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

Chittaranjan listened patiently, his hat on his knees.

When Rampiari’s husband was finished, Chittaranjan asked: ‘When you does want money borrow, Rampiari husband, who you does come to?’

‘I does come to you, Goldsmith.’

‘When you does want somebody to help you get a work, who you does come to?’

‘I does come to you, Goldsmith.’

‘When you want letter write to the Government, who you does come to?’

‘I does come to you, Goldsmith.’

‘When you want cup borrow, plate borrow, chair borrow, who you does come to?’

‘I does come to you, Goldsmith.’

‘When you want any sort of help, Rampiari husband, who you does come to?’

‘I does come to you, Goldsmith.’

‘So when I want help, who I must come to?’

‘You must come to me, Goldsmith.’

‘And when I want this help to put a man in the Legislative Council, who I must come to?’

‘You must come to me, Goldsmith.’

‘You see, Rampiari husband, the more bigger people I know, the more I could help you out. Now tell me, is beg I have to beg you for your sake?’

‘You ain’t have to beg, Goldsmith.’

Chittaranjan stood up and put his hat on. ‘I hope your foot get better quick.’

‘When you see Mr Harbans, Goldsmith, you go tell him, eh, how bad my foot sick.’

Chittaranjan hesitated, remembering Harbans’s refusal to have anything to do with the Hindu sick or the Hindu dead.

Rampiari’s husband said, ‘Preacher coming to see me tomorrow.’

‘What Preacher could do for you? A man like you ain’t want only sympathy. You want a lot more.’

The sick man’s eyes brightened. ‘You never say a truer word, Goldsmith. Whenever I want help, I does come to you.’

Chittaranjan smiled; the sick man smiled back; but when he was outside Chittaranjan muttered, ‘Blasted son of a bitch.’

Still, it was a successful afternoon, despite Rampiari’s husband and all that talk about obeah.

But the obeah talk worried him. It could lose votes.

MRS BAKSH CAME BACK to Elvira, her mission accomplished. Herbert had received his spiritual fumigation; and she brought back mysterious things — in a small brown parcel — which would purify the house as well.

‘Ganesh Pundit was really the man for this sort of mystic thing,’ Baksh said. ‘Pity he had to take up politics. Still, that show how good he was. The moment he feel he was losing his hand for that sort of thing, he give up the business.’

‘The fellow we went to was all right,’ Mrs Baksh said. ‘He jharay the boy well enough.’

Herbert looked chastened indeed. His thin face was stained with tears, his eyes were still red, the edges of his nostrils still quivering and wet. He kept his mouth twisted, to indicate his continuing disgust with the world in general.

Mrs Baksh had been feeling guilty about Herbert. She said to Baksh, for Herbert to hear, ‘Herbert didn’t give the fellow much trouble you know. He behave like a nice nice boy. The fellow say that the fust thing to do when a spirit come on anybody is to beat it out. It ain’t the person you beating pussonal, but the spirit.’

Herbert sniffed.

Baksh said, ‘People ain’t want to believe, you know, man, that the big big dog I see last night turn so small this morning. Nobody ain’t want to believe at all at all. Everybody was surprise like anything.’

Mrs Baksh sank aghast into her cane-bottomed chair. ‘But you know you is a damn fool, Baksh. You mean you went around telling people?’

‘Didn’t tell them everything. Didn’t mention nothing about Preacher or about obeah. Just say something about the dog. It ain’t have nothing wrong if I tell about the dog. Look, Harichand tell me about the time he did see some tiny tiny horses dragging a tiny tiny funeral huss. Was a moonlight night. Three o’clock …’

‘Everybody know about Harichand huss. But that was only a sign.’

‘Sign, eh? And this thing — this dog business — that — that is obeah and magic, eh? Something bigger?’

‘Yes, you damn fool, yes.’

‘Nobody did believe anyway. Everybody thought I was lying.’

‘You was lying, Pa,’ Herbert said. ‘Was a puppy last night and is a puppy today.’

Baksh was grateful for the diversion. ‘Oh God! Oh God! I go show that boy!’

He tried to grab Herbert; but Herbert ducked behind Mrs Baksh’s chair. He knew that his mother was in a sympathetic mood. And Baksh knew that in the circumstances Herbert was inviolate. Still, he made a show. He danced around the chair. Mrs Baksh put out a large arm as a barrier. Baksh respected it.

‘Oh God!’ he cried. ‘To hear a little piss-in-tail boy talking to me like that! When I was a boy, if I did talk to my father like that, I woulda get my whole backside peel with blows.’

‘Herbert,’ Mrs Baksh said. ‘You mustn’t tell your father he lie. What you must say?’

‘I must say he tell stories,’ Herbert said submissively. But he perked up, and a faint mocking smile — which made him look a bit like Foam — came to his lips.

‘No, Herbert, you mustn’t even say that your father does tell stories.’

‘You mean I mustn’t say any thing, Ma?’

‘No, son, you mustn’t say anything.’

Baksh stuck his hands into his tight pockets. ‘Next time you say anything, see what happen to you, mister man. I beat you till you pee, you hear.’

Herbert had a horror of threats of that sort; they seemed much worse than any flogging.

‘I talking to you, mister man,’ Baksh insisted. ‘Answer me.’

Herbert looked at his mother.

She said, ‘Answer him.’

He said, ‘Yes, Pa.’

Baksh took his hands out of his pockets. He was mollified but continued to look offended. He couldn’t fool Herbert though. Herbert knew that Baksh was only trying to prevent Mrs Baksh attacking him.

Baksh got in his blows first. ‘You call yourself a mother, and this is the way you bringing up your children. To insult their father and call him liar to his face. This is what you encouraging the children to do, after they eating my food since they born.’

Mrs Baksh, tired and very placid now, said, ‘ You carry them nine months in your belly? You nurse them? You clean them?’

Baksh’s moustache twitched as he looked for an answer.

Before he found one Mrs Baksh returned to the counterattack. ‘Who fault it is that this whole thing happen?’ Her brow darkened and her manner changed. ‘Is this election sweetness that sweeten you up, Baksh. But see how this sweetness going to turn sour sour. See.’

She was righter than she knew.

*

All that day Tiger remained in his box under the steps, dozing or lying awake and futile. Foam fed him surreptitiously; but Tiger was unused to food and in the afternoon he had an attack of hiccoughs. He lay flat on his side, his tiny ribs unable to contain the convulsions of his tiny belly. The hiccoughs shook him with more energy than he had ever shown; they lifted him up and dropped him down again on the sodden newspapers; they caused curious swallowing noises in his throat. His box became wetter and filthier. Foam, for all his toughness, was squeamish about certain things, and Tiger’s box was never cleaned. But Foam fed Tiger, often and unwisely; and it gave him much pleasure when once, stretching out his hand and passing a finger down Tiger’s muzzle, he saw Tiger raise his eyes and raise his tail.

And now he had to get rid of Tiger.

‘Put him in a bag and take him away in the van,’ Mrs Baksh said after dinner.