The Book of Strange New Things

by Michel Faber

  But his back was getting sore from the unfamiliar position; muscles he seldom used were under strain. If he didn’t break the embrace soon, he would lose his balance. The arm which was now laid supportively around her midriff would suddenly bear down on her with his body’s weight.

  ‘Tell me a bit about your dad,’ he said.

  She shifted back in the chair, allowing him to move away without appearing to have done so deliberately, just as he’d hoped. A glance confirmed that the weeping hadn’t done her any good – her face was blotched, puffy and unfeminine, and she knew it. He looked gallantly askance while she dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve, pecked at her hair with her fingers, and generally tried to compose herself.

  ‘I don’t know much about my dad,’ she said. ‘I haven’t seen him since my mom died. That was twenty-five years ago. I was fifteen.’

  Peter did the maths. It wasn’t the right time for a compliment, but Grainger looked much younger than forty. Even after a bout of crying.

  ‘But you know he’s sick?’ he prompted. ‘You told me he was going to die soon.’

  ‘I guess. He’s an old man now. I shouldn’t care. He’s had his time.’ She fidgeted with a phantom pack of cigarettes again. ‘But he’s my dad.’

  ‘If you haven’t had contact for so long, isn’t it possible he’s passed away already? Or maybe he’s living in retirement somewhere, enjoying a healthy, happy old age.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’ She shot him a mistrustful look, then softened, as though willing to give him another chance. ‘Do you ever get intuitions?’

  ‘Intuitions?’

  ‘When you get a feeling about something, something you’re sure is happening right at that instant, and there’s no way you can technically know it, but you just know it. And then a little while later, you find out . . . you get absolute proof, from somebody else maybe, some eyewitness, that what you thought was happening really did happen, exactly when you thought of it, in exactly the way you pictured it. Like it was being beamed straight into your brain.’

  He held her gaze, resisting the reflex urge to nod. There seemed no acceptable response to her question except to agree and start swapping anecdotes about uncanny hunches that had been proved true. The thing was, he’d never had much interest in psychic phenomena, and he and Bea had often noted that the sort of people who were most deeply enthralled by the science of the supernatural were also least able to spot the glaringly obvious reasons why their own lives were in chaos. He couldn’t say that to Grainger, of course. He was just about to say something diplomatic about how faith was a bit like an intuition that didn’t depend on rare coincidences, when she pressed on:

  ‘Anyway, a few months ago I got this intuition about my dad. I saw him in my mind. He was being wheeled down the corridor of a hospital, on a trolley, real fast, by a bunch of medics who were like, “Gangway!” It was so clear, it was like I was running along behind. He was conscious but confused, his arm was attached to an IV drip but he was fumbling around for the pocket of his pants, looking for his wallet. “I can pay, I can pay!” He knew he was in deep shit and he was terrified he’d be refused treatment. His face . . . it wasn’t like I remembered, it was unrecognisable, he looked like an old bum that they just scooped off the street. But I knew he was my dad.’

  ‘And have you had any other . . . intuitions about him since then?’

  She closed her eyes, tired out by revisiting her clairvoyance, or by her intimacy with him. ‘I think he’s hanging in there.’ She didn’t sound at all sure.

  ‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘I’m praying for him.’

  ‘Even though it makes no difference to the shaper of galaxies, huh?’

  ‘Grainger . . . ’ he began, but the formality of the surname suddenly exasperated him. ‘Can’t I call you Alex? Or Alexandra, if that’s what it’s short for?’

  She froze as if he had just put his hand between her legs. ‘How did you . . . ?’

  ‘You wrote to my wife. Remember?’

  She considered it for a moment. ‘Stick to Grainger,’ she said, but not coldly. And then, when he looked perplexed, she elaborated: ‘Surnames just work better here. I guess it reminds us that we’ve all got jobs to do.’

  He sensed she was finished with the encounter. She had got from it, or failed to get from it, whatever she’d come for. He only wished he’d had the chance to explain more fully how prayer worked. That it wasn’t a matter of asking for things and being accepted or rejected, it was a matter of adding one’s energy – insignificant in itself – to the vastly greater energy that was God’s love. In fact, it was an affirmation of being part of God, an aspect of His spirit temporarily housed inside a body. A miracle similar, in principle, to the one that had given human form to Jesus.

