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

‘It will drown the fleas,’ Herbert said.

Foam wasn’t so sure. ‘These fleas is like hell to kill.’

‘I don’t think Tiger going to like this, you know, Foam.’

Tiger hated it. As soon as he felt the water he started to cry and whine. He shivered and squirmed. From time to time he forgot himself and tried to bite, but never did. The water soaked through his coat until Foam and Herbert could see his pink pimply skin. He looked tiny and weak still. Then the blue soap was rubbed over him.

‘Careful, Foam. Mustn’t let the soap get in his eye.’

The fleas hopped about in the lather, a little less nimble than usual.

Before they could dry him, Tiger slipped out of Foam’s hands and ran dripping wet down the Elvira main road. Water had given him a strong attachment to dry land, the dustier the better. He rolled in the warm sand and dirt of the main road and shook himself vigorously on passers-by. Dirt stuck to his damp coat and he looked more of a wreck than he had before his bath.

Foam and Herbert chased him.

The patch of dirt before Mr Cuffy’s house appealed to Tiger. He flung himself on it and rolled over and over. Mr Cuffy stood up to watch. Tiger rose from the dirt, ran up to Mr Cuffy, gave himself a good shake, spattering Mr Cuffy with water and pellets of dirt, and tried to rub against Mr Cuffy’s trousers.

Mr Cuffy raised his boot and kicked Tiger away. And for a kick on a thin dog it made a lot of noise. A hollow noise, a dup! the noise you would expect from a slack drum. Tiger ran off whining. He didn’t run far. He ran into the main road, turned around when he judged it safe to do so; then, taking a precautionary step backwards, let out a sharp snap of a bark. He turned away again, shook himself and ambled easily off.

Herbert, running up, saw everything.

‘God go pay you for that, Mr Cawfee,’ Herbert said. ‘He go make you dead like a cockroach, throwing up your foot straight and stiff in the air. God go pay you.’

‘Dirty little puppy dog,’ said Mr Cuffy.

Foam came up. ‘Yes, God go pay you back, Cawfee. All you Christians always hot with God name in your mouth as though all-you spend a week-end with Him. But He go pay you back.’

‘Puppy dog,’ Mr Cuffy said.

‘He go make you dead like a cockroach,’ Herbert said. ‘Just watch and see.’

*

Nomination day came. The three candidates filled forms and paid deposits. There were only two surprises. Preacher supplied both. The first was his name, Nathaniel Anaclitus Thomas. Some people knew about the Nathaniel, but no one suspected Anaclitus. Even more surprising was Preacher’s occupation, which was given on the nomination blank as simply, ‘Proprietor’.

Harbans described himself as a ‘Transport Contractor’, Baksh as a ‘Merchant Tailor’.

The night before, Pundit Dhaniram had suggested a plan to prevent the nomination of the other candidates.

‘Get in fust,’ he told Harbans. ‘And pay them your two hundred and fifty dollars in coppers. Only in coppers. And make them check it.’

‘You go want a salt bag to carry all that,’ Foam said.

For an absurd moment Harbans had taken the idea seriously. ‘But suppose they tell me wait, while they attend to Preacher and Baksh?’

Dhaniram shook his legs and sucked at his cigarette. ‘Can’t tell you wait. You go fust, they got to attend to you fust. Facts is facts and fair is fair.’

Chittaranjan squashed the discussion by saying drily, ‘You can’t give nobody more than twelve coppers. More than that is not legal tender.’

Harbans paid in notes.

He paid Baksh his two thousand dollars election expenses only after the nominations had been filed.

‘Like I did tell you, boss, can’t give you much of a fight with this alone,’ Baksh said ungraciously. ‘I is a man with a big family.’

That evening Baksh went to Ramlogan’s rumshop to celebrate his new triumph. They treated him like a hero. He talked.

*

At the end of that week, the last in July, the Elvira Government School closed for the holidays and Teacher Francis was glad to get away to Port of Spain. Elvira had become insupportable to him. Lorkhoor’s behaviour was one thing; and then, as he had feared, most of the Elvira parents had followed Chittaranjan’s example and stopped sending their children to him for private lessons.

The children were now free to give more of their time to the election. In their tattered vests and shirts and jerseys they ran wild over Elvira, tormenting all three candidates with their encouragements; impartially they scrawled new slogans and defaced old ones; they escorted Preacher on his house-to-house visits until Mr Cuffy frightened them off.

And the campaigns grew hot.

Lorkhoor roared into the attack, slandering Baksh, slandering Harbans. He spent the whole of one steamy afternoon telling Elvira what Elvira knew: that Harbans had induced Baksh to stand as a candidate.

‘A man who gives bribes,’ Lorkhoor said, ‘is also capable of taking bribes.’

‘This Lorkhoor is a real jackass,’ Chittaranjan commented. ‘If he think that by saying that he going to make Harbans lose. People like to know that they could get a man to do little things for them every now and then.’

Lorkhoor turned to Baksh. ‘A man who takes bribes,’ Lorkhoor said, ‘is also capable of giving them.’

‘Give?’ Chittaranjan said. ‘Baksh give anything? He ain’t know Baksh.’

*

Photographs of Baksh and Harbans sprang up everywhere, on houses, telegraph-poles, trees and culverts; they were promptly invested with moustaches, whiskers, spectacles and pipes.

‘Making you famous girl,’ Baksh told Mrs Baksh. ‘Pictures all over the place. Mazurus Baksh. Hitch your wagon to the star. Mazurus Baksh, husband of Mrs Baksh. Mazurus Baksh, the poor man friend. Mazarus Baksh, everybody friend.’

‘Mazurus Baksh,’ Mrs Baksh said, ‘the big big ass.’

But he could tell that she was pleased.

*

Harban’s new slogan caught on. When Harbans came to Elvira children shouted at him, ‘Do your part, man!’ And Harbans, his shyness gone, as Foam had prophesied, replied, ‘Vote the heart!’

Foam was always coming up with fresh slogans. ‘The Heart for a start.’ ‘Harbans, the man with the Big Heart.’ ‘You can’t live without the Heart. You can’t live without Harbans.’ He got hold of a gramophone record and played it so often, it became Harban’s campaign song:

And oh, my darling,

Should we ever say goodbye,

I know we both should die,

My heart and I.

Every day Chittaranjan put on his visiting outfit and campaigned; Dhaniram campaigned, in a less spectacular way; and Mahadeo entered the names of sick Hindus in his red notebook.

*

For some time Preacher stuck to his old method, the energetic walking tour. But one day he appeared on the Elvira main road with a large stone in his hand. He stopped Mahadeo.

‘Who you voting for?’

‘Preacher? You know I campaigning for Harbans …’

‘Good. Take this stone and kill me one time.’

Mahadeo managed to escape. But Preacher stopped him again two days later. Preacher had a Bible in his right hand and a stone — the same stone — in his left hand.

‘Answer me straight: who you voting for?’

‘Everybody know I voting for you, Preacher.’

Preacher dropped the stone and gave Mahadeo the Bible. ‘Swear!’

Mahadeo hesitated.

Preacher stooped and picked up the stone. He handed it to Mahadeo. ‘Kill me.’

‘I can’t swear on the Bible, Preacher. I is not a Christian.’

And Mahadeo escaped again.

*

Lorkhoor, copying Foam, gave Preacher a campaign song which featured Preacher’s symbol, the shoe: