‘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 ??????? 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.
The dishdasha was still damp but drying fast. In anticipation of being able to put it on again, he stripped down to his underpants. Then, a few minutes later, he took those off too. They irritated him.
Peter, why aren’t you writing to me? wrote Bea in the most recent of her messages, freshly arrived. I know you must be very busy but things are difficult here and I’m having trouble coping without your support. I’m just not used to spending day after day without any contact. I won’t deny that being pregnant is probably making me feel extra vulnerable and I don’t want to come across like a needy, hormonal female but on the other hand the silence from you is deafening.
He felt the blood flush into his face, right to the tips of his ears. He was failing his wife, he was failing his wife. He had promised he would write every day. He’d been busy and bewildered and Bea understood that, but . . . he’d broken his promise and was still breaking it, over and over. And now, under pressure of the anguish he’d caused, she was telling him straight.
If only she’d sent him just that first paragraph – a five-line message – maybe he could have shot a five-line response back, instantly. A quick shot of reassurance. But there was more. So much more.
I’m off work, she went on. My right hand is bandaged up and apart from the hygiene issue I can’t nurse one-handed. It’s not serious, but it will take a while to heal. It was my own stupid fault. The bathroom window is broken, as you know, and Graeme Stone said he would come and fix it but when days went by and he didn’t show up I phoned him and he was very embarrassed – he’s moved away. To Birmingham. ‘That’s sudden,’ I said. Turns out his mum’s house was ransacked last week by a gang of thugs and she was left for dead. So he’s moved in with his mum. He’ll take care of her and fix up the place at the same time, he says. Anyway, I phoned up a window repair company next but they said there’s a huge backlog because of all the storms and vandalism recently, and it could be a long wait. Our bathroom is a mess, muck everywhere, it’s too cold to wash in there, I’ve been washing at the kitchen sink, and the wind keeps slamming doors all through the house. Plus it’s not safe, anyone could climb in. So I thought I’d replace the broken pane with a sheet of plastic and some duct tape, and before I knew it I had a gash in my hand. Lots of blood, five stitches. This morning I washed myself left-handed at the kitchen sink while the wind howled through the house and the surviving windows rattled and the toilet door slammed constantly. I had a bit of a cry, I must admit. But then I reminded myself of the extreme suffering and misfortune all over the world.