  ‘Spoken like a trouper,’ he said. ‘But tell me, Grainger: what do you think my job is?’ He was thinking that maybe the conversation could still be steered back into the waters of faith.

  ‘Keeping the Oasans happy,’ she said, ‘so they keep helping us set up this place. Or at least so they don’t get in the way.’

  ‘That and nothing else?’

  She shrugged. ‘Making Springer’s day by taking an interest in his gross collection of knitted cushion covers.’

  ‘Hey, he’s a lovely guy,’ protested Peter. ‘So friendly.’

  Grainger stood up to leave. ‘Of course he is, of course he is. Friendlyfriendlyfriendly. We’re all friendly, aren’t we? Pussycats, as Tuska says.’ She paused for effect, then, in a clear, serenely dismissive voice that chilled him to his soul: ‘Fucked-up pussycats. With their balls cut off.’

  A few minutes later, alone and ill-at-ease, Peter resumed his letter to Bea.

  As for sexual harassment, there doesn’t seem to be any of that either.

  He stared at the screen for a while, trying to decide where to go from here. He felt compassion for Grainger, certainly, and wanted to help her, but he had to admit that wrestling with her troubled spirit had drained him. Strange, because in his ministry back home he was exposed to troubled spirits every day, and it never tired him at all: indeed, he’d always be energised by the thought that this encounter he was having with an angrily defensive soul might lead to a breakthrough. It could happen anytime. You could never predict the moment when a person would finally be able to see that they’d been rejecting their own Creator, fighting against Love itself. For years they blundered and stumbled through life wearing cumbersome armour that was supposed to protect them, and then one day they saw it for the chafing, imprisoning, useless baggage it was, and cast it off, allowing Jesus to enter them. Those moments made everything worthwhile.

  I’ve just spent some time with Grainger, he wrote, figuring he should share the experience with Bea while it was still fresh. Who, contrary to what you assumed in one of your messages, is a woman. She won’t let me call her by her first name, though. Nobody here does. Even the ones who are very friendly prefer to stick to surnames.

  Anyway, Grainger is by far the most vulnerable person I’ve met at the USIC base. She can be in a fine mood one second and then suddenly it’s as if you’ve pressed the wrong button and she changes in a flash. Not nasty, just irritable or withdrawn. But she opened up more today than she has on previous occasions. She’s harbouring some deep, unresolved hurts, and it would take a very long time to get to the bottom of them, no doubt about that. It’s a wonder she was selected for this team, actually. She must have come across more grounded and easy-going during the interviews than she does now. Or maybe she really WAS more grounded at the time. There are times of our lives when we feel indestructible even though quite a lot of things are going wrong, and other times when everything is going well yet we feel anxious and fragile from the moment we wake up. Not even the most steadfast Christian is immune to the mysteries of equilibrium. Anyway, Grainger’s main source of grief seems to be a difficult relationship with her father, who she hasn’t seen in 25 years. I’m sure you can relate
to that! In fact, I’m sure you would be the ideal person to discuss these things with her, if only you were here.

  Speaking of which, I found out the real reason why you are NOT here. A few hours ago I met

  In the pause while he searched his brain for Doctor Austin’s name, he recalled that he’d already written about this at the beginning of the message, before Grainger interrupted him. He deleted the redundant words, feeling more tired every second.

  I’m going to say goodbye and send this letter now. It was hanging around unfinished all the time that Grainger was here and I’m ashamed that I’ve kept you waiting so long between responses. You are right to chide me for my perfectionism. I’m going to do better from now on! (Joke) Speed up my responses. Send this one flying towards you while I’m working on the next one.

  Love,

  Peter.

  True to his word, he sent the message, then opened up another of Bea’s letters and refamiliarised himself with its contents. This time, he let go the idea that he must dutifully address each and every point she raised. She didn’t need that. What she needed was two simple things: an acknowledgement that he’d read her letter, and some sort of message from him in return. His eyes lit upon the part where she described the almost-healed wound on her hand: ‘pale and pink and a bit waxy from the swaddling, but looking good!’ Immediately he began to compose a letter of his own.

