Michel Faber - The Book of Strange New Things

I shouldn’t be eating bacon at all, I suppose. Billy gave me a lecture about meat-eating when we were on our way to the cat show. He’s a vegetarian. So was Rachel, but she relapsed. That was the word Billy used. He and his sister are quarrelling a lot — maybe that’s one of the reasons Billy is so depressed. Sheila says he lives on baked beans, toast and bananas, because he’s not actually that keen on vegetables. A very English vegetarian, then! But he’s right about the suffering of factory-farmed animals.

It’s so complicated, isn’t it? Animals suffer, but Jesus ate meat, and he hung around with fishermen. I’ve been craving fish lately — I must need the vitamin D — and I don’t feel any guilt when I squash a bunch of sardines onto a piece of toast, even if I can see their little eyes staring up at me. They’re feeding our baby, that’s how I rationalise it.

You haven’t talked much about the personnel at USIC. Are you still ministering to them as well, or are you focusing solely on the Oasans? Remember that the unwilling and uninterested are just as precious as those who’ve already given their hearts to Christ. I imagine there must be serious problems among the USIC community, working so far from home in what I suppose are very challenging conditions. Is there a lot of alcohol abuse? Drug abuse? Gambling? Sexual harassment? I imagine there must be.

I phoned up Rebecca to discuss when I’ll be going back to work, and she mentioned she’s mostly been in A&E and there’s been a shocking increase in alcohol-related violence and injury. Sorry, does that count as me telling you about calamities befalling the world? It’s hardly on the scale of earthquakes or large corporations going bust. But it’s very noticeable on the streets of our town when I go out for a walk in the mornings. I’m certain there never used to be vomit on EVERY corner. I wish children and old people didn’t have to see that. I’ve seriously considered hauling a bucket and mop all around the neighbourhood myself. Yesterday I even filled a bucket with soapy water, but when I tried to lift it, I realised it was a bad idea. So I just mopped the vomit off our front porch. Every man must bear his own burdens before bearing another’s, as Galatians says, or something to that effect. You would know the verbatim verse, no doubt.

He sat at the Shoot and flexed his fingers. He’d switched on the air conditioning again and the room was cool. He was dressed in his dishdasha, socks and a pullover, feeling reasonably comfortable if somewhat ridiculous. He had prayed. God had confirmed that there was nothing more urgent or important right now than making contact with his wife. The mission was going well; it could go better still if he devoted himself to it every minute of every day, but God did not expect such superhuman dedication. In another place, far away from this one, God had joined together a man and a woman, and the man had allowed himself to neglect his wife. It was time to make amends.

Dear Bea, he wrote.

I’ve written too little and too late. I’m sorry. I love you very much. I wish you were here with me. Today I found out that Ella Reinman — that skinny woman at the USIC meetings who looked like a meerkat — was some sort of psychologist who was assessing you, and that she disqualified you from coming here. This news upset me enormously. I felt so outraged on your behalf. Who is she to judge your suitability for a mission like this on the basis of a few snatches of conversation? She only saw you a couple of times and you’d come straight from work and your head was still full of that. You’d had no time to unwind. I can still see that Reinman woman so clearly — her weird head sticking out of her cashmere polo-neck. Judging you.

The sun is going down here. Finally. It’s a lovely time of day and lasts for many hours.

I will try harder to paint you a picture. It’s been a shock to me how bad I am at describing things in letters. It’s a shortcoming we never had to face before, being together every day of our lives. It’s made me read the Epistles in a different light. Paul, James, Peter and John didn’t say much about their context, did they? Scholars have to dig between the lines to get even the faintest clue about where the apostles might have lived at the time. If only Paul could have spent a few words on describing his prison…

Speaking of which, my quarters here are driving me

He paused, then deleted the incomplete sentence. To complain about his living conditions to Bea, who had recently suffered so much discomfort and inconvenience, would be in bad taste.

Speaking of Paul, he tried again, the verse you alluded to is a bit different in its verbatim form and I’m not sure I agree that ‘bearing one’s own burdens first’ is what Galatians 6:5 is really getting at. It’s a tricky chapter and the focus changes from verse to verse but overall I think Paul is talking about striking a balance between dissuading others from sin and keeping in mind that we are sinners ourselves. It’s not the most crystal-clear passage he ever wrote (and this one was hand-written, too, not dictated like some of the other epistles!) and I must admit that if I were trying to paraphrase it for the Oasans I’d have my job cut out for me. Fortunately, there are plenty of other Bible passages whose meaning is much more transparent and which I’m confident will be vivid and meaningful for my new friends in Christ.

Again he paused. Pictures. Bea needed pictures. Where were the pictures?

I’m sitting at the shoot wearing my dishdasha and the olive-green pullover and black socks. I look like a complete berk, I imagine. My hair is growing longer all the time. I’ve considered hacking it shorter with some scissors or even establishing a relationship with the USIC hairdresser, but I’ve decided to let it go until I’m back with you again. You cut my hair better than anyone. Plus, it’s a like a symbol of what we do for each other. I don’t want to lose those little rituals.

He thought some more.

I’m so glad to hear that your hand is healing up. You need that hand, and not just for work! I wish I could feel it pressed against the small of my back. Your hand is warm and always so dry. I don’t mean that in a negative way. It’s just that it’s never clammy, it’s always soft and dry, like the finest leather. Like an incredibly expensive glove without any seams. Oh boy, that sounds terrible. I don’t have any future as a metaphysical love poet, do I?

Sorry to hear about Joshua. Poor thing, what a state he’s in. All I can say to give us hope is that although cats are creatures of habit, the habits don’t necessarily stay the same forever. Remember how Joshua went through a phase of attacking/chewing your nursing shoes and then he suddenly moved on to something else? And remember how when we had poor old Titus, we thought we’d have to take him back to the animal shelter, because he went through a phase of howling all night and we were completely exhausted? And then one day he just stopped doing it. So let’s not despair about Joshua. The broken window and the wind have obviously spooked him but now that the house is warm and quiet again, I’m sure he’ll calm down. I think you’re wise not to pull him out from under the bed. He’ll come out himself when he’s ready. I also don’t think there’s any need for you to sit in a state of nervous tension when he’s on your lap, afraid to move in case he jumps off. He will sense that you’re anxious and it may reinforce his own anxiety. My advice is, make a gentle fuss of him when he first jumps on your lap. Enjoy him being there. Then, when you need to go to the toilet or fetch something from another room, tell him affectionately that you’ve got to get up now, and lift him smoothly and swiftly down onto the floor. Stroke his head once or twice and then walk away. Train him to understand that these interruptions are temporary and no big deal.