Michel Faber - The Book of Strange New Things

He sent this flying and collapsed into bed.

A little while later, without speaking, Grainger came and lay next to him. She rested her head on his naked chest, and her shoulder was in such a position that it would have been unnatural not to cup it in his hand. So he cupped it in his hand. She moved closer against him, let him feel the warmth of her flesh. Her small fingers stroked his abdomen, her palm traced the hollow where the ribs began. Then she took hold of his penis, which was already erect. Before he could speak, Bea was there with them, reassuring him with her eyes that it was all right. Grainger lifted her tunic. Her pale breasts were freckled. He kissed one while Bea finished undressing and crawled onto the bed. Grainger held his penis upright, allowing Bea to lower herself onto it. He ejaculated the instant he was inside.

As soon as he awoke, he smelled the odour of betrayal. He had committed adultery in his heart, and — worse — dragged his wife into his disloyal fantasy, making her an accomplice. He and Bea had always been faithful to each other; he never took advantage of the vulnerable females who passed through his ministry. He was a one-woman man and Bea was his woman. Wasn’t she?

He lay still for a while, shielding his eyes from the sunlight with his good arm. A hangover-style headache throbbed in his temples. His tongue and lips had dried out. His injured arm felt OK — well, numb — but his shin hurt like a burn. He had no idea how long he’d slept: fifteen minutes or fifteen hours. A memory of the dream lingered, tempting him with its phantasm of love, its enchanted mirage in which all grief and hurt and estrangement was smoothed over by desire.

Thirst pushed him to his feet. He drank greedily straight from the tap, noisy as a dog, until his stomach sloshed. The doctor had told him to go ahead and take showers, get soap and water on his wounds, but not scratch at the stitches if they got itchy; they would dissolve by themselves when their work was done. Peter unfastened and unrolled the bandages, unveiling the mended flesh. The soft white cotton was hardly stained at all, the injuries neat. He showered, towelled himself dry, carefully reapplied the bandages. He put on jeans and a faded orange T-shirt emblazoned OUTREACH TASKFORCE BASILDON. Both garments felt too big. He rummaged inside his knapsack for some socks, pulled out a small plastic bag with squishy, semi-liquid contents he couldn’t identify at first. It was the remains of a meal he’d been given by the สีฐฉั a long time ago, before he’d grown accustomed to their food: a slab of suety stuff that tasted of vinegar. Loath to offend them, he’d claimed he wasn’t hungry and would eat it later. The bag was a clammy weight in his palm, like an animal organ removed from a carcass. He looked around for somewhere conspicuous to put it so that he wouldn’t forget it again.

On the table next to the fridge, he spotted something unfamiliar. A plastic medication bottle and a handwritten note. TAKE 2 EVERY 4 HOURS IF NEEDED. G.

Had Grainger been here while he slept? Or had she brought these with her when she wheeled him back from the surgery? He couldn’t remember her doing anything in his room besides embracing him. But maybe she’d already dropped off the medication earlier, while he was being seen by Doctor Adkins. Forward thinking.

He picked up the bottle, read the contents. These pills were stronger than any you could get over the counter in an English pharmacy. But the pain he felt was not in his flesh.

He checked for new messages from Bea. There were none.

The ghost of Bing Crosby was talking when Peter walked into the mess hall. Mucous membranes in a larynx that had once nestled in a human throat, long since dispersed into the soil of Holy Cross Cemetery in Los Angeles, had made some sounds that were captured on magnetic tape in 1945, and that tape, digitised and lovingly reconfigured, was being broadcast through the cafeteria’s public address system. The dozen or so USIC personnel scattered around the armchairs and tables were oblivious, carrying on their conversations or simply focusing on their food and drink. The disembodied voice of Judy Garland — smaller mucous membranes, vibrating more excitedly — joined Crosby’s in a rehearsed off-the-cuff routine about trying on hats, intended to epitomise the gulf between men and women. Stanko, behind the coffee bar, switched on the smoothie machine, drowning out the ancient voices under a whirr of crushed coffee-flavoured ice.

‘What’s good today, Stanko?’ asked Peter when his turn came.

‘Pancakes.’

Bing Crosby, having interrupted the flow of Garland’s prattle, had started singing: ‘ When I’ve got my arm around you and we’re going for a walk, must you yah-ta-ta, yah-ta-ta, yah-ta-ta, yah-ta-ta, talk, talk, talk … ’

‘Anything savoury?’

Stanko lifted the lid on a metal vat, releasing a hearty smell. ‘Beef stroganoff.’

‘I’ll have that. And a mug of tea.’

‘ Aristotle, mathematics, economics, antique chairs ,’ warbled Bing. ‘ The classics, the comics, darling, who cares? ’

Stanko handed Peter a plastic plate of richly hued, steaming food, a plastic beaker of hot water, a paper sachet of dairy powder and a tea bag with a minuscule picture of Buckingham Palace on the tag.

‘Thank you,’ said Peter.

‘Enjoy, bro.’

‘Looks good.’

‘Best stroganoff you can get,’ affirmed Stanko, deadpan. Sardonic humour? Maybe he was on the level. Right now, Peter doubted his own ability to judge.

He walked to a free table — there was just one left — and sat down with his meal. While Bing Crosby pretended to annoy Judy Garland with chatter about golf, Peter began to eat the beef, which he knew was whiteflower that had been pounded with a stone and then dried and fried. The sauce tasted wrong — too sweet, too cloying. Fragments of young whiteflower stalk had been dyed bright orange to resemble carrot and there were blanched slivers of half-mature whiteflower leaf that were supposed to be onions. He wished USIC would ditch these faked concoctions and just eat whiteflower the way the สีฐฉั ate it. There were so many good, wholesome recipes going unused here.

‘ When there’s music softly playing ,’ crooned Judy Garland, ‘ and I’m sitting on your lap, must you yah-ta-ta, yah-ta-ta, yah-ta-ta, yah-ta-ta, yap, yap, yap … ’

‘Mind if I sit here?’ A real, living female voice in competition with a dead, long-ago one.

He looked up. It was Hayes. He motioned her to go ahead, apprehensive that she would ask him how he was, a question he wasn’t sure he could answer without breaking down and telling the whole story. But as soon as Hayes took her seat, it became clear that she was only interested in the surface of the table, to rest a thick book on. Glancing at the pages as he ate his food, Peter identified the patterns of Sudoku, Kakuro, Hitori, Fillomino and other mathematical puzzles, neatly completed in pencil. Hayes bent over the book with an eraser clutched between her thumb and forefinger. With fastidious care, she began to rub out the pencil marks.

‘ It’s so nice to close your lips with mine ,’ cooed Bing and Judy in perfect harmony.

Five minutes later, Peter’s plate was empty and Hayes’s iced coffee was untouched, forgotten. She was hunched over, absorbed in her task. Her mouth was slightly open, her downcast eyes had soft, luxurious lashes; she impressed Peter as prettier and more soulful than he’d previously thought. He was touched, deeply touched, deeply moved all of a sudden, by her altruistic labour.

‘That’s very considerate of you,’ he heard himself say.

‘Excuse me?’

‘Very community-minded.’