  Dear Bea,

  I’m so happy to hear that your hand is healing so well. I was horrified to hear you’d hurt yourself and this is a great relief. Please don’t be in a hurry to go back to work. You need to be fully well in order to take care of others. Plus there are lots of bugs lurking around in the hospital, as you know – and I’m not just referring to

  He pondered for a minute or two, to recall another name that eluded him, but it wasn’t retrievable, despite the fact that he and Bea had mentioned this person every day, probably, for the last two years.

  your paranoid colleague with the curly hair.

  Despite making good progress here, I’m missing you and wishing you were with me. Upset that you were disqualified. For my own selfish sake, of course, but also considering the bigger picture. Whatever USIC’s criteria were, they made a big mistake. Someone like you is exactly what’s missing here. The whole set-up feels . . . how can I put this? Quite overwhelmingly (overweeningly?) male. I mean, there are plenty of women around, but they don’t make much difference to the prevailing atmosphere, the esprit de corps, if you like. It’s a kind of camaraderie that you associate with the armed forces or maybe a major construction project (which I suppose it is). The women don’t rock the boat, they don’t try to feminise the place, they just adjust their natures to fit in.

  Maybe that’s an unfair generalisation. After all, women shouldn’t have to conform to preconceptions of femaleness I have in my head. But even so, I must admit that this base is not an environment I feel comfortable in, and I can’t help thinking that it would be hugely improved if there could be a few women like you added to the mix.

  That’s not to suggest that there are lots of women like you in the world! Of course there is only one.

  As for gender politics amongst the Oasans, that’s a tricky proposition. I still haven’t got to the bottom of their sexes, yet – they don’t understand my questions on that score and I don’t understand their answers! From what I’ve observed, they don’t have genitals where you’d expect. They do have children – not very frequently, I gather, but it does happen, so some of my Jesus Lovers are mothers. I wouldn’t say that the ones that are mothers behave more maternally than the ones who aren’t. They’re ALL quite nurturing and connected. In their own way. I’ve grown very fond of them. I think you would, too, if you could have shared this adventure with me.

  Another thing I should say about them is that they’re very kind. Very caring. It’s not evident at first, and then it dawns on you. During our most recent gathering in the church, we were all singing, and suddenly one of the paintings fell off the ceiling (not fastened securely enough – it’s difficult when you’re not allowed to use nails, screws or other sharp objects!). The painting fell right onto Jesus Lover Five’s hand. We all got a big fright. Fortunately the painting wasn’t very heavy and Lover Five was OK – nothing broken, just a bruise. But the way the others rallied round her was extraordinary. They each took turns to embrace and stroke her with the utmost tenderness. I have never seen such an outpouring of communal love and concern. She went very shy – and she’s usually quite verbal! She’s my favourite.

  Again he paused. This praising of other females – human or otherwise – was perhaps not so diplomatic, if his own wife was feeling insecure. He and Bea had always had the sort of relationship where either of them could feel free to comment on the admirable points of anyone, regardless of gender, confident that their own relationship was rock-solid and inviolable. But even so . . . He deleted ‘my favourite’ and wrote:

  the one I communicate with best.

  There was still something not quite right there.

  But of course none of this matters as much to me as our rare and precious relationship, he wrote. I had such a vivid memory of our wedding not long ago. And your wedding dress, and how you wore it in the years since.

  Please write again soon. I know you’ve written a lot already and I’ve been very lax in responding, but it doesn’t mean I don’t value the contact from you. I do miss you terribly. And I’m sorry I gave you the impression that certain topics are out of bounds. Write about anything you like, darling. I’m your husband. We have to be there for each other.

  Love,

  Peter

  The words were sincere but felt a little forced. That is, he would have spoken them spontaneously if Bea had been cradled in his arms, her head nestled under his shoulder, but . . . Typing them onto a screen and sending them into space was a different thing. It changed the colour and tone of the sentiments, the way a cheaply photocopied photograph loses warmth and detail. His love for his wife was being cartoonised and he lacked what it took to display it as the vividly figurative painting it should be.

