The Book of Strange New Things

by Michel Faber

  ‘You brought a cat here?’ the other man marvelled. ‘USIC’s allowing pets now?’

  ‘No, it was . . . it happened at home.’

  Tartaglione patted Peter’s knee. ‘Now, now. Be a good little camper, don’t lose Brownie points. Don’t use the H-word. The H-word is verboten! È finito! Distrutto! Non esiste!’

  The linguist was making theatrical motions with his palms, shoving the word home back into its gopher-hole each time it popped up. Peter suddenly hated him, this poor crazy bastard, yes, he hated him. He closed his eyes tight and opened them again, and was bitterly disappointed that Tartaglione was still there, that the darkness and the alcohol stink were still there, when what should be there when he opened his eyes was the place he should never have left, his own space, his own stuff, Bea. He moaned in grief. ‘I miss my wife.’

  ‘None of that! None of that!’ Tartaglione sprang up, waving his arms about. His bare feet thumped a mad rhythm on the floor, and he emitted a bizarre ‘sh!-sh!-sh!-sh!’ as he danced. The effort of it triggered an extended burst of coughing. Peter imagined loose fragments of lung swirling in the air like nuptial confetti.

  ‘Of course you miss your wife,’ muttered Tartaglione when he’d calmed down slightly. ‘You miss every damn thing. You could fill a book with all the things you miss. You miss dandelions, you miss bananas, you miss mountains and dragonflies and trains and roses and . . . and . . . fucking junk mail for Christ’s sake, you miss the rust on the fire hydrants, the dogshit on the pavement, the sunsets, your dumbass uncle with the lousy taste in shirts and the yellow teeth. You want to throw your arms around the old sleazeball and say, “Uncle, what a great shirt, love your aftershave, show me your porcelain frog collection, and then let’s promenade down the old neighbourhood, just you and me, whaddaya say?” You miss snow. You miss the sea, non importa if it’s polluted, bring it on, oil spills, acid, condoms, broken bottles, who cares, it’s still the sea, it’s still the ocean. You dream . . . you dream of newly mown lawns, the way the grass smelled, you swear you’d give ten thousand bucks or one of your kidneys if you could have just one last whiff of that grass.’

  To emphasise his point, Tartaglione sniffed deeply, a stage sniff, a sniff so aggressive it sounded as if it might damage his head.

  ‘Everyone at USIC is . . . concerned about you,’ said Peter carefully. ‘You could get transported home.’

  Tartaglione snorted. ‘Lungi da me, satana! Quítate de delante de mí! Haven’t you read the USIC contract? Maybe you need help translating the lingo? Well, I’m your man. Dear highly skilled misfit: We hope you enjoy your stretch on Oasis. There’s chicken tonight! Or something very like it. So settle in, don’t count the days, take a long view. Every five years, or maybe sooner if you can prove you’re batshit insane, you can have a trip back to the festering scumhole you came from. But we’d rather you didn’t. What you wanna go back there for? What’s the point? Your uncle and his goddamned frog collection are gonna be history soon. Everything’s gonna be history soon. History will be history.’ He paced back and forth in front of Peter, his feet scuffling the dirty floor. ‘USIC concerned about me? Yeah, I’ll bet. That fatso chink dude, forget his name, I can just see him lying awake at nights thinking, I wonder if Tartaglione is OK. Is he happy? Is he getting enough vitamins? Do I hear a bell tolling, has a clod been washed away by the sea, is a piece of the continent gone, am I just a little fucking diminished here? Yeah, I can feel the love. Who’s on love duty today?’

  Peter dipped out of consciousness for a second or two. The flesh of his brow was contracting tight against his skull, pushing in on the bone. He remembered once having a fever, some sort of forty-eight-hour flu, and lying helpless in bed while Bea was at work. Waking in the middle of the day half-deranged and parched with thirst, he was puzzled to feel a hand on the back of his head, lifting it from the pillow, and a glass of iced water raised to his lips. Much later, when he was better, he found out that Bea had travelled all the way home to give him that drink, and then all the way back to the hospital, in what was supposed to be her lunch break.

  ‘I would have survived,’ he’d protested.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘But I love you.’

