Michel Faber - The Book of Strange New Things

‘No, really,’ protested Peter, as the eyes of everyone in the mess hall turned on him. ‘You shouldn’t… ’ But he was relieved when the voices of Frank and the school choir disappeared in mid-syllable and were replaced by the tinkling of a piano and some languorously shaken maracas.

Berns sat back down and polished off her dessert. Tuska ate the rest of his Bolognese. Peter had consumed only a few mouthfuls of his pancake but felt stuffed. He leaned back in his chair, and the amiable conversation of several dozen people rustled past his ears, a gentle hubbub of engineering jargon, small talk about food, polite disagreements about solving practical challenges, and the Jabberwocky mishmash of half-heard words and phrases, all interwoven with a Brazilian samba.

‘What music do you like, Peter?’ said Berns.

‘Uh… ’ His mind went blank. The names he might usually have rattled off were gone. ‘To be honest,’ he said, after taking a deep breath, ‘I’m not that keen on recorded music. I like music best when it’s performed live and I’m actually there when it’s happening. That way, it’s less like being expected to admire a thing , and more a celebration of the moment, of people doing something together in public. Something that could go horribly wrong, but through a combination of talent and trust and enthusiasm, it comes out sublime.’

‘Well, you should join our Glee Club,’ said Berns.

‘Glee club?’

‘Our singing group. A bunch of us meet up every hundred and eighty hours and sing together. It’s real informal. You’d love it. You a tenor?’

‘I… I think so.’

‘BG is the bassiest bass you ever heard. You gotta hear him in action.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘We don’t do any Sinatra.’

‘That’s reassuring.’

‘Well, I hope it is.’ Her tone was sincere. He realised all of a sudden that she was trying to prevent him drifting away from the bosom of their community, to stop him going native.

‘How big is the group?’ he asked.

‘Depends on our workload. Never less than six. Sometimes up to ten. Anyone’s welcome, Peter. It’s good for the soul. If you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘Does Tuska sing with you?’

Tuska guffawed. ‘No chance. Voice like an extractor fan. A malfunctioning extractor fan.’

‘Every person can sing,’ insisted Berns. ‘It just takes practice. And confidence.’

‘Oh, I got loads of confidence,’ said Tuska. ‘And a voice like an extractor fan.’

Berns looked at him pityingly. ‘You got sauce on your beard, honey.’

‘Holy shit — pardon my French.’ Tuska patted at his facial growth with his fingers. ‘That does it: this beard has got to go.’

‘Clean-shaven suits you, Tuska,’ said Berns, wiping her lips with a table napkin. (A linen napkin: USIC didn’t go in for disposable paper.) Then, to Peter: ‘ Your beard looked OK, though. I saw you when Grainger brought you back in. Kinda stylish.’

‘Thank you, but… I just didn’t have an opportunity to shave while I was away. I use an electric razor, you see, and there wasn’t… uh… ’ What garbage I’m talking , he thought. Is this the best we can come up with?

‘So, ‘said Berns, ‘conditions in C-2 really are as primitive as they say?’

‘Who says they’re primitive?’

‘Everybody who’s been there.’

‘Who’s been there?’

‘Grainger… ’

‘Grainger doesn’t venture further in than the perimeter.’ Even as he spoke the words, he was alarmed at his inability to keep the judgemental overtone out of his voice. ‘I don’t think she’s ever set foot inside an Oasan’s house.’

Berns raised an eyebrow at the word ‘Oasan’, but she caught on instantly. ‘So what is it like? How do they live?’

‘Well, their living spaces are kind of… minimalist. I wouldn’t use the word primitive. I think that’s how they prefer it.’

‘So no electricity.’

‘They don’t need it.’

‘What do they do all day?’

It took all his focus to hide from Berns how exasperated this question made him. ‘Work. Sleep. Eat. Talk to each other. Same as us.’

‘What do they talk to each other about ?’

He opened his mouth to reply, but found that the part of his brain where he went to fetch the answers was filled with incomprehensible babble, abstract whispers in a foreign language. How strange! When he was with the Oasans and overheard them conversing, he was so used to the sound of their voices, and so familiar with their body language, that he almost thought he understood what they were saying.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can you say “Hello, pleased to meet you” in their language?’

‘Sorry, no.’

‘Tartaglione used to try that one out on us all the time… ’

Tuska snorted. ‘That’s what he thought it meant. He was just repeating what those guys said to him when they met, right? Hell, it could’ve been “Step right up, dude, it’s a long time since we’ve eaten Italian!”’

‘Jeez, Tuska,’ said Berns, ‘can you quit it with the cannibal jokes? These guys are totally harmless.’

Tuska leaned across the table, fixing his gaze on Peter. ‘Which reminds me: you didn’t answer my question. You know, before Frank Sinatra so rudely interrupted us.’

‘Uh… can you refresh my memory…?’

‘How can you tell that these guys are “good people”? I mean, what do they do that’s so good?’

Peter gave this some thought. Trickles of sweat were tickling the back of his neck. ‘It’s more that they don’t do anything bad.’

‘Yeah? So what’s your role?’

‘My role?’

‘Yeah. A minister is there to connect people to God, right? Or to Christ, Jesus, whatever. Because people commit sins and they need to be forgiven, right? So… what sins are these guys committing?’

‘None that I can see.’

‘So… don’t get me wrong, Peter, but… what exactly is the deal here?’

Peter wiped his brow again. ‘Christianity isn’t just about being forgiven. It’s about living a fulfilled and joyous life. The thing is, being a Christian is an enormous buzz: that’s what a lot of people don’t understand. It’s deep satisfaction. It’s waking up in the morning filled with excitement about every minute that’s ahead of you.’

‘Yeah,’ said Tuska, deadpan. ‘You can just see that radiating off of the folks in Freaktown.’

Berns, worried that the two men were about to have a serious dispute, touched Peter’s forearm and directed his attention to his dinner plate. ‘Your flapjack’s getting cold.’

He looked down at the rolled-up pancake. It had dried out somewhat, and resembled a rubber dog bone.

‘I think I’ll have to leave the rest of this,’ he said. He got to his feet, realising as he did so that he was unbearably sleepy, and that he’d been mistaken to think he was in any state for socialising. It took all his effort to move smoothly, rather than lurch like a drunk. ‘I think I need to lie down for a bit,’ he said. ‘Please excuse me.’

‘Decompression,’ said Tuska, and winked.

‘Get yourself rested,’ said Berns. And, as he shambled towards the exit: ‘Don’t be a stranger, now.’

Back in his quarters, he collapsed on the bed and slept for half an hour or so, then woke with an urgent need to vomit. He spewed the undigested pancake into the toilet bowl, drank some water, and felt better. He wished he had a stalk of คฉ้รี่ค to chew on, to keep his mouth fresh without needing to drink. In the settlement, he’d grown accustomed to drinking very little, probably less than a litre a day, despite the heat. Taking in any more just felt excessive, like trying to pour a bucket of water into a small bottle. Your body wasn’t big enough to hold it all; your system was pushed to find a way of getting rid of it.