He stepped deeper into Kurtzberg’s apartment. There was no evidence of any other illicit visits before this one. The atmosphere was stale, and a film of dust covered the flat surfaces. There was no Shoot on the table, just a bottle of filtered water (half-empty and pure-looking) and a plastic mug. The bed was unmade, with one pillow hanging off the edge, poised to fall, placidly established in that poise, set to hang there for ever. Spread out on the bed was one of Kurtzberg’s shirts, its sleeves upflung as if in surrender. The armpits were discoloured with mildew.
Disappointingly, there were no documents anywhere to be seen: no diaries or notebooks. There was a Bible — a neat paperback Revised Standard Version — lying on a chair. Peter opened it, riffled through the pages. Kurtzberg, he soon realised, was not the sort of person who underlined verses that struck him as particularly significant or who scribbled annotations in the margins. There was nothing here but pristine Scripture. Peter, in his own sermons, would occasionally tell a joke or an aphorism to drive home a point, and one of the dictums he enjoyed quoting, whenever he sensed that people in the congregation were staring at his grubby, decrepit, dog-eared New Testament, was ‘Clean Bible — dirty Christian. Dirty Bible — clean Christian.’ Marty Kurtzberg obviously did not subscribe to this view.
Peter opened the wardrobe. A formal suit jacket, in powder-blue linen, hung there, next to a pair of white slacks with faint grey stains on the knees. Kurtzberg was a compact man, no taller than five foot six, and his shoulders were narrow. Two more coat-hangers were cloaked in shirts of the same kind as the one on the bed, replete with classy silk ties slung loosely around the collars. On the bottom of the wardrobe lay a pair of leather shoes, polished to a gleam, and a wadded-up pair of cream socks that were furry with mould.
I’m not going to learn anything here, thought Peter, and turned to leave. As he turned, though, he noticed something lying under the window, a litter of what looked like flower petals. On closer inspection, it proved to be torn fragments of adhesive bandage. Dozens of them. As if Kurtzberg had stood at the window, staring out at goodness knows what, and ripped up an entire packet of Band-Aids one by one, into shreds as small as possible, letting them fall at his feet.
After his visit to Kurtzberg’s quarters, Peter lost all motivation to explore the USIC compound any further. A pity, because this was his chance to make up for forgetting all the orienteering info Grainger had told him on arrival. Walking around was good exercise, too; no doubt his muscles needed it, but… well, to be truthful, this place made him depressed.
He wasn’t sure why. The compound was spacious, clean, cheerfully painted, and there were plenty of windows. OK, a few of the corridors were a bit tunnel-like, but they couldn’t all face onto the sky, could they? And OK, a few pot plants here and there might have been nice, but USIC could hardly be blamed if the soil of Oasis didn’t support ferns and rhododendrons. And it wasn’t as if no attempt had been made to finesse the décor. At regular intervals in the corridors hung nicely framed posters that were intended, presumably, to raise a smile. Peter noted perennial favourites like the photo of the worried-looking kitten hanging upside-down from a twig, captioned OH, SHIT…, the dog sharing his basket with two ducks, Laurel and Hardy cluelessly attempting to build a house, the elephant balancing on a ball, the convoy of forward-striding cartoon men in Robert Crumb’s ‘Keep On Truckin’, and — at impressive size, from chest-height to just under the ceiling — Charles Ebbets’ famous monochrome of construction workers eating lunch on an iron girder suspended vertiginously above the streets of Manhattan. A little further on, Peter wondered whether the 1940s propaganda painting titled We Can Do It!, showing ‘Rosie the Riveter’ flexing her well-muscled forearm, was intended sincerely to inspire the personnel, or if it had been fixed there with a wink of irony. In any case, some sly graffitist had added, in felt-tip, NO THANKS ROSIE.
Not all the pictures alluded to construction projects and tough challenges; there was a quotient of art-for-art’s-sake as well. Peter noted several classic screenprints by Mucha and Toulouse-Lautrec, a collage by Braque or someone of that ilk, and a giant photograph labelled ‘Andreas Gursky: Rhine II’ that was almost abstract in its simple stripes of green field and blue river. There were also facsimiles of old movie posters featuring matinee idols from the far distant past: Bing Crosby, Bob Hope, Marlene Dietrich, even Rudolph Valentino. Something for everybody. The range couldn’t be faulted, really, although there was a curious absence of any image that evoked a specific, currently existing spot on Earth, or a passionate emotion.
Craving fresh air, Peter headed for the nearest door that led outside.
Whether the ocean of humid air that rushed to greet him when he emerged into the sunshine could be called ‘fresh’ was, of course, debatable. It certainly wasn’t stagnant. Wisps of it lifted locks of his hair to caress his scalp, while other currents slipped into his clothing and sought out the flesh he’d tried to keep covered. But it was better this time. His dishdasha was a single layer between him and the atmosphere, and once it became damp — which happened within seconds — it hung off him loosely, a bit heavy on the shoulders but comfortable everywhere else. The fabric, though thin enough not to be stifling, was tightly woven enough to conceal the fact that he wore nothing else underneath, and stiff enough not to cling. The atmosphere got on well with it.
He walked briskly along the tarmac, along the outer wall of the USIC building, taking advantage of the shade cast by the concrete monstrosity. The sandals allowed his feet to breathe; the sweat between his toes evaporated as soon as it formed. The air tickled his shins and ankles, which ought to have been unpleasant but was really quite delightful. His mood was much improved, the unease he’d felt indoors already forgotten.
Turning a corner, he found himself passing alongside the windowed exterior of the mess hall. The sun blazed on the glass, making it difficult for him to see through, but he got a vague impression of the tables and chairs and the people gathered in there. He waved blindly into the haze, in case anyone had spotted him and might be waving to him. He wouldn’t want them to think he was snubbing them.
Averting his eyes from the glare, he caught sight of something unexpected: a large gazebo, situated a couple of hundred metres from the main building. Its canopy was bright yellow, made of canvas or sailcloth, slackly stretched over the support struts. Peter had once conducted a wedding under such a structure; he’d also seen them at the seaside and in public gardens. They provided shelter from sun and rain and could be easily dismantled, although this one looked more permanent. There was movement inside its shade, so he ambled over to investigate.
Four — no, five — people were under the gazebo, dancing. Not in pairs but alone. Actually, no, maybe they weren’t dancing: maybe it was a Tai Chi session.
Approaching nearer still, Peter saw that they were in fact exercising. This place was a sort of outdoor gym, furnished not with high-tech electric treadmills and ergometers but with simple wooden and metal structures that resembled children’s playground equipment. Moro was there, pumping her legs on the padded sidebars of a weighted wheel. BG was there, lifting sandbags on a pulley. The other three were unknown to Peter. Wet with sweat, all five applied themselves to their brightly painted mechanisms, stretching, pacing, twisting, bowing.