  When Tartaglione spoke again, his tone was philosophical, almost apologetic. ‘No use crying over spilt milk, my friend. Let it go rancid and live for mañana. The unacknowledged USIC motto, wise words, wise words, worthy of being tattooed on every forehead.’ A pause. ‘Hell, this place ain’t so bad. I mean this place I’ve got here: casa mia. It’s more cheerful in daylight. And if I’d known you were coming, I’d’ve had a bath, you know. Maybe trimmed the old barba.’ He sighed. ‘I had everything here once. Tutte le comodità moderne. Todo confort. Torches, batteries, shaver for my pretty face, paper to wipe my ass on. Pens, too. Prescription glasses, magnification 3.5. The world was my mollusc.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Moisture,’ said Tartaglione. ‘Time. Wear and tear. Conspicuous absence of a multitude of people working round the clock to keep me supplied with goodies. But!’ He rummaged about, and there was the clatter of plastic, followed by a glotch of submersion into the liquid-filled crib. ‘But before they vamoosed, the little fairies in the bathrobes did teach me one of their secrets. The most important secret of all, right? Alchemy. Turning boring old plants into booze.’

  There was another glotch. Tartaglione handed Peter a mug, took a slurp from his own, and continued raving.

  ‘You know the most wacko thing about the USIC base? The one, single, most sinister thing? I’ll tell you: No distillery. And no whorehouse.’

  ‘That’s two things.’

  Tartaglione ignored him, fuelled now. ‘I’m no genius, but I comprehend a few truths. I understand nouns and verbs, I understand the labial fricative, I understand human nature. And you know what people immediately start looking for, five minutes after they arrive someplace new? You know what’s on their minds? I’ll tell you: How are they gonna get laid, and where are they gonna find some mind-altering substances. That’s if they’re normal. So what does USIC do, in its infinite wisdom? What does USIC do? It scours the entire world to dig up people who don’t need those things. Needed them once upon a time maybe, but not anymore. Sure, they crack a few jokes about cocaine and pussy – you’ve met BG, I take it?’

  ‘I’ve met BG.’

  ‘Three hundred pounds of bluff. That guy has killed off every natural need and desire known to mankind. All he wants is a job and a half-hour under the big yellow umbrella to flex his biceps. And the others, Mortellaro, Mooney, Hayes, Severin, I forget all their damn names now, but who cares, they’re all the same. You think I’m weird? You think I’m crazy? Look at those zombies, man!’

  ‘They’re not zombies,’ said Peter quietly. ‘They’re good, decent people. They’re doing their best.’

  Tartaglione spluttered fermented whiteflower juice into the space between them. ‘Best? Best? Take your cheerleader pom-poms off, padre, and look at what USIC has got here. What’s the score on the vibrancy meter? Two and a half out of ten? Two? Anybody offered to teach you the tango or sent you a love letter? And how’s USIC’s maternity wing going? Any pitter-patter of piccoli piedi?’

  ‘My wife’s pregnant,’ Peter heard himself say. ‘They wouldn’t let her come.’

  ‘Of course not! Only zombies need apply!’

  ‘They’re not – ’

  ‘Cáscaras, empty vessels, every single one of them!’ declared Tartaglione, rearing up with such righteous vehemence that he farted. ‘This whole project is . . . nefasto. You cannot create a thriving community, let alone a new civilisation, by putting together a bunch of people who are no fucking trouble! Scuzi, pardon me mama, but it cannot be done. You want Paradise, you gotta build it on war, on blood, on envy and naked greed. The people who build it have got to be egomaniacs and lunatics, they’ve gotta want it so damn bad they’ll trample you underfoot, they’ve got to be charismatic and charming and they’ve got to steal your wife from
under your nose and then sting you for a loan of ten bucks. USIC thinks it can assemble a dream team, well yeah, it is a dream, and they need to wake up and smell their wet pyjamas. USIC thinks it can sift through a thousand applicants and pick the one man and the one woman who’ll get along with everybody, who’ll do their job without being a pain in the ass, who won’t throw tantrums or get depressed or freak out and spoil the whole damn thing. USIC is looking for people who can feel at home anywhere, even in a big fat nowhere like this, people who don’t care, they’re not fussed, no sweat, keep cool, hey ho, hey ho, it’s off to work we go, who needs a home anyway, who cares if the house where you grew up is burning down, who cares if your old neighbourhood is underwater, who cares if your folks are being slaughtered, who cares if a dozen scumbags are raping your daughter, everybody’s gotta die sometime, right?’

  Tartaglione was panting. His vocal cords were in no shape for such heavy use.

  ‘You really believe the world is coming to an end?’ said Peter.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ, padre, what kind of a Christian are you? Isn’t this the whole fucking point for you? Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for for thousands of years?’

