V. Naipaul - Collected Short Fiction

The friend said, ‘I is Sandro.’

‘He send for he.’

‘I is Pedro.’

‘Pablo, Sandro, Pedro,’ Henry said, ‘cool down.’

‘Mr White won’t like it,’ Pablo said.

‘Making guests and artisses come through the back,’ said Sandro.

‘When they get invite to a little supper,’ said Pedro.

Henry sized them up. ‘Guests and artisses. A lil supper. Well, all-you look all right, I suppose. Making, as they say, the best of a bad job. Go up. Mr White waiting for you.’

They left, mollified. Determination to deter further insult was in their walk. Henry, following them, seemed to sag.

I noticed an angry face behind the window. It was the sacked doorman. I could scarcely recognize him without his tie. He made threatening gestures; he seemed about to climb in. I straightened his tie around my collar and hurried after Henry into the main hall.

At the long table the little supper seemed about to begin. Blackwhite rose to meet Pablo, Sandro and Pedro. The three expensively-suited men with Blackwhite rose to be introduced. Leonard and Sinclair were hanging around uncertainly.

Blackwhite eyed Leonard. Leonard flinched. He saw me and ran over.

‘I don’t have the courage,’ he whispered.

‘I’ll introduce you.’

I led him to the table.

‘I’ll introduce you,’ I said again. ‘Blackwhite is an old friend.’

I pulled up two chairs from another table. I put one chair on Blackwhite’s right. For Leonard. One chair on Blackwhite’s left. For me. Astonishment on the faces of the foundation men; anxiety on Blackwhite’s; a mixture of assessment and sympathy on the faces of Pablo, Sandro and Pedro, uncomfortable among the crystal and linen, the flowers and the candles.

A waiter passed around menus. I tried to take one. He pulled it back. He looked at Blackwhite, questioning. Blackwhite looked at me. He looked down at Leonard. Leonard gave a little smile and a little wave and looked down at the table at a space between settings. He drew forks from his right and knives from his left.

‘Yes,’ Blackwhite said. ‘I suppose. Feed them.’

They hurried up with knives and forks and spoons.

Pablo and Sandro and Pedro were lip-reading the menus.

Pablo said, ‘Steak Chatto Brian for me.’

‘But, sir,’ the waiter said. ‘That’s for two.’

Pablo said, ‘You didn’t hear me? Chatto Brian.’

‘Chatto Brian,’ Sandro said.

‘Chatto Brian,’ Pedro said.

‘Oysters,’ I said. ‘Fifty. No, a hundred.’

‘As a starter?’

‘And ender.’

‘Prawns for me,’ Leonard said. ‘You know. Boiled. And with the shells. I like peeling them.’

‘He is a great admirer of yours, Blackwhite,’ I said. ‘His name is Leonard. He is a patron of the arts.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ Leonard said. ‘Mr White, this is a great pleasure. I think Hate is wonderful. It is — it is — a most endearing work.’

‘It was not meant to be an endearing work,’ Blackwhite said.

‘Goodness, I hope I haven’t said the wrong thing.’

‘You can’t, Leonard,’ I said. ‘Leonard has got some money to give away.’

Blackwhite adjusted the nature of his gaze. Pablo, Sandro and Pedro looked up. The men from the foundations stared.

‘Do you know him, Chippy?’

‘Can’t say I do. I’ll ask Bippy.’

‘I don’t know him, Tippy.’

‘Leonard,’ Chippy said. ‘I’ve never heard of that name in Foundationland.’

‘This is possible,’ Blackwhite said. ‘But Leonard has the right idea.’

‘Mr White,’ Bippy said, affronted.

‘We have never let you down,’ said Tippy.

‘You won’t want to run out on us now, will you, Mr White?’ Chippy asked.

‘What about you, Mr White?’ asked the waiter.

Blackwhite considered the menu. ‘I think I’ll start with the Avocado Lucullus.’

‘Avocado Lucullus.’ The waiter made an approving note.

‘What do you mean by the right idea, Mr White?’

‘Then I think I’ll try a sole. What’s the bonne femme like tonight? The right idea?’

The waiter brought his thumb and index finger together to make a circle.

‘Well, let’s say the sole bonne femme. With a little spinach. Gentlemen, I’ll tell you straight. The artist in the post-colonial era is in a position of peculiar difficulty.’

‘How would you like the spinach, Mr White?’

‘En branches. And the way you or anyone else can help him is with — money. There it is, gentlemen. The way you can help Pablo here—’

‘The wine list, Mr White.’

‘Go on. We are listening.’

‘The way to help Pablo — ah, sommelier. But let’s ask our hosts.’

‘No, no. We leave that to you, Mr White.’

‘Is with — money. Shall we break some rules? Pablo, would you and your boys mind a hock? Or would you absolutely insist on a burgundy to go with your Chateaubriand?’

‘Anything you say, Mr White.’

‘I think the hock. Tell me, do you have any of that nice Rudesheimer left?’

‘Indeed, Mr White. Chilled.’

‘All right, gentlemen? A trifle sweet. But still.’

‘Sure. Waiter, bring a couple of bottles of what Mr White just said. How do we help Pablo?’

‘Pablo? You give Pablo ten thousand dollars. And let him get on with the job.’

‘What does he do?’ asked Bippy.

‘That’s a detail, ’ Blackwhite said. ‘So far as my present argument goes.’

‘I entirely agree,’ Chippy said.

‘Waiter,’ Blackwhite called. ‘I believe you have forgotten our hosts.’

‘Sorry, gentlemen. For you?’

‘But if you are interested, Pablo and his boys are a painting group. They work together at the same time on one canvas.’

‘Steak tartare. Like the Italians. Or the Dutch.’

‘Steak tartare. One man painting the face.’

‘Steak tartare. The other painting the scenery. Steak tartare. What am I saying? Just a salad.’

‘Not quite,’ Blackwhite said. ‘This is more an experiment in recovering the tribal subconscious.’

‘Shall we say, en vinaigrette?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know about Jung and the racial memory.’

‘With vinegar.’

‘That’s just about how I feel.’

‘They have produced some very interesting results. A sort of artistic stream-of-consciousness relay. But in paint. A sort of continuous mutual interference.’

‘This sounds very interesting, Mr White,’ Bippy said.

‘We don’t want to offend Pablo,’ Tippy said.

‘Or Sandro or Pedro,’ Chippy added.

‘But we have to be sure, Mr White.’

‘Foundationland has its own rules, Mr White.’

‘Mr White, we have to write reports.’

‘Mr White, help us.’

‘Mr White, we have made this journey to see you. ’

‘I don’t know, gentlemen. We can’t just brush off Pablo and his boys just like that. An appropriate word, don’t you think? Let us see how they feel.’

Bippy, Tippy and Chippy looked at Pablo, Sandro and Pedro.

‘Ask them,’ Blackwhite said. ‘Go on, ask them.’

‘What do you feel about this, Mr Pablo?’ Bippy asked.

‘If any money going, give it to Blackwhite,’ Pablo said.

‘Give it to Mr White,’ Sandro said.

‘Is what I say too,’ said Pedro.

‘You see, Mr White,’ Chippy said. ‘You must shoulder your responsibilities. We appreciate your desire to nurse struggling talent. But—’

‘Exactly,’ said Tippy.

Blackwhite didn’t look disappointed.

The food came. Pablo and his friends began sawing. Blackwhite scooped avocado, poured wine.

Blackwhite said, ‘I didn’t want it to appear that I was pushing myself forward. I wanted you to meet Pablo and his boys because I thought you might want to encourage something new. I feel that you chaps have got quite enough out of me as it is.’