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

Mahadeo, according to Chittaranjan, was behaving even at that early hour in an entirely shameless way. He was drunk and, what was worse, drinking with the enemy.

Chittaranjan, his hat on, his shirt hanging nice and clean on him, said, ‘I did feel like lifting up my hand and giving Mahadeo one good clout with my elbow. I meet him drinking with some good-for-nothing and I say, “Why for you drinking with these good-for-nothing, Mahadeo?” I did expect a straight answer. But the man drunk too bad, man. He tell me he drinking with them because he want to find out which way the wind blowing.’

*

At seven, or thereabouts, the polling stations opened. Presently there were queues. Agents sat on the roots of trees still cool with dew, ticking off names on duplicated electoral lists, giving cards to voters, instructing the forgetful in the art of making an X. ‘No, old man, they ain’t want two X.’ ‘Ah, maharajin, it ain’t a scorpion they want you to draw. Is a X. Look …’ ‘No, man. They ain’t want you to vote for everybody. You just put your little X by the heart. Do your part, man.’ ‘You want to kill him or what? Not inside the heart, man.’

*

Foam’s job was to see that the organization worked smoothly. He had to see that the food van made regular rounds; officially, this was to feed agents and other accredited representatives, but many other people were to benefit. He had to make periodic tours of the polling stations to see that no one played the fool.

At ten o’clock Foam reported: ‘They staggering the voting at the school.’

‘Staggering?’

‘Taking six seven minutes over one vote.’

Chittaranjan said, ‘I did always feel that man was going to make trouble. You better go and see him, Mr Harbans.’

Harbans knew what that meant.

He went to the school, Teacher Francis’s domain, but now in the holidays without Teacher Francis, who was in Port of Spain.

There was a long complaining queue.

Foam said, ‘A lot of people leave because they didn’t want to stand up all this time.’

The clerk, a cheerful young Negro, greeted Harbans with unabashed warmth. ‘Is a big big day for you today, Mr Harbans.’

‘Ooh, I hear you having a little trouble here.’

‘People ain’t even know their own name, Mr Harbans.’

‘But ain’t they got a number?’

The clerk didn’t stop smiling. ‘I ain’t want to know their number. Want to know their name.’

‘Ooh. And when they tell you their name, you spend a long long time finding out whether they on the list, and then sometimes you does ask them to spell out their name? Let we look at the election regulations together.’

The clerk brightened.

From his hip pocket Harbans pulled out an orange pamphlet folded in two. He opened it so that only he and the clerk could see what was inside. It was a ten-dollar note.

The clerk said, ‘Hm. I see what you mean. My mistake. Just leave these regulations here, Mr Harbans.’

Foam was still anxious. ‘You can’t be too careful in this place. In Trinidad you can’t say anybody win election until they draw their first pay. We have to follow the ballot-boxes back to the Warden Office, otherwise you don’t know what sort of chicanery they not going to try.’

For that task he and Chittaranjan had chosen men of tried criminality.

One man asked, ‘You want me take my cutlass, Goldsmith?’

‘I don’t want you to land yourself in the Supreme Court again,’ Chittaranjan said. ‘Just take a good stick.’

*

Dhaniram stayed at home all morning. With no doolahin about, he had to empty his wife’s spitting-cup; he had to cook for her; he had to lift her from her bed, make the bed, and put her back on it. He had no time to think about the election, yet when he went to Chittaranjan’s he announced, ‘Things going good good for you up Cordoba way, Mr Harbans. I spend the whole morning there.’

Chittaranjan barely widened his smile. ‘Is a funny thing that you didn’t see Foam. Foam going around everywhere all morning.’

Dhaniram changed the subject. ‘I too break up by the doolahin and Lorkhoor.’ He did indeed look ravaged; his skin was yellower, his eyes smaller, redder, without a twinkle.

But he was going to get no sympathy from Harbans. Foam’s reports from the polling stations had convinced Harbans that he had practically won the election.

He kept making little jokes with Chittaranjan and Dhaniram.

‘I wonder what colour the cheque going to be.’

Chittaranjan couldn’t enter into the spirit of the game. ‘I don’t think they does pay members of the Legislative Council by cheque. I think you does get a sorta voucher. You got to cash it at the Treasury.’

‘But what colour you think that is?’

‘All government voucher white,’ Chittaranjan said.

‘Ooh, ooh. Least I did expect it woulda be pink or green or something nice like that. Eh, Goldsmith? Ooh, ooh. Just white, eh?’ He laughed and slapped Chittaranjan on the back.

Chittaranjan preserved his gravity.

‘The thing to make sure you win now,’ he said, ‘is rain.’

‘Ooh, ooh.’ Harbans poked Dhaniram in the ribs. Dhaniram laughed painfully. ‘Listen to the goldsmith, Pundit. Rain! Ooh, ooh.’

‘Rain,’ Chittaranjan explained, ‘going to keep back all those people who going to vote for Preacher. Preacher ain’t got cars to take them to the polling station. We got all the cars.’

‘Ooh, Goldsmith, how you could wish that for the poor man? I ain’t have nothing against Preacher, man. Eh, Dhaniram?’

‘I ain’t got nothing against him neither,’ Dhaniram said.

Chittaranjan said, ‘Talking about taxi remind that the ringleader last night ain’t even turn out this morning.’ He consulted his chart. ‘Oumadh. HV 5736.’

‘Ooh. HV 5736, eh?’ Harbans laughingly noted the number in a small notebook. ‘We go fix him up, Goldsmith. Going to put the police on his tail. Parking. Speeding. Overloading. From now on he going to spend more time in court than driving taxi. Eh, Goldsmith? Eh, Dhaniram?’

*

Baksh spent the morning drinking with Mahadeo, and Rampiari’s husband and Harichand. Mahadeo didn’t even vote. He had clean forgotten.

*

At noon Ramlogan closed his shop and came across.

‘Ooh, Ramlogan, man,’ Harbans greeted him. ‘Look out, man!’ Ramlogan roared with laughter.

‘Look out, man, Ramlogan. Ooh, you getting fat as a balloon. Ooh, he go bust. Ooh.’ Harbans poked Ramlogan in the belly.

Ramlogan laughed even louder. ‘You done win already, Mr Harbans.’

Harbans showed his neat false teeth and dug Dhaniram in the ribs. ‘How he could say so, eh, Pundit? How he could say so? Ooh, Ramlogan!’

‘But you done win, man.’

‘Ooh, Ramlogan, you mustn’t talk like that, man. You putting goat-mouth on me.’

And many more people kept coming to congratulate Harbans that afternoon. Even people who had announced that they were going to vote for Preacher and had in fact voted for Preacher, even they came and hung around Chittaranjan’s shop. One man said, to nobody in particular, ‘I is a kyarpenter. Preacher can’t afford to give me no kyarpentering work. Preacher and people who voting for Preacher don’t build house.’

The attitude of the policemen changed. In the morning they had been cautious and reserved: most of them had come from outside districts and didn’t know much about the prospects of the candidates. In the afternoon they began to treat Harbans and his agents with respect. They waved and smiled and tried to keep their batons out of sight.

And then Chittaranjan had his wish. It rained. The roads became muddy and slippery; agents had to leave their positions under trees and move under houses; taxis, their windows up and misted over, steamed inside.