  Peter leaned back, allowed his weary body to sink into the rotting cushions. ‘I haven’t been alive that long.’

  ‘Oooo, was that a putdown? Did I detect a putdown? Is this a ruffled godboy I see before me?’

  ‘Please . . . don’t call me godboy.’

  ‘You one of those decaffeinated Christians, padre? The diabetic wafer? Doctrine-free, guilt-reduced, low in Last Judgement, 100% less Second Coming, no added Armageddon? Might contain small traces of crucified Jew?’ Tartaglione’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘Marty Kurtzberg – now he was a man of faith. Grace before meals, “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God”, none of this Krishna-has-wisdom-too crapola, always wore a jacket and pressed pants and polished shoes. And if you scratched him deep enough, he’d tell you: These are the last days.’

  Peter swallowed hard on what tasted like bile. Even if he was dying himself, he didn’t think these were the world’s last days. God wouldn’t let go of the planet he loved so easily. He’d given His only son to save it, after all. ‘I’m just trying . . . just trying to treat people the way Jesus might have treated them. That’s Christianity for me.’

  ‘Well, that’s just fine and dandy. Molto ammirevole! I take my hat off to you, if I had a hat. Come on, godboy, have some booze, it’s good.’

  Peter nodded, closed his eyes. Tartaglione’s rant about USIC was starting to sink in. ‘So . . . the reason why you guys are all here . . . USIC’s mission . . . it’s not trying to extract . . . it’s not . . . uh . . . finding new sources of . . . uh . . . ’

  Tartaglione scoffed more lung fragments into the air. ‘All that is over, palomino! Over! We’ve got the trucks but no depot, capisce? We’ve got the ships but no harbour. We’ve got the hard-on and the jism but the woman is dead. Pretty soon, all the women will be dead. The earth has had it. We’ve mined all the mines, we’ve exploited all the exploits, we’ve eaten all the eats. È finito!’

  ‘But what about here on Oasis? What’s supposed to happen here?’

  ‘Here? Didn’t you get your Happy Pioneer T-shirt? We’re supposed to be creating a nest, a nursery, a place where the whole shebang can start over again. You’ve heard of the Rapture? Are you a Rapture kind of godboy?’

  Peter raised the beaker to his face again. He was struggling to remain awake. ‘Not really,’ he sighed. ‘I think it’s based on a misreading of Scripture . . . ’

  ‘Well, this project here,’ declared Tartaglione, imperious in contempt, ‘is sorta like the Rapture by committee. Rapture Incorporated. The Department of Rapture. Worried about the state of the world? Your hometown’s just been flattened by a hurricane? Your kids’ school is full of gangsters and pushers? Your mama just died in her own merda while the nurses were busy divvying up the morphine? No gas for your car and the shops are looking kinda zen? Lights have gone off and the toilet doesn’t flush anymore? Future’s looking distinctly caca? Hey, non dispera! There is a way out. Come to beautiful Oasis. No crime, no madness, no bad stuff of any kind, a brand new home, home on the range, no deer or antelope but hey, accentuate the positive, there never is heard a discouraging word, nobody rapes you or tries to reminisce about Paris in the springtime, no sense sniffing that old vomit, right? Cut the strings, blank the slate, let go of Auschwitz and the Alamo and the . . . the fucking Egyptians for God’s sake, who needs it, who cares, focus on tomorrow. Onward and upward. Come to beautiful Oasis. Everything’s sustainable, everything works. Everything’s laid out and ready. All it lacks is you.’

  ‘But . . . who is it for? Who’s going to come?’

  ‘Aha!’ Tartaglione was in an ecstasy of derision by now. ‘That’s the five-billion-ruble question, isn’t it? Who’s gonna come . . . Who’s gonna come. Muy interesante! Can’t have vipers in the nest, can we? Can’t have crazies and parasites and saboteurs. Only nice, well-adjusted folks need apply. Except – get this – you’ll need to pay your fare. I mean, there’s a time for planting and a time for reaping, right? USIC can’t invest for ever; time to cash in. So who’s gonna come? The poor schlub who works in the 7-Eleven? I don’t think so. USIC’s gonna have to take the filthy-rich folks – but not the assholes and the prima donnas, no no no, the nice ones with the salt-of-the-earth values. Multi-millionaires who give up their seat on the bus. Tycoons who are happy to hand-wash their T-shirts ’cause, you know, they wouldn’t want to waste electricity. Yeah, I can see it now. Step right up, book early for fucking Raptureland.’

