V. Naipaul - The nightwatchman's occurrence book - and other comic inventions

It was now dark. A picnic atmosphere came to Henry’s yard. Meals were being prepared in various rooms; gramophones were playing. From distant yards came the sound of steel-bands. Night provided shelter, and in the yard it was very cosy, very like a family gathering. Only, I was not yet of the family.

A girl with a sling bag came in. She greeted Henry, and he greeted her with a largeness of gesture which yet concealed a little reserve, a little awe. He called her Selma. I noted her. I became the third in the party; I became nervous.

I am always nervous in the presence of beauty; and in such a setting, faced with a person I couldn’t assess, I was a little frightened. I didn’t know the rules of Henry’s place and it was clear that the place had its own rules. I was inexperienced. Inexperienced, I say. Yet what good has experience brought me since? I still, in such a situation and in such a place, move between the extremes of courtesy and loudness.

Selma was unattached and cool. I thought she had the coolness that comes either from ownership or from being owned. It was this as much as dress and manner and balance which marked her out from the others in the yard. She might have been Henry’s girl, the replacement for that other, abandoned on the pretty little island; or she might have belonged to someone who had not yet appeared.

The very private greetings over, Henry introduced us.

‘He’s quite a talker,’ he said.

‘He’s a good listener,’ I said.

She asked Henry, ‘Did he hear Priest talk?’

I answered, ‘I did. That was some sermon.’

‘I always like hearing a man use language well,’ she said.

‘He certainly does,’ I said.

‘You can see,’ she said, ‘that he’s an educated man.’

‘You could see that.’

There was a pause. ‘He sells insurance,’ she said, ‘when he’s not preaching.’

‘It sounds a wonderful combination. He frightens us about death, and then sells us insurance.’

She wasn’t amused. ‘I would like to be insured.’

‘You are far too young.’

‘But that is just the time. The terms are better. I don’t know, I would just like it. I feel it’s nice. I have an aunt in the country. She is always making old style because she’s insured. Whenever she buys a little more she always lets you know.’

‘Well, why don’t you buy some insurance yourself?’

She said, ‘I am very poor.’

And she said the words in such a way that it seemed to put a full-stop to our conversation. I hate the poor and the humble. I think poverty is something we should all conceal. Selma spoke of it as something she was neither proud nor ashamed of; it was a condition which was soon to be changed. Little things like this occur in all relationships, little warning abrasions in the smoothness of early intercourse which we choose to ignore. We always deceive ourselves; we cannot say we have not been warned.

‘What would you do if you had a lot of money?’

‘I would buy lots of things,’ she said after some thought. ‘Lots of nice modern things.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘A three-piece suite. One of those deep ones. You sink into them. I’d buy a nice counterpane, satiny and thick and crisscrossed with deep lines. I saw Norma Shearer using one in Escape.’

‘A strange thing. That’s all I remember of that picture. What do you think she was doing in that bed then? But that was an eiderdown she had, you know. You don’t need an eiderdown in this part of the world. It’s too warm.’

‘Well, whatever you call it, I’d like that. And shoes, I’d buy lots of shoes. Do you have nightmares?’

‘Always.’

‘You know mine?’

‘Tell me.’

‘I am in town, you know. Walking down Regent Street. People staring at me, and I feel: this is new. I don’t feel embarrassed. I feel like a beauty queen. Then I see myself in a shop window. I am barefoot. I always wake up then. My feet are hanging over the bed.’

I was still nervous. The conversation always seemed to turn away from the point to which I felt I ought to bring it, though to tell the truth I had lost the wish to do so. Still, we owe a duty to ourselves.

I said, ‘Do you come from the city?’

‘I come from the country.’

Question, answer, fullstop. I tried again. Henry was near us, a bottle in his hand.

I said, ‘What makes a girl like you come to a place like this?’ And, really, I was ashamed of the words almost before I said them.

‘That’s what I call a vicious question,’ Henry said.

At the same time Selma slapped me.

‘You think that’s a nice question?’ Henry said. ‘I think that’s a vicious question. I think that’s obscene.’ He pointed through the open doorway to a little sign in one of the inner rooms: Be obscene but not heard. ‘It’s not something we talk about.’

‘I am sorry.’

‘It’s not for me that I am worried,’ he said. ‘It’s for Selma. I don’t know, but that girl always bringing out the vice in people. She bring out the vice in Blackwhite across the road. Don’t say anything, but I see it in his eye: he want to reform her. And you know what reform is? Reform mean: keep off, for me alone. She bring out the vice in Priest. He don’t want to reform. He just want. Look, Frankie, one set of people come here and then too another set come here. Selma is a educated girl, you know. Cambridge Junior Certificate. Latin and French and geometry and all that sort of thing. She does work in one of the big stores. Not one of those little Syrian shops, you know. She come here every now and then, you come here. That is life. Let us leave the vice outside, let us leave the vice outside. A lot of these girls work in stores. Any time I want a shirt, I just pass around these stores, and these girls give me shirts. We have to help one another.’

I said, ‘You must have a lot of shirts.’

‘Yes, I have a lot of shirts. Look, I will tell you. Selma and one or two of the other people you see here, we call wabeen.’

‘Wabeen?’

‘One of our freshwater fish. A lil loose. A lil. Not for any and everybody. You understand? Wabeen is not spote.’

‘Spote?’

‘Spote is — don’t make me use obscene language, man, Frank. Spote is what you see.’ He waved his hands about the yard.

The steel-bands sounded nearer, and then through a gate in the corrugated iron fence at the back of the lot the musicians came in. Their instruments were made out of old dustbins, and on these instruments they played a coarse music I had never heard before.

‘They have to hide, you know,’ Henry told me. ‘It’s illegal. The war and so on. Helping the war effort.’

There was a little open shed at the back. It had a blackboard. I had noticed that blackboard and wondered about it. In this shed two or three people now began to dance. They drew watchers to them; they converted watchers into participants. From rooms in the houses on Henry’s lot, from rooms in other back-yards, and from the sewerage trace at the back, people drifted in steadily to watch. Each dancer was on his own. Each dancer lived with a private frenzy. Women among the watchers tore twigs from the hibiscus hedges and from time to time, as though offering benediction and reward, beat the dancer’s dusty feet with green leaves.

Henry put his arm over my shoulder and led me to where Selma was standing. He kept one hand on my shoulder; he put the other on her shoulder. We stood silently together, watching. His hands healed us, bound us.

A whistle blew. There were cries of ‘Police!’ and in an instant the yard was transformed. Dustbins appeared upright here and there; liquor bottles disappeared inside some; the dancers and the audience sat in neat rows under the shed and one man stood at the blackboard, writing. Many of Henry’s girls put on spectacles. One or two carried pieces of embroidery.