Michel Faber - The Book of Strange New Things

Dozens of hooded heads nodded. ‘All are สีรี่oneสี.’

‘We built our church together,’ said Peter, ‘and it’s a beautiful thing.’ Almost in choreographed formation, the Oasans turned their heads to look at the church, a building they considered so sacred that they set foot in it only for formal services, despite Peter’s urging that they should treat it as their home. ‘But you — all of you, gathered together here today, just sitting in the sun — are the real Church that God has built.’

Jesus Lover Five, in the front row as always, swayed to and fro in disagreement.

‘ฐurฐ iสี ฐurฐ,’ she stated. ‘We are we. God iสี God.’

‘When we are filled with the Holy Spirit,’ said Peter, ‘we can be more than ourselves: we can be God in action.’

Jesus Lover Five was unconvinced. ‘God never die,’ she said. ‘We die.’

‘Our bodies die,’ said Peter. ‘Our souls live for ever.’

Jesus Lover Five pointed a gloved finger straight at Peter’s torso. ‘Your body noรี่ die,’ she said.

‘Of course it will die,’ said Peter. ‘I’m just flesh and blood like anyone else.’ He certainly felt his flesh-and-bloodness now. The sun was giving him a headache, his buttocks were going numb and he needed to pee. After a some hesitation, he relaxed his bladder and allowed the urine to flow out onto the soil. That was the way it was done here; no point being precious about it.

Jesus Lover Five had fallen silent. Peter couldn’t tell if she was persuaded, reassured, sulking or what. What had she meant, anyway? Was Kurtzberg one of those Lutheran-flavoured fundamentalists who believed that dead Christians would one day be resurrected into their old bodies — magically freshened up and incorruptible, with no capacity to feel pain, hunger or pleasure — and go on to use those bodies for the rest of eternity? Peter had no time for that doctrine himself. Death was death, decay was decay, only the spirit endured.

‘Tell me,’ he said to those assembled. ‘What have you heard about life after death?’

Jesus Lover One, in his self-appointed role as custodian of the Oasans’ history in the faith, spoke up.

‘Corinthian.’

It took Peter a while to recognise the word — intimately familiar to him, and yet so unexpected here and now. ‘Corinthians, yes,’ he said.

There was a pause.

‘Corinthian,’ Jesus Lover One said again. ‘Give word from the Book.’

Peter consulted the Bible in his head, located Corinthians 15:54 , but it wasn’t a passage he’d ever felt moved to quote in his sermons, so the exact wording was indistinct — something corruptible something-something incorruption … The next verse was memorable enough, one of those Bible nuggets that everybody knew even if they ascribed it to Shakespeare, but he figured Jesus Lover One wanted more than a one-liner.

With a grunt of effort, he got to his feet. A hum of anticipation went through the crowd as he walked to his rucksack and extracted the Book from its plastic sheath. The gold-embossed lettering flashed in the sun. He remained standing, to give his muscles a change of tension, as he flicked the pages.

‘ So when this corruptible shall have put on incorruption ,’ he recited, ‘ and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then shall be brought to pass the saying that is written, Death is swallowed up in victory. O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? ’

Reading the words aloud, Peter reconnected with why he hadn’t ever used them in his sermons. The sentiments were sound enough but the rhetoric was a bit more bombastic than he felt comfortable with. To do those words justice, you’d need a highly dramatic delivery, a touch of thespian pomp, and he just wasn’t that kind of orator. Low-key sincerity was more his style.

‘What Paul is saying here,’ he explained, ‘is that when we give our souls to Christ, the part of us that dies and decays — the body — is clothed with something that cannot die or decay — the eternal spirit. So we have nothing to fear from death.’

‘Nothing,’ echoed several of the Oasans. ‘Fear.’

Peter’s second sojourn in the place USIC called Freaktown was as bewildering and exciting as the first. He got to know the Oasans better — that was to be expected — but he also saw changes in himself, changes he couldn’t articulate but which felt profound and important. Just as the atmosphere penetrated his clothes and seemed to pass through his skin, something unfamiliar was permeating his head, soaking into his mind. It wasn’t in the least sinister. It was as benign as benign could be.

Not all of it was enjoyable, though. Halfway into his stay, Peter went through a strange phase which, looking back on it afterwards, he could only call the Crying Jag. It happened during one of the long, long nights and he woke up somewhere in the middle of it with tears in his eyes, not knowing what he had dreamt to make him weep. Then, for hours and hours, he continued to cry. Upsurges of sorrow just kept pumping through his bloodstream, as if administered at medically supervised intervals by a gadget inside his body. He cried about the weirdest things, things he had long forgotten, things he would not have imagined could rank very high in his roll-call of griefs.

He cried for the tadpoles he’d kept in a jar when he was a kid, the ones that might have grown into frogs if he’d left them safe in their pond instead of watching them turn to grey sludge. He cried for Cleo the cat, stiff on the kitchen floor, her matted chin stuck to dried gravy on the rim of her plate. He cried for lunch money he’d lost on the way to school; he cried for a stolen bicycle, recalling the exact feel of its rubbery handles in his palms. He cried for the bullied classmate who killed herself after her tormenters squirted ketchup in her hair; he cried for the swallow that flew against his bedroom window and fell lifeless to the concrete far below; he cried for the magazines that kept arriving for his father each month, shrinkwrapped, long after his father had left home; he cried for Mr Ali’s corner newsagency and off-licence that went out of business; he cried for the hapless anti-war marchers pushing on through the bucketing rain, their placards drooping, their children sullen.

He cried about the ‘Quilts For Peace’ that his mother sewed for charity auctions. Even when her fellow Quakers took pity and put in a few bids, those quilts never fetched much because they were gaudy patchworks that clashed with every décor known to civilised man. He cried for the quilts that had gone unsold and he cried for the quilts that had found a home and he cried for the way his mother had explained, with such lonely enthusiasm, that all the colours symbolised national flags and the blue and white could be Israel or Argentina and the red polka dots were Japan and the green, yellow and red stripes with the stars in the middle could be Ethiopia, Senegal, Ghana or Cameroon depending on which way you were sleeping.

He cried about his Cubs uniform, eaten by silverfish. Oh, how he cried about that. Each vanished thread of fibre, each pathetic little hole in the useless garments, caused a swelling in his chest and stung his eyes anew. He cried about not having known that the final time he attended the Scout hall was the final time. Someone should have told him.

He cried about stuff that had happened to Bea, too. The family photograph of her when she was six, with a livid rectangular rash across her mouth and cheeks, caused by the adhesive tape. How could someone do that to a kid? He cried about her doing her homework in the toilet while the kitchen was full of strangers and her bedroom was out of bounds. He cried about other incidents from Bea’s childhood as well; all of them from before he met her. It was as though different vintages of sadness were stored in different parts of his mind, stacked chronologically, and his tear ducts were on the end of electrical wires that didn’t touch any recent decades — just went straight to the distant past. The Bea he wept for was a pretty little ghost conjured up from his wife’s stash of photos and anecdotes, but no less pitiable for that.