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

Mrs Baksh mocked, ‘ “Who want to put anything on me?” Well, ten die. And with the dog it have ten of we in this house now.’ Mrs Baksh was calm, ponderously calm. ‘Baksh, you going to stand me witness that I tell you that this election beginning sweet sweet, but it going to end sour. You think Preacher is a fool? You think Preacher ain’t know that you campaigning against him? You expect him to take that grinning and lying down?’

Baksh said, ‘As usual, you didn’t listen to me. You did think I was drunk. If you did come down last night you woulda see what I was telling you. Telling you, man, was a big big dog last night. Big big dog.’

Tiger half-opened one eye.

‘See!’ Baksh said. ‘He know. See how sly he looking at me.’

Herbert joined the line, standing beside Rafiq.

Mrs Baksh leaned back in her chair and looked broader than ever. Her bodice tightened and creased right across her bosom; her skirt tightened and creased across her belly. She folded her arms and then put one hand against her jaw. ‘Foam, you bring the dog?’

‘No, Ma.’

‘Zilla, you bring the dog?’

Zilla began to cry.

‘But why for you crying? If you ain’t bring the dog, you ain’t bring the dog, and that is that. You bring the dog?’

Zilla shook her head and sobbed loudly.

Tiger twitched an ear.

‘Carol, you bring the dog?’

‘Ma, you know I is not that sorta girl.’

And so the questioning went on.

‘Herbert, you bring in any dog last night? Herbert, I asking you, you feed any dog outa one of my good good enamel plates that I does only feed humans on?’

‘No, Ma.’

‘Make sure, you know.’

‘I ain’t bring no dog, Ma.’

‘All right. Foam, go and get the Bible. It in my bureau. Under the parcel with all the photos and the birth certificates.’

Foam went upstairs.

‘Baksh, go and bring the shop key.’

Baksh went off with a lot of zest. ‘Telling you, man. If only you did listen to me last night!’

‘So!’ Mrs Baksh sighed. ‘So! Nobody ain’t bring the dog. It just walk in through a lock door and jump in a condensed milk box.’

Foam and Baksh returned with Bible and key.

Mrs Baksh closed her eyes and opened the Bible at random. ‘Ten die,’ she sighed. ‘Ten die.’ She put the key on the open Bible. ‘Foam, take one end of the key.’

Foam held one end of the key on the tip of his middle finger and Mrs Baksh held the other end. The Bible hung over the key.

‘If nobody ain’t going to take back what they say,’ Mrs Baksh said, ‘this is the only way to find out who bring the dog. All-you know what going to happen. If the Bible turn when I mention anybody name, we go know who bring the dog. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Ready, Foam?’

Foam nodded.

Mrs Baksh said, ‘By Saint Peter, by Saint Paul, Foam bring the dog.’

Foam replied, ‘By Saint Peter, by Saint Paul, Foam ain’t bring no dog.’

The Bible remained steady.

Mrs Baksh began again. ‘By Saint Peter, by Saint Paul, Zilla bring the dog.’

Foam replied, ‘By Saint Peter, by Saint Paul, Zilla ain’t bring no dog.’

Mrs Baksh, leaning back in her chair, looked solemnly at the Bible, not at the little Bakshes. She fetched a deep sigh and began again, this time on Carol.

Foam’s finger started to tremble.

Baksh looked on, pleased. The Biblical trial always appealed to him. Rafiq was excited. Herbert knew he was lost, but he was going to stick it out to the end. Tiger was dozing again, his thin muzzle between his thin front legs; the flies, energetic in the early morning, swarmed about him.

‘By Saint Peter, by Saint Paul, Rafiq bring the dog.’

It was going to be Herbert’s turn next. He had been through this sort of trial before. He knew he couldn’t fool the Bible.

Foam’s whole right hand was trembling now, from the strain of having a weight at his finger-tip.

‘By Saint Peter, by Saint Paul, Rafiq ain’t bring no dog.’

Another sigh from Mrs Baksh.

Baksh passed a hand over his moustache.

‘By Saint Peter, by Saint Paul, Herbert bring the dog.’

‘By Saint Peter, by Saint Paul, Herbert ain’t bring no dog.’

The key turned. The Bible turned and fell. The key lay naked, its ends resting on the fingers of Foam and Mrs Baksh.

Rafiq said excitedly, ‘I did know it! I did know it!’

Foam said, ‘You did know too much.’

‘Herbert,’ Mrs Baksh said, ‘you going to lie against the Bible, boy?’

Rafiq said, ‘It must be obeah and magic. Last night he tell me it was a big big dog. And he say it was a bad dog.’ The emphasis sounded sinister.

‘Well,’ Mrs Baksh said calmly, getting up and smoothing out the creases across her wide belly, ‘before I do anything, I have to cut his little lying tail.’ She spoke to Baksh, kindly: ‘Man, let me see your belt a little bit, please.’

Baksh replied with equal civility: ‘Yes, man.’

He undid his leather belt, pulling it carefully through the loops of his khaki trousers as though he wanted to damage neither trousers nor belt. Mrs Baksh took the belt. Herbert began to cry in advance. Mrs Baksh didn’t look at him. She held the belt idle for some moments, looking down at it almost reflectively. On a sudden she turned; and lunged at Herbert, striking out with the belt, hitting him everywhere. Herbert ran about the small room, but he couldn’t get out. The back door was still barred; the door that led to the tailor shop was still padlocked. Unhurried, Mrs Baksh stalked him. The belt gave her ample reach. Once she struck Baksh. She stopped and said, ‘Och. Sorry, man.’

‘Is all right, man. Mistake.’

Herbert bawled and screeched, making the siren-like noise that had so disturbed Harbans that Friday afternoon some weeks before. The other little Bakshes looked on with fascination. Even Foam was affected. Rafiq’s excitement turned to horror. Zilla wept.

Then Foam called in his stern booming voice, ‘All right, Ma.’

Mrs Baksh stopped and looked at him.

Baksh looked at him.

Mechanically Mrs Baksh passed the belt back to Baksh.

Herbert sat on the steps, his eyes and nose streaming. His sobs, half snuffle and half snort, came at regular intervals.

Tiger dozed on, his ears twitching.

Mrs Baksh sat down on the chair, exhausted, and began to cry. ‘My own son, my biggest son, talking to me so!’

Baksh tried to soothe her.

‘Go away. Is your fault, Baksh. Is this election sweetness that sweeten you up so. And now you seeing how sour it turning. You having people throwing all sorta magic and obeah in my house, you having all my sons lying to my face, and you having my biggest son talk to me like if I is his daughter. Is your fault, Baksh. This election sweetness done turning sour, I tell you.’

‘You see, Foam?’ Baksh said. ‘It make you happy? Seeing your mother cry?’

‘I ain’t tell she nothing. She was going to bless the boy, that is all.’

‘Take that dog outa my house!’ Mrs Baksh screamed, her face twisted and inflamed. ‘If that dog don’t go, I go go.’ She cried a lot more. ‘Oh God, Baksh! Now I have to waste a whole day. Now I have to go and take Herbert and get the spirit off him.’

From the steps Herbert said, ‘I ain’t got no spirit on me.’

Baksh said, ‘You keep your little tail quiet, mister man. Like you ain’t had enough.’ He said to Mrs Baksh, ‘I can’t think of nobody who could drive away a spirit as good as Ganesh Pundit. He was the man for that sort of thing. But he take up politics now.’

That reminded Mrs Baksh. ‘This election sweetness! Man, I telling you, it turning sour.’