Michel Faber - The Book of Strange New Things

‘OK,’ said Grainger, pointing to each of the items in turn. ‘We have aspirin and acetaminophen, as usual. These ones here are generics.’

‘Name from where all other name come,’ said Jesus Lover One.

‘Exactly,’ said Grainger. ‘Then there’s ten packets of branded acetaminophen: Tylenol. You’ve had it before. And these blue and yellow packets, Soothers, they’re like candies, but they’ve got some dextromethorphan and phenylephrine — a cough suppressant and nasal decongestant. I mean, I don’t know if you… uh… ’ She coughed. It was unclear whether she was imitating a cough for the Oasan’s benefit, or whether she genuinely had something stuck in her throat. ‘And this one here is diclofenac. It’s an analgesic too, and an anti-inflammatory, good for arthritis — pain in the muscles and joints.’ She wiggled her elbow and gyrated one of her shoulders, to mime the discomfort of arthritis. ‘Also good for migraines and… uh… menstrual cramps.’ Grainger’s voice was tainted with despondency. Clearly, she had little faith that her words made any sense to the recipients. She spoke faster and less distinctly as she went on, almost gabbling. Peter had witnessed that sort of behaviour before, in inexperienced or ineffectual evangelists who were trying to win over a hostile audience and sensed they were losing the battle. Mumbled invitations to come along to church sometime, spoken as if to satisfy a watchful God that the invitations had been made, rather than with any real hope that anyone would come.

‘Also, cortisone creams, the ones you like, in the blue and white tubes,’ Grainger went on. ‘And a bunch of antibiotics. Gentamicin. Neomycin. Flucloxacillin. A broad range of uses, as I’ve explained to you before. Depends on the individual. If you ever… uh… if you’re ever ready to give me some feedback on your experience with a particular antibiotic, I may be able to advise you better.’

‘Anรี่ibioรี่ic welcome,’ said Jesus Lover One. ‘But painkiller welcome more. You have other aสีpirin and paraสีeรี่amol, in other colour and name?’

‘No, what I’ve told you is what there is. But remember there’s the diclofenac also. It’s highly effective, and well tolerated too, in most… uh… people. Maybe some gastro-intestinal side-effects, same as with other analgesics.’ She rubbed her abdomen perfunctorily. Peter could tell she was in distress, and not from gastrointestinal causes.

‘Also,’ she continued, ‘we’ve got something totally different this time, nothing to do with pain. You won’t have seen this one before. I don’t know if it’s any use to you. I mean, not you personally, but… uh… anyone here.’

‘The name?’

‘The name on the packet is GlucoRapid. That’s the brand name. Insulin is what it is. It’s for diabetes. Is diabetes something you know about? When the body can’t regulate its glucose levels properly?’

The Oasans did not speak nor make any gesture of response, but kept their faces attentively pointed at Grainger’s.

‘Glucose is like, uh, sugar,’ she said, voice faltering. She pressed her fingers hard against her perspiring brow, as if she could use a couple of painkillers herself. ‘I’m sorry, this is probably making no sense whatsoever. But the insulin is spare, so… ’

‘We are graรี่eful,’ said Jesus Lover One. ‘We are graรี่eful.’ And he put Grainger out of her misery by signalling for his compatriot to close the box.

Things moved swiftly after that. The grey-robed Oasan and Jesus Lover One conveyed the medicine box into the building with the star. Minutes later, they returned, each of them carrying a bulbous sack, cradled against their chests like a baby. They stashed the sacks in the back of the van, then went to fetch more. After a few such trips, other Oasans, none of them familiar to Peter, joined in to help. As well as the sacks — containing whiteflower in various dried or powdered forms — there were large plastic tubs for the cleverly processed concoctions whose destiny, when USIC’s chefs added water, was to become soups and spreads and desserts and goodness knows what else. Smaller tubs and bags contained condiments and spices. Every sack and bag and tub was labelled in crude block-letters with marker pen. Whether by USIC personnel or by some small gloved Oasan hand, impossible to tell.

Peter and Grainger sat inside the vehicle, at Grainger’s request. She complained that the humidity was getting to her, but Peter could tell from her face that she didn’t expect him to believe her and that the handover of the medicines had wiped her out, psychologically and physically. The air-conditioned cabin — sealed off from the back section where the food was being stockpiled — was a haven where she could recover. She kept her eyes averted from the robed figures filing past the windows. Every few minutes, the chassis was subtly jogged by the deposit of another sack or tub in its rear. Evidently, long-term experience had confirmed that the Oasans could be trusted one hundred per cent to fulfil their part of the exchange. Or maybe Grainger was supposed to check, but couldn’t bring herself to do so.

‘You’re gonna give yourself cancer if you’re not careful,’ she said, uncapping a tube of ointment.

‘I feel fine,’ Peter protested, as she dabbed the goo onto his nose and brow with her middle finger. The touch of woman’s hand — not Bea’s — gave him a melancholy frisson.

‘Your wife won’t be very happy if she finds out your face has been fried.’ Grainger reached up for the rear-view mirror and twisted it sideways so he could see his reflection. The sheen of ointment was unsightly but, as far as he could tell, the underlying damage to his face was minimal: a few blotches, a bit of peeling.

‘I’ll survive,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’

‘Anything else you need,’ she said, wiping her fingers clean on a paper tissue, ‘just let me know when we get back to civilisation.’

‘The Oasans are pretty civilised, I’ve found. But it must be tough for you as a pharmacist not to have a clue what’s going on with them health-wise.’

‘Peter… ’ She let her head fall back against the seat and sighed. ‘Let’s not go there.’

‘That’s what people always say about places where they already are.’

She readjusted the mirror so that her own face was reflected in it. With a corner of the paper tissue she traced a line underneath her left eye, to neaten up the blurred mascara there. She did the same to her right eye. Peter was pretty sure she hadn’t worn mascara the last time they’d met.

Outside, a mishap. One of the Oasans, attempting to carry a tub in each hand, dropped one on the ground. A cloud of reddish-brown powder sprang up, covering his boots, shins and the lower parts of his pale blue robe. Another Oasan stopped to survey the damage and said, ‘สีinnamon.’

‘สีinnamon,’ he confirmed.

The two of them stood still for a few seconds, contemplating. The moist, swirling breeze carried off the loose whiteflower cinnamon, absorbing it into the atmosphere in general. The powder on the robe darkened into a glistening stain. Then, without further comment, the two Oasans resumed their labours.

Peter rolled down the window, to check if the air smelled cinnamon-spiced. It didn’t. But the artificial cool of the car’s interior was immediately spoiled by a big balmy influx.

‘ Please ,’ Grainger complained.

He rolled the window back up and let the air conditioning resume its campaign. The trapped currents of humid vapour flew around the cabin, as if sensing themselves pursued. In their search for escape or absorption they passed across his face, his knees, the back of his neck. Grainger felt it too, and shuddered.