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

Mahadeo was still preoccupied with his morning adventure. ‘It look, Goldsmith, like we have to give up that plan now for burying dead Negroes and looking after sick ones.’

For the first time in his life Foam heard Chittaranjan laugh, a short, corrosive titter. ‘Eh, but Mahadeo, you smart, man. You work out that one all by yourself?’

Mahadeo smiled. ‘Yes, Goldsmith.’

Foam was attending with only half a mind. He was straining to catch all the noises inside the house. The coolness he had shown in Ravine Road was beginning to leave him in Chittaranjan’s veranda; the thought of Haq unsettled him now. He heard sounds of washing-up; he heard Mrs Chittaranjan singing the theme song from the Indian film Jhoola.

Mahadeo was saying, ‘Was a good plan though, Goldsmith. Goldsmith, ain’t it did look to you that Sebastian was one Negro who was bound to dead before elections?’

Chittaranjan smiled and rocked and didn’t reply.

Mahadeo suffered. He passed his hands through his hair and said, ‘I sorry, Goldsmith. I was a fool, I was a fool.’

Inside Nelly was moving about. Foam heard the thump and slap of her slippers. Everything seemed all right so far.

Mahadeo scratched the back of his neck to indicate perplexity and contrition. Chittaranjan remained impassive. Mahadeo tried to crack his fingers again; but nothing came: they had been cracked too recently. ‘Goldsmith, this new talk about obeah could frighten off a lot of votes.’

Chittaranjan spoke up. ‘On one side we have the Witnesses telling people not to vote. And now this boy father decide to tell people that if they vote for Harbans, Preacher going to work magic and obeah on them. All-you go ahead. See if that is the way to win election.’

Mahadeo forgot his own error. ‘In truth, Goldsmith, this boy father does talk too much.’

Foam was about to retort, but Chittaranjan challenged him: ‘You got any sorta plan, Foam? To make the Spanish people vote, and to get other people to vote without getting frighten of Preacher obeah?’

Foam shook his head.

Chittaranjan rocked. ‘I have a plan.’

They attended.

‘It ain’t Preacher who working obeah,’ Chittaranjan said. ‘Is the Witnesses. That is the propaganda we have to spread.’

‘Is a master-idea,’ Mahadeo said.

Foam was cautious. ‘Just a minute, Goldsmith. All right, we go about saying that the Witnesses working obeah. But what Preacher going to say?’

Chittaranjan’s gold teeth flashed in the pale light that came through the thickly curtained drawing-room doorway. ‘You is a smart boy, Foam. You does ask the correct question. He’—Chittaranjan jerked his chin towards Mahadeo who stared stolidly at his boots—‘he ain’t have the brains to think of things like that.’

Mahadeo looked up and asked, ‘What Preacher going to say, Goldsmith?’

Chittaranjan stopped rocking. ‘Is like this. Preacher hoping to get some Spanish votes too. He wrong, but it good to let people hope sometimes. If the Spanish ain’t voting, Preacher suffering. So, already Preacher hisself start saying that the Witnesses working obeah. If we say the same thing, the Witnesses ain’t got a chance. People go start getting frighten of the Witnesses and we go get back all the votes of the Spanish people in Cordoba who saying they ain’t voting because politics ain’t a divine thing. Tcha!’ Chittaranjan sucked his teeth; the ingratitude and stupidity of the Spaniards still rankled.

Mahadeo scratched the back of his head and passed a finger down his nose. ‘You know what you have that we ain’t have, Goldsmith? Is brains you have, Goldsmith.’

Chittaranjan snubbed Mahadeo. ‘Wasn’t my idea. Today I hear people talking about obeah and today I hear Lorkhoor going around saying that it wasn’t Preacher working obeah, but the Witnesses. And I sit down and I hold my head in my two hands and I puzzle it out and I see that even out of this boy father stupidness, starting all this talk about dog and obeah, we could make some profit.’

Foam gave his approval. But he was a little bitter that it was Lorkhoor who had thought of a way to counter the Witnesses. After all, the Witnesses were to be defeated by talk of obeah and magic; and this obeah and magic was nothing other than Tiger, Herbert’s Tiger.

Inside, footsteps were measured, ordinary. Mrs Chittaranjan was singing.

Tiger was going to be all right. At least for the night.

AND THE NEXT DAY, in spite of Chittaranjan’s plan, Harbans was in trouble, big trouble.

The day began badly, you might almost say with an omen. Foam had an accident outside Chittaranjan’s shop. Only a chicken was involved, but the repercussions of the accident were to shake Elvira before dusk.

It was just about midday when the accident happened. Ramlogan had closed his rumshop for the regulation hours from twelve to four. Chittaranjan’s two workmen had disappeared somewhere into the back of the shop to eat — Mrs Chittaranjan gave them food and they ate squatting on the floor downstairs. Just then the two rival loudspeaker vans approached one another.

Foam gave his speech everything. ‘People of Elvira, vote for the only honourable man fit to become an Honourable Member of the Legislative Council of Trinidad and Tobago. Vote for Mr Surujpat Harbans, popularly known to all and sundry as Pat Harbans. Mr Harbans is your popular candidate. Mr Harbans will leave no stones unturned to work on your behalf. People of Elvira, this is the voice of Foreman Baksh, popularly known to all and sundry as Foam, this is the voice of Foam Baksh asking you — not begging you or imploring you or beseeching you or entreating you — but asking you and telling you to vote for the honourable and popular candidate, Mr Pat Harbans. Mr Harbans will leave no stones unturned to help you.’ There was a pause. ‘But you must put him in fust.’

Then Lorkhoor spoke and Foam, honourably, remained silent. Lorkhoor said, in his irritating educated voice, ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the fair constituency of Elvira, renowned in song and story, this is the voice of the renowned and ever popular Lorkhoor. Lork-hoor humbly urges every man, woman and child to vote for Mr Thomas, well known to you all as Preacher. Preacher will leave no stone unturned to help you. I repeat, ladies and gentlemen, no stone unturned.’

The vans were about to cross. Foam, remembering Lorkhoor’s taunt the evening before, leaned out and shouted, ‘Yaah! We going to bury Preacher! And he won’t have nobody to preach at his funeral.’

Lorkhoor shouted back, ‘When you bury him, make sure to leave no stone unturned.’

The vans crossed. Lorkhoor shouted, ‘Foreman Baksh, why not speak English for a change?’

‘Put money where your mouth is,’ Foam retorted, although he knew that the words had no relevance to their present exchange. And as he spoke those words he pulled a little to the right to avoid Lorkhoor’s van, felt a bump on his radiator, heard a short, fading cackle, and knew that he had damaged some lesser creature. He waited for the shouts and abuse from the owner. But there was nothing. He looked back quickly. It was a chicken, one of Chittaranjan’s, or rather, Mrs Chittiranjan’s. He drove on.

*

That happened just after noon. Less than three hours later a breadfruit from Ramlogan’s tree dropped so hard on Chittaranjan’s roof that the framed picture of King George V and Mahatma Gandhi in the drawing-room fell.

Chittaranjan rushed to the kitchen window, pushed aside his wife from the enamel sink where she was scouring pots and pans with blue soap and ashes, and shot some elaborate Hindi curses at Ramlogan’s backyard.