The Book of Strange New Things(116)
Peter felt himself blush. His clothing was suddenly plenty warm enough. ‘Bea and I do everything together. Everything. We’re a team.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Austin. ‘I mean, I’m sorry she didn’t get to come with you.’ He stood up. Flores and Grainger stood up, too. It was time to leave the mortuary.
After that, there was nowhere to go but his quarters, and his quarters depressed him. He was not, by nature, a depressive person. Self-destructive, yes; he’d been that at times. But not gloomy. There was something about his room in the USIC base that sapped his energy and made him feel boxed in. Maybe it was simple claustrophobia, although he’d never been claustrophobic before, and had once even bedded down inside an industrial garbage skip with the lid closed over him – and was grateful to have the shelter. He could still remember his sense of wonder when, at some point during the night, the mound of garbage on which he lay started heating up, enveloping his half-frozen body with warmth. This unlikely, unexpected generosity from a non-human agency was an early foretaste of how he would feel in the bosom of Christ.
But his quarters at USIC gave him no such feeling. The room might be spacious and clean, yet it seemed to him dismal and tawdry – even when the shutters were lifted and the sunlight made the walls and furnishings almost too bright to behold. How was it possible for a place to be sunlit and yet dismal?
He couldn’t get the temperature right, either. He’d killed the air conditioning, as it literally gave him the shivers, but ever since then, he’d been too warm. It was no good having the heat of Oasis without the compensatory caress of the air currents. The Lord knew what He was doing when He made this world, just as surely as He knew what He was doing when He made all the others. The climate was an exquisitely clever system, perfect and self-adjusting. Fighting it was foolish. More than once, Peter had stood at the window of his quarters, his palms pressed against the glass, fantasising about pushing so hard that the glass shattered and a wave of sweet, balmy air poured in through the hole.
The window-blind allowed him to simulate a few hours of nighttime whenever he needed it, which was not possible in the settlement, where the sun shone in on him for seventy-odd hours straight. In theory, this should mean he slept better at USIC base, but no, he slept worse. On waking, he would have a hangover-style headache and feel irritable for an hour or more. Pushing back the doldrums, he would work on his Scripture translations and assemble booklets for the Jesus Lovers, but found that he had less stamina than when he was in the settlement. There, he could push through the exhaustion barrier and remain productive for eighteen, nineteen, even twenty hours, but in his room at USIC he was ready to drop after twelve or thirteen. Nor did he find it easy to fall asleep. He would lie on his firm, well-sprung mattress and stare up at the featureless grey ceiling above him, counting the pock-marks, and each time he began to drift into unconsciousness he would be nudged back into wakefulness by a flash of confusion: Why was the ceiling blank? Where had the beautiful paintings gone?
The only thing the USIC base was essential for was the opportunity to read Bea’s messages. Even if he wasn’t answering them as often as he should, he still wanted to receive them. As for his laxness, well, that was partly down to how depressed he felt in his quarters. It was obvious he should be writing to Bea in the field, where the action was. How many times had he wished he could send her a quick message immediately after some significant experience with the Oasans, when it was fresh in his thoughts? Dozens! Maybe hundreds! And yet, he had a suspicion that USIC had deliberately fixed things so he couldn’t make contact with her anywhere but here. But why? There must be a way to install some sort of electrical generator or relay apparatus in the Oasan settlement! These people could build rain centrifuges, for goodness’ sake – they should be able to solve a modest challenge like this. He’d have to discuss the practicalities with Grainger. She kept saying she was there to help. Well, she should help.
If he could communicate with Bea in the field, he’d have the best of both worlds. Out in the field, his mind was clearer, he was more relaxed. Plus, on a practical level, he’d be making better use of the available time. On his mission, there were regular intervals when he must concede that his day was over (regardless of how brilliantly the sun was shining) and he must sit in his bed behind the pulpit, reviewing recent progress and preparing for sleep. Sometimes he’d sit idle for hours, when his mind refused to shut down but his body was weary and the Oasans had all gone home. Those would be the ideal times for writing to Bea. If he could have a Shoot installed in his church, next to his bed, he could write to her at length, each day – each twenty-four hour period, that is. Or even oftener. Their communion would be more like conversation and less like . . . like whatever it threatened to become.
Dear Peter,
It was such an enormous relief and pleasure to receive your letter. I’ve been missing you so much. Even more so because I’m realising how incredibly rare it is – yet how incredibly NECESSARY – to be in touch with at least one person in this life who we can love and trust. Oh sure, we discuss stuff with colleagues at work and we do things for people in need and we have conversations with strangers and shopkeepers and ‘friends’ we’ve known for years but don’t feel close to at all. It’s all fine as far as it goes but sometimes I feel as if half my soul is missing.
Please don’t obsess about what you SHOULD write – just WRITE. Don’t hold back! Every time you decide against mentioning an incident, it stays invisible and I’m kept in the dark. Every little detail you describe lights up a precious glimpse of you.