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

‘Yes, twelve case of whisky on one small table wouldn’t look nice.’

Then Harbans came.

‘Pappa! Eh, but what happen to the old Dodge lorry?’

Harbans had come in a brand-new blue-and-black Jaguar.

‘Lorry! What happen to Harbans?’

He wasn’t the candidate they knew. Gone was the informality of dress, the loose trousers, the tie around the waist, the open shirt. He was in a double-breasted grey suit. The coat was a little too wide and a little too long; but that was the tailor’s fault. Harbans didn’t wave. He looked preoccupied, kept his eye on the ground, and when he hawked and spat in the gutter, pulled out an ironed handkerchief and wiped his lips — not wiped even, patted them — in the fussiest way.

The people of Elvira were hurt.

He didn’t coo at anybody, didn’t look at anybody. He made his way silently through the silent crowd and went straight up the steps into Chittaranjan’s drawing-room. The crowd watched him go up and then they heard him talking and they heard Ramlogan talking and laughing.

They didn’t like it at all.

Presently the committee appeared on the veranda. Foam looked down and waved. Mahadeo looked down and waved. Harbans didn’t look down; Chittaranjan didn’t look down; and Ramlogan, for a man who had just been heard laughing loudly, looked ridiculously solemn.

The walk down the polished red stairs became a grave procession. Foam and Mahadeo, at the back, had to clip their steps.

‘Tock. Tock. Tock,’ Harichand said. ‘Pai! Pai! Pai! Tocktock-tocktocktock.’

The crowd laughed. Tiger barked.

Chittaranjan frowned for silence, and got it.

Harbans looked down at his shoes all the time, looking as miserable as if he had lost the election. Ramlogan would have liked to match Harbans’s dignity, but he wanted to look at the crowd, and whenever he looked at the crowd he found it hard not to smile.

The chairs and benches had been disarrayed. The crowd had spread out into the road and formed a solid semicircle around the case of whisky draped with the Union Jack.

Harbans sat directly in front of the whisky. Ramlogan was on his right, Chittaranjan on his left. Foam was next to Ramlogan, Mahadeo next to Chittaranjan. Not far from Foam, on his right, Haq and Sebastian sat.

As soon as the committee had settled down a man ran out from the crowd and whispered to Harbans.

It was Baksh.

He whispered, urgently, ‘Jordan can’t come tonight. He sick.’

The word aroused bitter memories.

‘Jordan?’ Harbans whispered.

‘Sick?’ Mahadeo said.

Baksh ran back, on tiptoe, to the crowd.

Sebastian looked on smiling. Haq sucked his teeth and spat.

Chittaranjan stood up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen’—there were no ladies present—‘tonight Mr Harbans come back to Elvira, and we glad to welcome him again. Mr Harbans is a good friend. And Mr Harbans could see, by just looking at the amount of people it have here tonight, how much all-you think of him in Elvira.’

Harbans was whispering to Ramlogan, ‘Jordan sick? Who is Jordan? He fall sick too late.’

Ramlogan roared, for the audience.

Chittaranjan shot him a look and went on, ‘I want to see the man who could come up to me and tell me to my face that is only because Mr Harbans win a election that everybody come to see him. I know, speaking in my own pussonal, that even if Mr Harbans didn’t win no election, Mr Harbans woulda want to come back to Elvira, and all-you woulda want to come and see him.’

There was some polite clapping.

‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, let me introduce Mr Foreman Baksh.’

Foam said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it nice to see so much of all-you here. Tonight Mr Ramlogan’—he nodded towards Ramlogan, but Ramlogan was too busy talking to Harbans to notice—‘Mr Ramlogan going to present a case of whisky to the committee. The committee, ladies and gentlemen, of which I am proud and happy to be a member. Ladies and gentlemen, times changing. People do the voting, is true. But is the committee that do the organizing. In this modern world, you can’t get nowhere if you don’t organize. And now let me introduce Mr Mahadeo.’

Foam’s references to the whisky and the committee caused so much buzzing that Mahadeo couldn’t begin.

Baksh used the interval to run forward again.

‘Don’t forget,’ he whispered to Harbans. ‘Jordan ain’t here. He sick.’

Chittaranjan stood up and said sternly, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Mahadeo want to say a few words.’

Mahadeo said, ‘Well, all-you must remember …’

Chittaranjan pulled at Mahadeo’s trousers.

Mahadeo broke off, confused, ‘I sorry, Goldsmith.’ He coughed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He swallowed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Harbans ain’t have nothing to do with the whisky. I ain’t really know how the rumour get around, but this case of whisky’—he patted the Union Jack—‘is for the committee, of which I am proud and happy to be a member. The whisky ain’t for nobody else. Is not Mr Harbans whisky. Is Mr Ramlogan whisky.’

The buzzing rose again.

Mahadeo looked at Ramlogan. ‘Ain’t is your whisky, Mr Ramlogan?’

Ramlogan stood up and straightened his striped blue jacket. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what Mr Mahadeo say is the gospel truth, as the saying goes. Is my whisky. Is my idea.’ He sat down and immediately began to talk to Harbans again.

The murmurings of the crowd couldn’t be ignored. Mahadeo remained standing, not saying anything.

Rampiari’s husband, bandageless, came out from the crowd. ‘Wasn’t what we hear. We didn’t hear nothing about no whisky for no committee. And I think I must say right here and now that Elvira people ain’t liking this bacchanal at all. Look at these poor people! They come from all over the place. You think a man go put on his clothes, take up his good good self and walk from Cordoba to Elvira in the night-time with all this dew falling, just to see committee get a case of whisky?’

Harichand said, ‘Everybody think they could kick poor people around. Let them take back their whisky. The people of Elvira ain’t got their tongue hanging out like dog for nobody whisky, you hear. The people of Elvira still got their pride. Take back the damn whisky, man!’

The people of Elvira cheered Harichand.

Ramlogan stopped talking to Harbans. Harbans’s hands were tapping on his knees.

Mahadeo, still standing, saying nothing, saw the crowd break up into agitated groups. He sat down.

Ramlogan didn’t smile when he looked at the crowd.

Suddenly he sprang up and said, ‘I have a damn good mind to mash up the whole blasted case of whisky.’ He grabbed the case and the Union Jack slipped off. ‘Go ahead. Provoke me. See if I don’t throw it down.’

The silence was abrupt.

Ramlogan scowled, the case of whisky in his hands.

Rampiari’s husband walked up to him and said amiably, ‘Throw it down.’

The crowd chanted, ‘ Throw it down! Throw it down!’ Tiger barked.

Chittaranjan said, ‘Sit down, bruds.’

Ramlogan replaced the case of whisky and picked up the Union Jack.

Baksh ran to Harbans. He didn’t whisper this time. ‘Don’t say I didn’t tell you. Jordan sick. Remember that.’

Harbans was puzzled.

‘Why Jordan sick?’ he asked Ramlogan.

Ramlogan didn’t laugh.

The crowd became one again. Harichand and Rampiari’s husband came to the front.

Harichand said, ‘Mr Harbans, I think I should tell you that the people of Elvira not going to take this insult lying down. They work hard for you, they waste their good good time and they go and mark X on ballot-paper for your sake.’