The Book of Strange New Things(41)

He considered elaborating on how he felt about the Maldives. But he didn’t feel much, at least not about the Maldives themselves. His feelings were largely regret – disappointment, even – that the tragedy had affected Beatrice so badly, just when he wanted her to be happy and all right and getting on with things as usual and receptive to his wonderful news about the Oasans.

His stomach gurgled loudly. He hadn’t eaten since the drive back from the settlement, when he and Grainger had nibbled at the dried-out remainder of the raisin bread. (‘Five bucks a slice,’ she’d remarked ruefully. He hadn’t asked who was footing the bill.) As if by mutual agreement, they had not discussed the Oasan’s extraordinary response to Peter. Instead, Grainger explained various routine procedures relating to laundry, electric appliances, availability of vehicles, canteen etiquette. She was irritable, insisting that she’d briefed him on these things before, when she first escorted him off the ship. The forgiveness joke didn’t work a third time.

Peter stood up and walked to the window. The sun – egg-yellow and hazy-edged at this time of day – was clearly visible from his quarters, right in the middle of the sky. It was four or five times bigger than the sun he’d grown up with, and it cast a rim of golden light along the contours of the airport compound’s drab buildings. Puddles of rainwater, left by last night’s deluge, had been evaporating steadily since then. The vapours twirled and danced as they flew off the ground and past the rooftops into oblivion, as if the puddles were blowing sophisticated smoke rings.

The air conditioning in his room was unnecessarily cool. He found that if he stepped closer to the window, almost pressing his body against it, the warmth from outside radiated through the glass and permeated his clothing. He would have to ask Grainger about adjusting the air-con; it was one of the points they hadn’t covered.

Back at the message screen, he finished typing serve the Lord and started a fresh paragraph.

Even in my joy at this wonderful opportunity that God has laid before me, I feel an ache of grief that I can’t hold you and comfort you. I only realised today that this is the first time you & I have been apart for longer than a couple of nights. Couldn’t I have gone on a mini-mission to Manchester or Cardiff first, as a practice exercise, before coming all the way here?

I think you would find Oasis as beautiful as I do. The sun is huge and yellow. The air swirls around constantly and slips in and out of your clothes. That may sound unpleasant, I know, but you get used to it. The water is green and my urine comes out orange. I’m doing a great job of selling the place to you, aren’t I? I should have taken a course in novel-writing before I volunteered for this. I should have insisted to USIC that we went together or I didn’t go at all.

Maybe, if we’d bent their arm on that one, we could then have insisted that Joshua came along too. Not sure how he would have fared in the Jump, though. Probably would have been transformed into a furry tea cosy.

Feeble cat jokes. My equivalent of your chocolate rollettes, I suppose.

Darling, I love you. Keep well. Take the wise advice that you’ve given me so often: don’t be hard on yourself, and don’t let the bad blind you to the good. I’ll join you in prayer for the relatives of the dead in the Maldives. Join me in prayer for the people here, who are thrilled at the prospect of a new life in Christ. Oh, and also: there is a girl in Oskaloosa called Coretta whose father has recently died and whose mother has hit the booze. Pray for her too, if you remember.

Love,

Peter

He read the text of his message over, but didn’t tinker with it any further, feeling suddenly faint with hunger and fatigue. He pressed a button. For several minutes, his 793 inadequate words hung there, trembling slightly, as if unsure what to do. That was normal for the Shoot, he’d found. The process kept you in suspense each time, tempting you to fear that it would fail. Then his words vanished and the screen went blank, except for the automated logo that said: APPROVED, TRANSMITTED.





8


Take a deep breath and count to a million


Everything looked different in daylight. The USIC mess hall, which had seemed so lonesome and eerie during the long hours of darkness, was a hive of cheerful activity now. A happy congregation. The glass wall on the eastern side of the building, although tinted, let in so much light and warmth that Peter had to shield his face from it. A glow was cast over the entire room, transforming coffee machines into jewelled sculptures, aluminium chairs into precious metal, magazine racks into ziggurats, bald heads into lamps. Thirty or forty people were gathered together, eating, chatting, fetching refills from the coffee bar, lolling around in the armchairs, gesticulating over the tables, raising their voices to compete with the raised voices of the others. Most were dressed in white, just like Peter, although sans the big inky crucifix on the chest. There were quite a few black faces, including BG’s. BG didn’t look up when Peter arrived; he was involved in an animated discussion with a rather butch-looking white woman. There was no sign of Grainger.

Peter stepped into the throng. Piped music was still issuing from the PA system but it was barely audible above the clamour of conversation; Peter couldn’t tell whether it was the same Patsy Cline documentary or an electronic disco song or a piece of classical music. Just another voice in the hubbub.

‘Hey, preacher!’

It was the black man who’d tossed him the blueberry muffin. He was seated at the same table as last night, but with a different pal, a fat white guy. In fact, both of them were fat: exactly the same weight, and with similar features. Coincidences like that served as a reminder that, variations in pigment aside, humans were all part of the same species.