V. Naipaul - Miguel Street

Morgan also made fun of his wife and his ten children. ‘Is a miracle to me,’ he said, ‘that a man like me have ten children. I don’t know how I manage it.’

Edward said, ‘How you sure is your children?’

Morgan laughed and said, ‘I have my doubts.’

Hat didn’t like Morgan. He said, ‘Is hard to say. But it have something about him I can’t really take. I always feel he overdoing everything. I always feel the man lying about everything. I feel that he even lying to hisself.’

I don’t think any of us understood what Hat meant. Morgan was becoming a little too troublesome, and it was hard for all of us to begin smiling as soon as we saw him, which was what he wanted.

Still his firework experiments continued; and every now and then we heard an explosion from Morgan’s house, and we saw the puffs of coloured smoke. This was one of the standing amusements of the street.

But as time went by and Morgan found that no one was willing to buy his fireworks, he began to make fun even of his fireworks. He was not content with the laughter of the street when there was an explosion in his house.

Hat said, ‘When a man start laughing at something he fight for all the time, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.’ And Hat decided that Morgan was just a fool.

I suppose it was because of Hat that we decided not to laugh at Morgan any more.

Hat said, ‘It go make him stop playing the fool.’

But it didn’t.

Morgan grew wilder than ever, and began challenging Bhakcu to fight about two or three times a week. He began beating his children more than ever.

And he made one last attempt to make us laugh.

I heard about it from Chris, Morgan’s fourth son. We were in the café at the corner of Miguel Street.

Chris said, ‘Is a crime to talk to you now, you know.’

I said, ‘Don’t tell me. Is the old man again?’

Chris nodded and he showed me a sheet of paper, headed CRIME AND PUNISHMENT.

Chris said with pride, ‘Look at it.’

It was a long list, with entries like this:

For fighting i) at home Five strokes ii) in the street Seven strokes iii) at school Eight strokes

Chris looked at me and said in a very worried way, ‘It funny like hell, eh? This sort of thing make blows a joke.’

I said yes, and asked, ‘But you say is a crime to talk to me. Where it is?’

Chris showed me:

For talking to street rabs Four strokes For playing with street rabs Eight strokes

I said, ‘But your father don’t mind talking to us. What wrong if you talk to us? ’

Chris said, ‘But this ain’t nothing at all. You must come on Sunday and see what happen.’

I could see that Chris was pleased as anything.

About six of us went that Sunday. Morgan was there to meet us and he took us into his drawing room. Then he disappeared. There were many chairs and benches, as though there was going to be a concert. Morgan’s eldest son was standing at a little table in the corner.

Suddenly this boy said, ‘Stand!’

We all stood up, and Morgan appeared, smiling all round.

I asked Hat, ‘Why he smiling so?’

Hat said, ‘That is how the magistrates and them does smile when they come in court.’

Morgan’s eldest son shouted, ‘Andrew Morgan!’

Andrew Morgan came and stood before his father.

The eldest boy read very loudly, ‘Andrew Morgan, you are charged with stoning the tamarind tree in Miss Dorothy’s yard; you are charged with ripping off three buttons for the purpose of purchasing some marbles; you are charged with fighting Dorothy Morgan; you are charged with stealing two tolums and three sugar-cakes. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?’

Andrew said, ‘Guilty.’

Morgan, scribbling on a sheet of paper, looked up.

‘Have you anything to say?’ Andrew said, ‘I sorry, sir.’

Morgan said, ‘We will let the sentences run concurrently. Twelve strokes.’

One by one, the Morgan children were judged and sentenced. Even the eldest boy had to receive some punishment.

Morgan then rose and said, ‘These sentences will be carried out this afternoon.’

He smiled all round and left the room.

The joke misfired completely.

Hat said, ‘Nah, nah, man, you can’t make fun of your own self and your own children that way, and invite all the street to see. Nah, it ain’t right.’

I felt the joke was somehow terrible and frightening.

And when Morgan came out on the pavement that evening, his face fixed in a smile, he got none of the laughter he had expected. Nobody ran up to him and clapped him on the back, saying, ‘But this man Morgan really mad, you hear. You hear how he beating his children these days …?’ No one said anything like that. No one said anything to him.

It was easy to see he was shattered.

Morgan got really drunk that night and challenged everybody to fight. He even challenged me.

Mrs Morgan had padlocked the front gate, so Morgan could only run about in his yard. He was as mad as a mad bull, bellowing and butting at the fence. He kept saying over and over again, ‘You people think I not a man, eh? My father had eight children. I is his son. I have ten. I better than all of you put together.’

Hat said, ‘He soon go start crying and then he go sleep.’

But I spent a lot of time that night before going to sleep thinking about Morgan, feeling sorry for him because of that little devil he had inside him. For that was what I thought was wrong with him. I fancied that inside him was a red, grinning devil pricking Morgan with his fork.

Mrs Morgan and the children went to the country.

Morgan no longer came out to the pavement, seeking our company. He was busy with his experiments. There were a series of minor explosions and lots of smoke.

Apart from that, peace reigned in our end of Miguel Street.

I wondered what Morgan was doing and thinking in all that solitude.

The following Sunday it rained heavily, and everyone was forced to go to bed early. The street was wet and glistening, and by eleven there was no noise save for the patter of the rain on the corrugated-iron roofs.

A short, sharp shout cracked through the street and got us up.

I could hear windows being flung open, and I heard people saying, ‘What happen? What happen?’

‘Is Morgan. Is Morgan. Something happening by Morgan.’

I was already out in the street and in front of Morgan’s house. I never slept in pyjamas. I wasn’t in that class.

The first thing I saw in the darkness of Morgan’s yard was the figure of a woman hurrying away from the house to the back gate that opened on to the sewage trace between Miguel Street and Alfonso Street.

It was drizzling now, not very hard, and in no time at all quite a crowd had joined me.

It was all a bit mysterious-the shout, the woman disappearing, the dark house.

Then we heard Mrs Morgan shouting, ‘Teresa Blake, Teresa Blake, what you doing with my man?’ It was a cry of great pain.

Mrs Bhakcu was at my side. ‘I always know about this Teresa, but I keep my mouth shut.’

Bhakcu said, ‘Yes, you know everything, like your mother.’

A light came on in the house.

Then it went off again.

We heard Mrs Morgan saying, ‘Why you fraid the light so for? Ain’t you is man? Put the light on, let we see the great big man you is.’

The light went on; then off again.

We heard Morgan’s voice, but it was so low we couldn’t make out what he was saying.

Mrs Morgan said, ‘Yes, hero.’ And the light came on again.

We heard Morgan mumbling again.

Mrs Morgan said, ‘No, hero.’

The light went off; then it went on.

Mrs Morgan was saying, ‘Leave the light on. Come, let we show the big big hero to the people in the street. Come, let we show them what man really make like. You is not a anti-man, you is real man. You ain’t only make ten children with me, you going to make more with somebody else.’