  He opened a third letter of Bea’s, intending to fire off a third reply, but even as he read ‘Dear Peter’ and anticipated typing ‘Dear Bea’, he worried that she might think he was trying to earn Brownie points. Worried, too, that it might be true. He scanned her message, a long one. There was something in the second paragraph about a bunch of mail that had arrived recently, including a letter from the council urging him to re-register on the electoral roll. A form to be filled in because ‘your situation has changed’. How did they know? Bea couldn’t figure out if this was just a more aggressive kind of routine canvassing or a real threat that might have actual consequences. But what was he supposed to do about it? And what did it matter? Did she think he was anxious not to lose the right to vote in the next elections? In case the wrong faceless bureaucrat got in? Why was she telling him this?

  Write about anything you like, darling, he’d just told her. He might as well have added: Except the stuff I don’t want to deal with.

  He swung off his chair, knelt on the floor, clasped his hands between his knees and prayed.

  ‘Lord, please help me. I’m tired and confused, and the challenges I’m facing feel beyond my powers just now. Give me strength and clarity of purpose and . . . poise. My wonderful Bea is lonely and hassled: grant her energy and focus too. Thank You, Lord, for healing her hand. Thank You, also, for revealing Yourself to Jesus Lover Fourteen in her hour of need. She’ll be all right now, I hope. I pray for Jesus Lover Thirty-Seven, whose brother still rejects him for his faith in You. Give him comfort. I pray that in the fullness of time, his brother may come to us too. Please sharpen my thoughts and perceptions when I’m next dealing with Jesus Lover Eight. There’s something he wants from me that he’s too shy to say and I’m too stupid to guess. I pray for Sheila, Rachel and Billy Frame – especially Billy as he continues to struggle with his parents’ divorce. I pray for Ray Sherwood a
s his Parkinson’s gets worse.’

  He faltered. Maybe Ray was dead by now. It had been a long time since he’d had any news. Ray and his Parkinson’s had been a recurring feature in his prayers for years, for no better reason than it seemed callous to cease praying for him just because they’d lost touch. Besides, Peter still cared. Ray’s face, smiling but tinged with fear at the grim future he and his treacherous body were heading into, manifested clearly in his memory.

  ‘I pray for Charlie Grainger,’ he went on. ‘I pray he may see his daughter again one day. I pray for Grainger. I sense she’s in danger of being poisoned by bitterness. And Tuska: a lifetime of disillusionment has given him a hard skin. Soften his skin, Lord, if it be your will. I pray for Maneely. I pray that the moment when she glimpsed her need for You may prove to be more than just a fleeting impulse. Please may it strengthen into a serious search for Christ. I pray for Coretta, who named this place and had such hopes that her life would get better rather than worse. Make her life better, Lord.’

  His stomach was rumbling. But he knew that he’d not yet given God the naked sincerity He deserved. If he left his prayer at this point, there would be something practised, even slightly glib about it. ‘I pray for the people of the Maldives and North Korea and . . . uh . . . Guatemala. They’re not real to me as individuals, and I’m so ashamed of that. But they’re real to You. Forgive me for, Lord, for the smallness and selfishness of my mind. Amen.’

  Unsatisfied still, he reached for his Bible and opened it at random, allowing God to decide which page would come under his eye. He’d done this thousands of times, probably wearing out the spines of several Bibles. Today, the page chosen by the Almighty was 1267, and the first words Peter saw were: ‘Do the work of an evangelist, make full proof of thy ministry.’ It was Paul’s exhortation to Timothy in 68 AD, but it was also God’s advice to Peter right now. Full proof of his ministry? What was full proof? Wasn’t he already doing as much as he could? Evidently not, or God wouldn’t have directed his gaze to these verses. But what else should or could he do? He scanned the rest of the page for clues. The word ‘learn’ recurred several times. He glanced across at page 1266. Another verse leapt out at him: ‘Study to shew thyself approved unto God.’ Study? Study the Bible? He’d devoted endless hours to that. So . . . what was God telling him to study?