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

‘Where you want me take the dog?’ Foam asked.

‘Just take him outa the house,’ Mrs Baksh said, wiping her eyes. ‘That is all I want. But don’t take him away, in broad daylight. Is bad enough already having obeah coming inside here. Don’t take it out for everybody to see. Ten die. What more Preacher have in mind than to make all of we come thin thin like that dog? And then for all ten of we to dead. What more?’

Baksh was struck by his wife’s interpretation. ‘Take that dog outa my house!’ he ordered. ‘And don’t give that dog any of my food, you hear. That dog going to suck the blood outa all of we if you don’t get him outa here quick sharp.’

Tiger woke up and looked dreamily at the scene.

*

Mrs Baksh took Herbert for a spiritual fumigation to a gentleman in Tamana who, following the celebrated mystic masseur Ganesh at a distance, dabbled in the mystic.

And when Baksh saw Preacher on the road that morning, walking as briskly as ever, he crossed himself.

THINGS WERE CRAZILY MIXED up in Elvira. Everybody, Hindus, Muslims and Christians, owned a Bible; the Hindus and Muslims looking on it, if anything, with greater awe. Hindus and Muslims celebrated Christmas and Easter. The Spaniards and some of the Negroes celebrated the Hindu festival of lights. Someone had told them that Lakshmi, the goddess of prosperity, was being honoured; they placed small earthern lamps on their money-boxes and waited, as they said, for the money to breed. Everybody celebrated the Muslim festival of Hosein. In fact, when Elvira was done with religious festivals, there were few straight days left.

That was what Lorkhoor, Foam’s rival, went around preaching from his loudspeaker van that morning; the unity of races and religions. Between speeches he played records of Hindi songs and American songs.

‘People of Elvira, the fair constituency of Elvira,’ Lorkhoor said. ‘Unite! You have nothing to lose but you chains. Unite and cohere. Vote for the man who has lived among you, toiled among you, prayed among you, worked among you. This is the voice of the renowned and ever popular Lorkhoor begging you and urging you and imploring you and entreating you and beseeching you to vote for Preacher, the renowned and ever popular Preacher. Use your democratic rights on election day and vote one, vote all. This, good people of Elvira, is the voice of Lorkhoor.’

Lorkhoor took a good deal of pleasure in his unpopularity. He offended most Indians, Hindus and Muslims; and Preacher’s Negro supporters looked on him with suspicion. Mr Cuffy didn’t like Lorkhoor. Mr Cuffy was Preacher’s most faithful supporter. Preacher was the visionary, Mr Cuffy the practical disciple. He was a grey-headed Negro who ran a shoe-repair shop which he called The United African Pioneer Self-Help Society. Every Friday evening Mr Cuffy held a prayer-meeting from his veranda. He wore his tight blue serge suit and preached with the Bible in one hand. On a small centre table he had a gas lamp and a framed picture of a stabbed and bleeding heart. On the last few Fridays, to ward off the evil he feared from Lorkhoor, Mr Cuffy had been giving resounding sermons on treachery.

So, when Lorkhoor’s van came near, Mr Cuffy, some tacks between his purple lips, looked up briefly and muttered a prayer.

Lorkhoor stopped the van outside Mr Cuffy’s shop and, to Mr Cuffy’s disgust, made a long speech over the loudspeaker before jumping out. He was slim and tall, though not so tall or slim as Foam. He had a broad bony face with a thriving moustache that followed the cynical curve of his top lip and drooped down a bit further. He had grown the moustache after seeing a film with the Mexican actor, Pedro Armendariz. In the film Armendariz spoke American with an occasional savage outburst in Spanish; it was the Spanish outbursts that thrilled Lorkhoor. Teacher Francis loyally if sorrowfully agreed that the moustache made Lorkhoor look like the Mexican; but Lorkhoor’s enemies thought otherwise. Foam called Lorkhoor Fu-Manchu; that was how Mr Cuffy thought of him too.

‘Heard the latest, Mr Coffee?’

Here was another reason for Lorkhoor’s unpopularity: his stringent determination to speak correct English at all times. He spoke it in a deliberate way, as though he had to weigh and check the grammar beforehand. When Lorkhoor spoke like that outside Elvira, people tried to overcharge him. They thought him a tourist; because he spoke correct English they thought he came from Bombay.

‘Good morning,’ Mr Cuffy said.

Lorkhoor recognized his social blunder. ‘Morning, Mr Coffee.’

Mr Cuffy frowned, the wrinkles on his black face growing blacker. ‘I is not something you does drink, sir.’

The people of Elvira called Mr Cuffy ‘Cawfee’. Lorkhoor, a stickler for correctness, called him ‘Coffee’. Mr Cuffy preferred ‘Cawfee’.

‘Heard the latest?’

‘Ain’t hear nothing,’ Mr Cuffy said, looking down at the ruined black boot in his hand.

‘Propaganda, Mr Cawfee. Blackmail and blackball.’

Mr Cuffy regarded Lorkhoor suspiciously; he thought his colour was being mocked.

‘Obeah, Mr Cawfee.’

Mr Cuffy tacked a nail. ‘God hath made man upright.’

‘Yes, Mr Cawfee. However, this propaganda is pernicious.’

Mr Cuffy tacked another nail. ‘But they had found out many inventions.’

‘Something about a dog.’

‘Ain’t know nothing about no dog.’

‘Could destroy the whole campaign, you know.’

‘That go satisfy you, eh, Mr Lorkhoor? That go satisfy your heart?’

‘Mr Cawfee, I’m only informing you that the opposition are spreading the pernicious propaganda that Preacher is working obeah.’

‘Who give you the right to call the gentleman Preacher?’

‘Mr Preacher, then.’

‘Mr Preacher go look after everything. Don’t worry your head too much, you.’

‘Still, Mr Cawfee, keep your eyes open. Nip the rumour in the bud. And see if they try to work any obeah against us. Could frighten off many votes, you know, if they try to work any obeah and magic against Mr Preacher.’

Bicycle bells trilled from the road and Lorkhoor and Mr Cuffy saw two white women with sunglasses standing beside red pudgytyred American bicycles. Pennants from both cycles said AWAKE!

Mr Cuffy grumbled a greeting.

The shorter woman took a magazine from her tray and held it before her like a shield.

The taller woman said, ‘Can we interest you in some good books?’

‘I’ve read too many lately,’ Lorkhoor said.

He was ignored.

Mr Cuffy looked down. ‘Ain’t want no magazine.’ But his manner was respectful.

Miss Short said happily, ‘Oh, we know you don’t like us.’

Mr Cuffy looked up. ‘You know?’

‘Course we do. We’re Witnesses.’

‘This election business,’ Mr Cuffy said. ‘You in this election business, like everybody else?’

Miss Short curled her thin lips. ‘We have nothing to do with politics.’

‘It’s not a divine institution,’ said Miss Tall, ‘but a man-made evil. After all, who started the politics you have in Elvira today?’

‘British Government,’ Mr Cuffy said. He looked puzzled.

The Witnesses rested their case.

‘We had to fight for it,’ Lorkhoor said.

Miss Short looked at him sympathetically. ‘Why, I don’t believe you’re even a Christian.’

‘Of course not,’ Lorkhoor snapped. ‘Look at Jacob. Defend Jacob. Defend Abraham.’ It was something he had got from Teacher Francis.

‘We must study the Bible together,’ Miss Short said. ‘What do you do Sunday afternoons?’

Mr Cuffy’s puzzlement was turning to exasperation. ‘Look, who you come to see? Me? Or he?’