  Peter’s brain was closing down, but as he began to drift towards oblivion he recalled the clean corridors of the USIC medical centre, the surgical equipment still shrouded in plastic wrapping, the yellow-painted room littered with boxes marked NEO-NATAL.

  ‘But when . . . when is this supposed to happen?’

  ‘Any day now! Never! Who fucking knows?’ yelled Tartaglione. ‘Soon as they build a baseball stadium? Soon as they’ve figured out how to make pistachio ice-cream out of toenail clippings? Soon as they grow a daffodil? Soon as Los Angeles slides into the Pacific? Search me. Would you want to live here?’

  Peter imagined himself sitting cross-legged near his church, with the Jesus Lovers gathered around him, all of them holding their woven Bible booklets open at a parable. The afternoon was going on and on indefinitely, everyone was lambent with sunlight, and Lover Five was bringing a food offering to the newest arrival in their community – Bea, wife of Father Peรี่er, seated at his side. ‘I . . . it would depend . . . ’ he said. ‘It’s a beautiful place.’

  The room fell silent. After a while, Tartaglione’s breathing grew louder and more rhythmic, until Peter realised he was saying ‘Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh,’ over and over. Then, in a voice thick with disdain, he added, ‘Beautiful. I see.’

  Peter was too tired to argue. He knew there were no rainforests here, no mountains, no waterfalls, no exquisitely sculpted gardens, no breathtaking cityscapes, Gothic cathedrals, medieval castles, flocks of geese, giraffes, snow leopards, whatever, all those animals whose names he couldn’t recall, all those tourist destinations he’d seen other people so hungry to visit, all the attractions of the earthly life that he had, quite frankly, never lived. The glory of Prague to him was nothing more than a dim memory of a photograph; flamingos were just film footage; he’d been nowhere; he’d seen nothing; Oasis was the first place he’d ever allowed himself to bond with. The first place he’d ever loved.

  ‘Yes, beautiful,’ he sighed.

  ‘You are out of your mind, padre,’ said Tartaglione. ‘Deee-ranged. Loco-loco-loco. This place is beautiful like the grave, beautiful like maggots. The air is full of voices, have you noticed that? Worms in your ears, they burrow right in, they pretend to be just oxygen and moisture but they’re more than that, they’re more than that. Switch off the car engine, switch off your conversation, switch off Bing fucking Crosby, and
what do you hear, instead of silence? The voices, man. They never let up, they’re a liquid, a liquid language, going whisper-whisper-whisper, in your ear canals, down your throat, up your ass. Hey! Are you falling asleep? Don’t die on me, amigo, it’s a long night and I could use the company.’

  The pungent odour of Tartaglione’s loneliness dispelled some of the fog in Peter’s brain. He thought of a question he should have asked before, a question that would no doubt have occurred to Bea immediately. ‘Is Kurtzberg here?’

  ‘What?’ The linguist was jolted off course, yanked from the slipstream of his ranting.

  ‘Kurtzberg. Is he living here too? With you?’

  There was a full minute of silence. ‘We had a falling out,’ said the linguist at last. ‘You might say it was . . . a philosophical disagreement.’

  Peter couldn’t speak anymore, but uttered a noise of incomprehension.

  ‘It was about the สีฐฉั,’ Tartaglione explained. ‘Those creepy, insipid, dickless, ass-licking little pastel-coloured vermin.’ A slurp of the beaker, a glug of the gullet. ‘He loved them.’

  More time passed. The air whispered softly, making its endless reconnaissance of the boundaries and emptinesses in the room, testing the ceiling, prodding the joins of the walls, brushing the floor, measuring bodies, combing hair, licking skin. Two men breathed, one of them strenuously, one of them barely at all. It seemed that the linguist had said all he was going to say, and was now lost in his own stoic despair.

  ‘Plus,’ he added, in the final moments before Peter lost consciousness, ‘I cannot stand a guy who won’t have a drink with you.’

  24

  The Technique of Jesus

  The night was supposed to last longer. Much, much longer. Darkness should have kept him captive for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years until the Resurrection came and God pulled all the dead from the ground.

  That’s what confused him, when he opened his eyes. He was supposed to be underneath the earth, or hidden under a blanket in an unlit house in an abandoned city, not even decomposed yet, just a lump of inert material that couldn’t feel or see. There wasn’t supposed to be light. Especially not such dazzling white light, brighter than the sky.