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

Shortly after the D.M.O. had signed the death certificate, Foam and Chittaranjan had taken over quantities of rum, coffee and biscuits to the house; and the news was broken. People began to gather, solemn at first, but when the rum started to flow all was well. Harbans mingled with the mourners as though they were his guests; and everyone knew, and was grateful, that Harbans had taken all the expenses of the wake upon himself. Some of Mr Cuffy’s women disciples turned up in white dresses and hats, and sat in the drawing-room, singing hymns. The men preferred to remain in the yard. They sat on benches and chairs under Mr Cuffy’s big almond tree and talked and drank by the light of flambeaux.

Baksh came, rebuffed but unhumbled. He said nothing about the election and was full of stories about the goodness of Mr Cuffy. The mourners weren’t interested. Baksh was still officially a candidate and still the controller of the thousand Muslim votes; but politically he was a failure and everybody knew it. He knew it himself. He drank cup after cup of Harbans’s weak black coffee and maintained a strenuous sort of gaiety that fooled no one.

He felt out of everything and ran from group to group in the yard, trying to say something of interest. ‘But I telling all-you, man,’ he said over and over. ‘I see old Cawfee good good just last night. I pass by his house and I give him a right and he give me back a right.’

Baksh was romancing and no one paid attention. Besides, too many people had seen Mr Cuffy the day before.

Baksh drank. Soon the rum worked on him. It made him forget electioneering strategy and increased his loquaciousness. It also gave him an inspiration. ‘All-you know why Cawfee dead so sudden?’ he asked. ‘Come on, guess why he dead so sudden.’

Lutchman said, ‘When your time come, your time come, that is all.’

Harichand the printer was also there. He said, ‘The way Cawfee dead remind me of the way Talmaso dead. Any of all-you here remember old Talmaso? Talmaso had the laziest horse in the whole wide world …’

‘So none of all-you ain’t going to guess why Cawfee dead?’ Baksh said angrily. Then he relented. ‘All right, I go tell you. Was because of that dog.’

Harichand pricked up his ears. ‘That said dog?’

Baksh emptied his glass and rocked on his heels. ‘Said said dog.’ When Baksh drank his full face lost its hardness; his moustache lost its bristliness and drooped; his eyebrows drooped; his eyelids hung wearily over reddened eyes; his cheeks sagged. And the man spoke with a lot of conviction. ‘Said dog. Cawfee run the dog down and give the poor little thing five six kicks. Herbert did warn him that if he kick the dog he was going to dead. But you know how Cawfee was own way and harden, never listening to anybody. Well, he kick the dog and he dead.’

Rampiari’s husband, heavy with drink, said, ‘Still, the man dead and I ain’t want to hear nobody bad-talking him.’

‘True,’ Harichand said. ‘But the way Cawfee just sit down and dead remind me of how Talmaso dead. Talmaso was a grass-cutter. Eh, but I wonder when the hell Talmaso did get that horse he had. Laziest horse in the world. Lazy lazy. Tock. Tock. Tock.’ Harichand clacked his tongue to imitate the horse’s hoofbeats. ‘Tock. Tock. So it uses to walk. As if it was in a funeral. Lifting up his foot as though they was make of lead: one today, one tomorrow. Tock. Tock. Tock. And then Talmaso uses to take his whip and lash out Pai! Pai! Pai! And horse uses to go: tocktock-tock-tock-tock-tock-tock. Tock. Tock. Tock. Pai! Tock-tocktock-tock-tock. Tock. Tock. But you couldn’t laugh at Talmaso horse. Talmaso run you all over the place. Every morning horse uses to neigh. As if it did want to wake up Talmaso. Horse neigh. Talmaso get up. One morning horse neigh. Talmaso ain’t get up. Only Talmaso wife get up. Talmaso wife uses to give Talmaso hell, you know. Horse neigh again. Still, Talmaso sleeping. Sound sound. Like a top. Wife start one cussing-off. In Hindi. She shake up Talmaso. Horse neigh. Still, Talmaso sleeping. Like a baby. Wife push Talmaso. Talmaso roll off the bed. Stiff. Wife start one bawling. Horse neighing. Wife bawling. Talmaso dead. Horse never move again.’

‘What happen to it?’

‘Horse? Like Talmaso. Sit down and dead.’

Rampiari’s husband exclaimed, ‘Look! Preacher coming. All three candidates here now.’

Preacher didn’t bustle in. He came into the yard with a solemn shuffle, kissing his right hand and waving languid benedictions to the crowd. They looked upon him with affection as a defeated candidate. His long white robe was sweat-stained and dusty; but there was nothing in his expression to show regret, either at the election or at Mr Cuffy’s death: his tolerant eyes still had their bloodshot faraway look.

In the interest which greeted Preacher’s arrival there was more than the interest which greets the newly defeated. Preacher was without staff, stone or Bible. And he was not alone. He had his left arm around Pundit Dhaniram, who was in tears and apparently inconsolable.

Mahadeo said, ‘I know this wake was Dhaniram idea. But he taking this crying too damn far, you hear.’

Foam followed. ‘No coffee from Dhaniram,’ he announced.

‘Dhaniram wife dead too?’ Harichand asked, and got a laugh.

Chittaranjan staggered in with a large five-valve radio. It was his own and he didn’t trust anyone else with it.

The women sang hymns in the drawing-room. In the yard some men were singing a calypso:

O’Reilly dead!

O’Reilly dead and he left money,

Left money, left money.

O’Reilly dead and he left money

To buy rum for we.

Chittaranjan and Foam fiddled with wires from the loudspeaker van, attaching them to the radio. The radio squawked and crackled.

‘Shh!’

The hymn-singers fell silent. The calypsonians fell silent. Only Dhaniram sobbed.

The radio was on. A woman sang slowly, hoarsely:

I’ve found my man,

I’ve found my man.

Then an awed chorus of men and women sang:

She’s in love:

She’s lovely:

She uses Ponds.

There was a murmur of disappointment among the mourners, which was silenced by the radio announcer. ‘This is Radio Trinidad and the Rediffusion Golden Network.’ He gave the time. Some trumpets blared.

‘Shh!’

A fresh blare.

‘Listen.’

Time for a Carib!

Time for a Carib

La-ger!

The mourners became restless. Chittaranjan, responsible for the radio, felt responsible for what came out of it. He looked appeasingly at everybody.

Solemn organ music oozed out of the radio.

‘Aah.’

The announcer was as solemn as the music. ‘ We have been asked to announce the death …’

Rampiari’s husband had to be restrained from giving a shout.

But the first announcement was of no interest to Elvira.

The organ music drew Tanwing out of the bedroom where he had been busy on Mr Cuffy. The hymn-singers made room for him and looked at him with respect. He held his hands together and looked down at his shoes.

The organ music swelled again.

‘Now.’

‘We have also been asked to announce the death of Joseph Cuffy …’

There was a long, satisfied sigh. Rampiari’s husband had to be restrained again.

‘… which occurred this evening at The Elvira in County Naparoni. The funeral of the late Joseph Cuffy takes place tomorrow morning, through the courtesy of Mr Surujpat Harbans, from the house of mourning, near Chittaranjan’s Jewellery Establishment, Elvira main road, and thence to the Elvira Cemetery. Friends and relations are kindly asked to accept this intimation.’

Then there was some more music.

As soon as the music was over Tanwing unclasped his hands and disappeared into the bedroom and set to work on Mr Cuffy again. A woman sang: