Michel Faber - The Book of Strange New Things

He pondered for a minute or two, to recall another name that eluded him, but it wasn’t retrievable, despite the fact that he and Bea had mentioned this person every day, probably, for the last two years.

your paranoid colleague with the curly hair.

Despite making good progress here, I’m missing you and wishing you were with me. Upset that you were disqualified. For my own selfish sake, of course, but also considering the bigger picture. Whatever USIC’s criteria were, they made a big mistake. Someone like you is exactly what’s missing here. The whole set-up feels… how can I put this? Quite overwhelmingly (overweeningly?) male. I mean, there are plenty of women around, but they don’t make much difference to the prevailing atmosphere, the esprit de corps, if you like. It’s a kind of camaraderie that you associate with the armed forces or maybe a major construction project (which I suppose it is). The women don’t rock the boat, they don’t try to feminise the place, they just adjust their natures to fit in.

Maybe that’s an unfair generalisation. After all, women shouldn’t have to conform to preconceptions of femaleness I have in my head. But even so, I must admit that this base is not an environment I feel comfortable in, and I can’t help thinking that it would be hugely improved if there could be a few women like you added to the mix.

That’s not to suggest that there are lots of women like you in the world! Of course there is only one.

As for gender politics amongst the Oasans, that’s a tricky proposition. I still haven’t got to the bottom of their sexes, yet — they don’t understand my questions on that score and I don’t understand their answers! From what I’ve observed, they don’t have genitals where you’d expect. They do have children — not very frequently, I gather, but it does happen, so some of my Jesus Lovers are mothers. I wouldn’t say that the ones that are mothers behave more maternally than the ones who aren’t. They’re ALL quite nurturing and connected. In their own way. I’ve grown very fond of them. I think you would, too, if you could have shared this adventure with me.

Another thing I should say about them is that they’re very kind. Very caring. It’s not evident at first, and then it dawns on you. During our most recent gathering in the church, we were all singing, and suddenly one of the paintings fell off the ceiling (not fastened securely enough — it’s difficult when you’re not allowed to use nails, screws or other sharp objects!). The painting fell right onto Jesus Lover Five’s hand. We all got a big fright. Fortunately the painting wasn’t very heavy and Lover Five was OK — nothing broken, just a bruise. But the way the others rallied round her was extraordinary. They each took turns to embrace and stroke her with the utmost tenderness. I have never seen such an outpouring of communal love and concern. She went very shy — and she’s usually quite verbal! She’s my favourite.

Again he paused. This praising of other females — human or otherwise — was perhaps not so diplomatic, if his own wife was feeling insecure. He and Bea had always had the sort of relationship where either of them could feel free to comment on the admirable points of anyone, regardless of gender, confident that their own relationship was rock-solid and inviolable. But even so… He deleted ‘my favourite’ and wrote:

the one I communicate with best.

There was still something not quite right there.

But of course none of this matters as much to me as our rare and precious relationship, he wrote. I had such a vivid memory of our wedding not long ago. And your wedding dress, and how you wore it in the years since.

Please write again soon. I know you’ve written a lot already and I’ve been very lax in responding, but it doesn’t mean I don’t value the contact from you. I do miss you terribly. And I’m sorry I gave you the impression that certain topics are out of bounds. Write about anything you like, darling. I’m your husband. We have to be there for each other.

Love,

Peter

The words were sincere but felt a little forced. That is, he would have spoken them spontaneously if Bea had been cradled in his arms, her head nestled under his shoulder, but… Typing them onto a screen and sending them into space was a different thing. It changed the colour and tone of the sentiments, the way a cheaply photocopied photograph loses warmth and detail. His love for his wife was being cartoonised and he lacked what it took to display it as the vividly figurative painting it should be.

He opened a third letter of Bea’s, intending to fire off a third reply, but even as he read ‘Dear Peter’ and anticipated typing ‘Dear Bea’, he worried that she might think he was trying to earn Brownie points. Worried, too, that it might be true. He scanned her message, a long one. There was something in the second paragraph about a bunch of mail that had arrived recently, including a letter from the council urging him to re-register on the electoral roll. A form to be filled in because ‘your situation has changed’. How did they know? Bea couldn’t figure out if this was just a more aggressive kind of routine canvassing or a real threat that might have actual consequences. But what was he supposed to do about it? And what did it matter? Did she think he was anxious not to lose the right to vote in the next elections? In case the wrong faceless bureaucrat got in? Why was she telling him this?

Write about anything you like, darling, he’d just told her. He might as well have added: Except the stuff I don’t want to deal with.

He swung off his chair, knelt on the floor, clasped his hands between his knees and prayed.

‘Lord, please help me. I’m tired and confused, and the challenges I’m facing feel beyond my powers just now. Give me strength and clarity of purpose and… poise. My wonderful Bea is lonely and hassled: grant her energy and focus too. Thank You, Lord, for healing her hand. Thank You, also, for revealing Yourself to Jesus Lover Fourteen in her hour of need. She’ll be all right now, I hope. I pray for Jesus Lover Thirty-Seven, whose brother still rejects him for his faith in You. Give him comfort. I pray that in the fullness of time, his brother may come to us too. Please sharpen my thoughts and perceptions when I’m next dealing with Jesus Lover Eight. There’s something he wants from me that he’s too shy to say and I’m too stupid to guess. I pray for Sheila, Rachel and Billy Frame — especially Billy as he continues to struggle with his parents’ divorce. I pray for Ray Sherwood as his Parkinson’s gets worse.’

He faltered. Maybe Ray was dead by now. It had been a long time since he’d had any news. Ray and his Parkinson’s had been a recurring feature in his prayers for years, for no better reason than it seemed callous to cease praying for him just because they’d lost touch. Besides, Peter still cared. Ray’s face, smiling but tinged with fear at the grim future he and his treacherous body were heading into, manifested clearly in his memory.

‘I pray for Charlie Grainger,’ he went on. ‘I pray he may see his daughter again one day. I pray for Grainger. I sense she’s in danger of being poisoned by bitterness. And Tuska: a lifetime of disillusionment has given him a hard skin. Soften his skin, Lord, if it be your will. I pray for Maneely. I pray that the moment when she glimpsed her need for You may prove to be more than just a fleeting impulse. Please may it strengthen into a serious search for Christ. I pray for Coretta, who named this place and had such hopes that her life would get better rather than worse. Make her life better, Lord.’

His stomach was rumbling. But he knew that he’d not yet given God the naked sincerity He deserved. If he left his prayer at this point, there would be something practised, even slightly glib about it. ‘I pray for the people of the Maldives and North Korea and… uh… Guatemala. They’re not real to me as individuals, and I’m so ashamed of that. But they’re real to You. Forgive me for, Lord, for the smallness and selfishness of my mind. Amen.’