kind of sad, but so romantic.’
Observing a wistful glow transfiguring her face, Peter felt a pang of jealousy. Childish as it might be, he wanted Grainger to admire him as much as she’d admired Kurtzberg. Or more.
‘How did you find him as a pastor?’ he asked.
‘Find him?’
‘What was he like? As a minister?’
‘I wouldn’t know. He was here from the beginning, before my time. He . . . counselled the personnel who were having problems adjusting. In the early days, there were people who didn’t really belong here. I guess Kurtzberg tried to talk them through it. But it was no use, they bailed out anyway. So USIC tightened up the screening process. Cut the wastage.’ The wistful glow was gone; her face was neutral again.
‘He must have felt like a failure,’ suggested Peter.
‘He didn’t come across that way. He was the chirpy type. And he got a boost when Tartaglione came. The two of them really got along, they were a team. They were a hit with the aliens, the natives, whatever you want to call them. Making big progress. The natives were learning English, Tartaglione was learning . . . whatever.’ A couple of insects flew against the windscreen, their bodies disintegrating on impact. Brow
n juice scrawled across the glass. ‘And then something came over them.’
‘Maybe they caught some sort of disease?’
‘I don’t know. I’m a pharmacist, not a doctor.’
‘Speaking of which . . . ’ said Peter. ‘Have you got some more drugs to give the Oasans?’
She frowned. ‘No, I didn’t have time to raid the pharmacy. You need clearance for stuff like that.’
‘Stuff like morphine?’
She drew a deep breath. ‘It’s not what you think.’
‘I haven’t told you what I think.’
‘You think we’re handing out narcotics here. It’s not like that. The drugs we give them are medicines. Antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, simple analgesics. I’m confident they’re being used for the correct purpose.’
‘I wasn’t accusing you of anything,’ he said. ‘I’m just trying to get a handle on what these people have and don’t have. They don’t have hospitals, then?’
‘I guess not. Technology isn’t their forte.’ She pronounced it ‘for-tay’, with almost mocking exaggeration, the way Americans tended to when quoting French.
‘So they’re primitives, would you say?’
She shrugged. ‘I guess.’
He leaned his head back again and reviewed what he knew about his flock so far. He had only met one of them, which was a small sample by any standards. That person had worn a robe and cowl which looked as though it was probably hand-made. His gloves and boots . . .? Again, probably hand-made, albeit to a sophisticated standard. You’d need a machine to sew leather so neatly, surely? Or perhaps just very strong fingers.
He recalled the architecture of the settlement. Complexity-wise, it was in a class above mud huts or dolmens, but it was hardly high-tech manufacture. He could imagine each stone being fashioned by hand, baked in rudimentary ovens, hauled into place by sheer human – or inhuman – effort. Maybe, inside the buildings, undiscovered by the likes of Grainger, there were all sorts of mechanical marvels. Or maybe not. But one thing was certain: there was no electricity, and there would be nowhere to plug in a Shoot.
