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

I got a shoe, you got a shoe,

All God’s chillun got a shoe.

When I go to heaven,

Going to put on my shoe

And walk all over God’s heaven.

Baksh, whose symbol was the star, went up to Harbans one day and said, ‘I want a song too. Everybody having song.’

‘Ooh, Baksh. You want song too? Why, man?’

‘Everybody laughing at me. Is as though I ain’t fighting this election at all.’

In the end Harbans allowed Foam to play a song for Baksh:

How would you like to swing on a star?

Carry moonbeams home in a jar?

You could be better off than you are.

You could be swinging on a star.

Rum flowed in Ramlogan’s rumshop. Everyone who drank it knew it was Harbans’s rum.

Dhaniram, exultant, consoled Harbans. ‘The main thing is to pay the entrance fee. Now is your chance.’

And Ramlogan encouraged the drinkers, saying, inconsequentially and unwisely, ‘Case of whisky for winning committee. Whole case of whisky.’

*

And in the meantime Harbans’s committee did solid work, Foam and Chittaranjan in particular. They canvassed, they publicized; they chose agents for polling day and checked their loyalty; they chose taxi-drivers and checked their loyalty. They visited warden, returning officer, poll clerks, policemen: a pertinacious but delicate generosity rendered these officials impartial.

With all this doing Harbans, with his moods, his exultations, depressions and rages, was an embarrassment to his committee. They wished him out of the way and tried, without being rude, to tell him so.

‘You could stay in Port of Spain and win your election in Elvira,’ Pundit Dhaniram told him. ‘Easy easy. Just leave everything to your party machine,’ he added, savouring the words. ‘Party machine.’

At his meetings on the terrace of Chittaranjan’s shop Harbans gave out bagfuls of sweets to children; and talked little. It was Foam and Chittaranjan and Dhaniram and Mahadeo who did most of the talking.

First Foam introduced Mahadeo; then Mahadeo introduced Dhaniram; and Dhaniram introduced Chittaranjan. By the time Chittaranjan introduced Harbans the meeting was practically over and Harbans could only receive deputations.

‘Boss, the boys from Pueblo Road can’t play no football this season. Goalpost fall down. Football bust.’

Harbans would write out a cheque.

‘Boss, we having a little sports meeting and it would look nice if you could give a few of the prizes. No, boss, not give them out. Give.’

Another cheque.

It was Harbans, Harbans all the way. There could be no doubt of that.

Dhaniram repeatedly calculated: ‘Three thousand Hindu votes and one thousand Spanish make four thousand. Preacher getting three thousand for the most. Baksh getting the thousand Muslim votes.’

Harbans didn’t like this sort of talk. He said it gave people wrong ideas, encouraged them not to vote; and when he made a personal plea to some voter for the fourth or fifth time and the voter said, ‘But Mr Harbans, you know I promise you,’ Harbans would say, ‘This democracy is a strange thing. It does make the great poor and the poor great. It make me a beggar — yes, don’t stop me, I is a beggar — and I begging for your vote.’

*

Rumours began to fly. Mr Cuffy had deserted Preacher. Preacher was selling out to Baksh, but was going to do so only on the day before the election. Baksh was selling out to Preacher. Mahadeo was selling out to Preacher. Chittaranjan was selling out to Baksh. Everybody, it seemed, was selling out to somebody. Elvira thrilled to rumour and counter-rumour. Voters ran after candidates and their agents and warned that so-and-so had to be watched. It was agreed on all sides that Dhaniram had to be watched; he was interested only in his tractor and was just waiting to see which side was going to win before throwing in his full weight with it. The most persistent rumour was that Lorkhoor wanted to leave Preacher. That rumour Chittaranjan took seriously.

He said, ‘I did always have a feeling that Lorkhoor wanted something big outa this election, but I couldn’t rightly make out what it was.’

*

Chittaranjan was rocking in his veranda late one evening, thinking about going to bed, when he heard someone whisper from the terrace. He got up and looked down.

It was Dhaniram. He held a hurricane lantern that lit up his pundit’s regalia. ‘Message, Goldsmith,’ Dhaniram whispered, barely controlling his excitement.

Chittaranjan whispered back. ‘From Baksh?’

‘Lorkhoor, Goldsmith. He say he have a matter of importance — said words he use — matter of importance to discuss with you.’

‘Wait.’

Dhaniram stood on the terrace, swinging the lantern, humming:

So he called the multitude,

Turned the water into wine,

Jesus calls you. Come and dine!

Presently Chittaranjan came down. In his visiting outfit.

They went to Dhaniram’s house.

Lorkhoor was waiting for them. He sat on the balustrade of the veranda, smoking and swinging his legs, not looking in the least like a perplexed traitor. He said, ‘Ah, Goldsmith. Sorry to get you up.’

‘Yes, man,’ Dhaniram said. ‘It give me a big big surprise. I was just coming back from Etwariah place — Rampiari mother, you know: she was having a little kattha: I was the pundit — and I see Lorkhoor van outside.’

Lorkhoor said, ‘Goldsmith, I’m tired of talking.’

Dhaniram was beside himself with delight. He lit a cigarette and smoked noisily.

‘I could give you eight hundred votes,’ Lorkhoor said. ‘If I keep my mouth shut. Worth anything?’

Chittaranjan took off his hat and considered it in the light of the hurricane lantern. ‘I don’t know if it worth anything at all.’

Lorkhoor laughed. ‘Silence is golden, Goldsmith.’

Dhaniram said tremulously, ‘Eight hundred more for we and eight hundred less for Preacher. Is a sure sure win, Goldsmith.’ He wanted the deal to go through; it would be dramatically proper.

Chittaranjan said, ‘You did always think of selling out in the end, not so?’

‘That’s right.’ Lorkhoor didn’t sound abashed. ‘I have no daughter to marry off.’

Dhaniram gave a nervous giggle.

‘And I have no tractor.’

Dhaniram pulled at his cigarette.

Lorkhoor took out some typewritten electoral lists from his hip pocket. ‘Eight hundred votes. Checked and signed and sealed. You can check up on them yourself, if you wish. A dollar a vote?’

Dhaniram shouted, ‘Doolahin, bring the Petromax.’

Inside, Dhaniram’s wife woke up, complained and fell silent again.

Chittaranjan examined his hat. ‘You think you could live in Elvira after the elections?’

Lorkhoor changed his position on the balustrade. ‘I was thinking of leaving Elvira altogether.’

‘Oh?’ Dhaniram shook his legs. ‘Where you was thinking of going?’

The doolahin brought the Petromax and blew out the hurricane lantern. She behaved with much modesty and Dhaniram was pleased. No pert remarks, no stamping on the shaky floor. She pulled her veil over her forehead and hung up the Petromax.

Lorkhoor watched her walk off with the hurricane lantern. Watching her, he said, ‘I was thinking of going to Port of Spain. Get a job on a paper. The Guardian or the Sentinel or the Gazette.’

Chittaranjan stood with his back to the Petromax and studied the lists Lorkhoor gave him. ‘How we know these eight hundred Hindus going to do what you say?’

‘You will see for yourself. But if I tell them that Preacher has betrayed me, and if I tell them to vote for a Hindu like Harbans, who do you think they’ll vote for? Baksh?’