The Book of Strange New Things. Michel Faber
‘And as the skies turn gloomy,
Night blooms whisper to me,
I’m lonesome as I can be . . . ’
There were four USIC employees in the mess hall, all of them young men unknown to Peter. One, an overweight, crewcut Chinese, dozed in an armchair next to a well-stocked magazine rack, his face slumped on a fist. One was working at the coffee bar, his tall spindly body draped in an oversize T-shirt. He was intently fiddling with a touch-sensitive screen balanced on the counter, poking at it with a metal pencil. He chewed at his swollen lips with large white teeth. His hair was heavy with some sort of gelatinous haircare product. He looked Slavic. The other two men were black. They were seated at one of the tables, studying a book together. It was too large and slim to be a Bible; more likely a technical manual. At their elbows were large mugs of coffee and a couple of dessert plates, bare except for crumbs. Peter could smell no food in the room.
‘I go out walking after midnight,
Out in the starlight.
Just hoping you may be . . . ’
The three awake men noted his arrival with a nod of low-key welcome but did not otherwise interrupt what they were doing. The snoozing Asian and the two men with the book were all dressed the same: loose Middle Eastern-style shirt, loose cotton trousers, no socks, and chunky sports shoes. Islamic basketball players.
‘Hi, I’m Peter,’ said Peter, fronting up to the counter. ‘I’m new here. I’d love something to eat, if you’ve got it.’
The Slavic-looking young man shook his prognathous face slowly to and fro.
‘Too late, bro.’
‘Too late?’
‘Twenty-four-hourly stock appraisal, bro. Began an hour ago.’
‘I was told by the USIC people that food is provided whenever we need it.’
‘Correct, bro. You just gotta make sure you don’t need it at the wrong time.’
Peter digested this. The female voice on the PA system had come to the end of her song. A male announcement followed, sonorous and theatrically intimate.
‘You’re listening to Night Blooms, a documentary chronicle of Patsy Cline’s performances of ‘Walkin’ After Midnight’ from 1957 right through to the posthumous duets in 1999. Well, listeners, did you do what I asked? Did you hold in your memory the girlish shyness that radiated from Patsy’s voice in the version she performed for her debut on Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts? What a difference eleven months makes! The second version you’ve just heard was recorded on December 14, 1957, for the Grand Ole Opry. By then, she clearly had more of an inkling of the song’s uncanny power. But the aura of wisdom and unbearable sadness that you’ll hear in the next version owes something to personal tragedy, too. On June 14, 1961, Patsy was almost killed in a head-on car collision. Incredibly, only a few days after she left hospital, we find her performing ‘After Midnight’ at the Cimarron Ballroom in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Listen, people, listen closely, and you will hear the pain of that terrible auto accident, the grief she must have felt at the deep scars on her forehead, which never healed . . . ’
The ghostly female voice wafted across the ceiling once more.
‘I go out walking after midnight,
Out in the moonlight just like we used to do.
I’m always walking after midnight,
Searching for you . . . ’
‘When is the next food delivery?’ asked Peter.
‘Food’s already here, bro,’ said the Slavic man, patting the counter. ‘Released for consumption in six hours and . . . twenty-seven minutes.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m new here; I didn’t know about this system. And I really am very hungry. Couldn’t you . . . uh . . . release something early, and just mark it as having been served in six hours from now?’
The Slav narrowed his eyes.
‘That would be . . . committing an untruth, bro.’
Peter smiled and hung his head in defeat. Patsy Cline sang ‘Well, that’s just my way of saying I love you . . . ’ as he walked away from the counter and sat down in one of the armchairs near the magazine rack, directly behind the sleeping man.
As soon as his back sank into the upholstery he felt exhausted and he knew that if he didn’t get up again quite soon he would fall asleep. He leaned towards the magazines, taking a quick mental inventory of the selection. Cosmopolitan, Retro Gamer, Men’s Health, Your Dog, Vogue, Vintage Aircraft, Dirty Sperm Whores, House & Garden, Innate Immunity, Autosport, Science Digest, Super Food Ideas . . . Pretty much the full range. Well-thumbed and only slightly out of date.
‘Hey, preacher!’
He turned in his chair. The two black men sharing the table had shut their book, finished with it for the night. One of them was holding aloft a foil-wrapped object the size of a tennis ball, wiggling it demonstratively. As soon as he had Peter’s attention, he tossed the object across the room. Peter caught it easily, without even a hint of a fumble. He had always been an excellent catcher. The two black men raised a friendly fist each, congratulating him. He unwrapped the foil, found a hunk of blueberry muffin.
‘Thank you!’ His voice sounded strange in the acoustics of the mess hall, competing with the DJ, who had resumed his exegesis of Patsy Cline. By this stage of the narrative, Patsy had perished in a plane crash.
‘ . . . personal belongings left behind after the sale of her home. The tape passed from hand to hand, unrecognised for the treasure it was, before finally ending up stored in the closet of a jeweller for several years. Imagine it, friends! Those divine sounds you just heard, dormant inside an unassuming reel of magnetic tape, locked up in a dark closet, perhaps never to see the light of day. But we can be eternally grateful that the jeweller eventually woke up and negotiated a deal with MCA Records . . . ’
The blueberry muffin was delicious; among the best things Peter had ever tasted. And how sweet it was, too, to know that he was in not altogether hostile territory.
‘Welcome to Heaven, preacher!’ called one his benefactors, and everyone except the sleeping Asian laughed.
Peter turned to face them, beamed them a smile. ‘Well, things are certainly looking up from what they were a few minutes ago.’
‘Onwards and upwards, preach! That’s the USIC motto, more or less.’
‘So,’ said Peter, ‘do you guys like it here?’
The black man who’d thrown the muffin went pensive, considering the question seriously. ‘It’s OK, man. As good as anywhere.’
‘Cool weather,’ his companion chipped in.
‘He means nice warm weather.’
‘Which is cool, man, is what I’m saying.’
‘You know, I haven’t even been outside yet,’ said Peter.
‘Oh, you should go,’ said the first man, as though acknowledging the possibility that Peter might prefer to spend his entire Oasis sojourn inside his quarters. ‘Check it out before the light comes up.’
Peter stood up. ‘I’d like that. Where’s . . . uh . . . the nearest door?’
The coffee bar attendant pointed a long, bony finger past an illuminated plastic sign that said ENJOY! in large letters and, underneath in smaller print, EAT AND DRINK RESPONSIBLY. REMEMBER THAT BOTTLED WATER, CARBONATED SOFT DRINKS, CAKES, CONFECTIONERY AND YELLOW-STICKERED ITEMS ARE NOT INCLUDED IN THE FOOD AND DRINK ALLOWANCE AND WILL BE DEDUCTED FROM YOUR EARNINGS.
‘Thanks for the tip,’