Dear Bea, he wrote.
I’ve written too little and too late. I’m sorry. I love you very much. I wish you were here with me. Today I found out that Ella Reinman — that skinny woman at the USIC meetings who looked like a meerkat — was some sort of psychologist who was assessing you, and that she disqualified you from coming here. This news upset me enormously. I felt so outraged on your behalf. Who is she to judge your suitability for a mission like this on the basis of a few snatches of conversation? She only saw you a couple of times and you’d come straight from work and your head was still full of that. You’d had no time to unwind. I can still see that Reinman woman so clearly — her weird head sticking out of her cashmere polo-neck. Judging you.
The sun is going down here. Finally. It’s a lovely time of day and lasts for many hours.
I will try harder to paint you a picture. It’s been a shock to me how bad I am at describing things in letters. It’s a shortcoming we never had to face before, being together every day of our lives. It’s made me read the Epistles in a different light. Paul, James, Peter and John didn’t say much about their context, did they? Scholars have to dig between the lines to get even the faintest clue about where the apostles might have lived at the time. If only Paul could have spent a few words on describing his prison…
Speaking of which, my quarters here are driving me
He paused, then deleted the incomplete sentence. To complain about his living conditions to Bea, who had recently suffered so much discomfort and inconvenience, would be in bad taste.
Speaking of Paul, he tried again, the verse you alluded to is a bit different in its verbatim form and I’m not sure I agree that ‘bearing one’s own burdens first’ is what Galatians 6:5 is really getting at. It’s a tricky chapter and the focus changes from verse to verse but overall I think Paul is talking about striking a balance between dissuading others from sin and keeping in mind that we are sinners ourselves. It’s not the most crystal-clear passage he ever wrote (and this one was hand-written, too, not dictated like some of the other epistles!) and I must admit that if I were trying to paraphrase it for the Oasans I’d have my job cut out for me. Fortunately, there are plenty of other Bible passages whose meaning is much more transparent and which I’m confident will be vivid and meaningful for my new friends in Christ.
Again he paused. Pictures. Bea needed pictures. Where were the pictures?
I’m sitting at the shoot wearing my dishdasha and the olive-green pullover and black socks. I look like a complete berk, I imagine. My hair is growing longer all the time. I’ve considered hacking it shorter with some scissors or even establishing a relationship with the USIC hairdresser, but I’ve decided to let it go until I’m back with you again. You cut my hair better than anyone. Plus, it’s a like a symbol of what we do for each other. I don’t want to lose those little rituals.
He thought some more.
I’m so glad to hear that your hand is healing up. You need that hand, and not just for work! I wish I could feel it pressed against the small of my back. Your hand is warm and always so dry. I don’t mean that in a negative way. It’s just that it’s never clammy, it’s always soft and dry, like the finest leather. Like an incredibly expensive glove without any seams. Oh boy, that sounds terrible. I don’t have any future as a metaphysical love poet, do I?
Sorry to hear about Joshua. Poor thing, what a state he’s in. All I can say to give us hope is that although cats are creatures of habit, the habits don’t necessarily stay the same forever. Remember how Joshua went through a phase of attacking/chewing your nursing shoes and then he suddenly moved on to something else? And remember how when we had poor old Titus, we thought we’d have to take him back to the animal shelter, because he went through a phase of howling all night and we were completely exhausted? And then one day he just stopped doing it. So let’s not despair about Joshua. The broken window and the wind have obviously spooked him but now that the house is warm and quiet again, I’m sure he’ll calm down. I think you’re wise not to pull him out from under the bed. He’ll come out himself when he’s ready. I also don’t think there’s any need for you to sit in a state of nervous tension when he’s on your lap, afraid to move in case he jumps off. He will sense that you’re anxious and it may reinforce his own anxiety. My advice is, make a gentle fuss of him when he first jumps on your lap. Enjoy him being there. Then, when you need to go to the toilet or fetch something from another room, tell him affectionately that you’ve got to get up now, and lift him smoothly and swiftly down onto the floor. Stroke his head once or twice and then walk away. Train him to understand that these interruptions are temporary and no big deal.
My pastoral role here in the USIC base has been pretty limited, I must admit. I’ve done one funeral service, as you know, and afterwards I had a good discussion with a few of the mourners who stayed behind, particularly a woman called Maneely who said she’d felt the presence of God and seemed keen to take it further. But I haven’t seen her since except for once in the corridor coming out of the mess hall where she said ‘Hi’ in a nice-to-see-you-but-don’t-stop-me-I’m-busy sort of tone. Everyone is busy here. Not in a frantic way, just getting on with what they do. They’re not as low-key as the Oasans, but there’s definitely less stress than you’d expect.
In fact, I’d have to say that the USIC personnel are an amazingly well-behaved and tolerant lot. They don’t quarrel much at all. Just a bit of teasing and low-level bickering sometimes, as you’d expect in any context where a bunch of very different people are trying to get along. As far as I’m aware — and I’ve only just realised this, talking to you now — there’s no police force here. And the strange thing is, it doesn’t seem strange, if you know what I mean. All my life, when I’ve walked around the streets or been in workplaces or at school, I’ve immediately sensed how instinctively, how INTENSELY people resent other people. Everyone’s continually at the limit of their patience, on the brink of losing their cool. You sense the potential for violence. And so the concept of a police force seems logical and necessary. But in a context where everyone’s a grown-up and they’re just getting on with their appointed tasks, who needs a bunch of guys in uniform circling around? It seems absurd.
Of course, part of the credit has to go to the booze-free environment. In theory, alcohol is available here — it costs a preposterous amount, a substantial chunk of the USIC staff’s weekly wage — but nobody buys it. They occasionally make jokes about intending to buy it, they josh each other about procuring booze the way people josh about having sex with people they’d never truly have sex with. But when it comes down to it, they don’t seem to need it. Some of the men make references to taking drugs, too. I’ve learned that this is just male bravado, or maybe an affirmation of who they used to be, once upon a time. I can sniff drugs a mile off (so to speak) and I’m willing to bet there aren’t any here. It’s not that the USIC staff are fitness freaks or health nuts — they’re quite a mixed bag of physical specimens, with some borderline obese ones, some runty ones, and quite a few who look like they used to inflict a lot of punishment on themselves. But they’re in another phase now. (Like Joshua soon will be, God willing!)