Vidiadhar Naipaul - A House for Mr. Biswas

A small fat man, pink and oiled from the heat, half rose from behind a desk littered with paper. Slabs of lead, edged with type, served as paperweights. And Mr. Biswas was thrilled to see the proof of an article, headlined and displayed. It was a glimpse of a secret; isolated on the large white sheet, the article had an eminence tomorrow’s readers would never see. Mr. Biswas’s excitement increased. And he liked the man he saw before him.

“And what is your story?” the editor asked, sitting down.

“I don’t have a story. I want a job.”

Mr. Biswas saw almost with delight that he had embarrassed the editor; and he pitied him for not having the decision to throw him out. The editor went pinker and looked down at the proof. He was unhappy in the heat and seemed to be melting. His cheeks flowed into his neck; his neck bulged over his collar; his round shoulders drooped; his belly hung over his waistband; and he was damp all over. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Have you worked on a paper before?”

Mr. Biswas thought about the articles he had promised to write, but hadn’t, for Misir’s paper, which had never appeared. “Once or twice,” he said.

The editor looked at the door, as though for help. “Do you mean once? Or do you mean twice?”

“I have read a lot.” Mr. Biswas said, getting out of dangerous ground.

The editor played with a slab of lead.

“Hall Caine, Marie Corelli, Jacob Boehme, Mark Twain. Hall Caine, Mark Twain,” Mr. Biswas repeated. “Samuel Smiles.”

The editor looked up.

“Marcus Aurelius.”

The editor smiled.

“Epictetus.”

The editor continued to smile, and Mr. Biswas smiled back, to let the editor know that he knew he was sounding absurd.

“You read those people just for pleasure, eh?”

Mr. Biswas recognized the cruel intent of the question, but he didn’t mind. “No,” he said. “Just for the encouragement.” All his excitement died.

There was a pause. The editor looked at the proof. Through the frosted glass Mr. Biswas saw figures passing in the newsroom. He became aware of the noise again: the traffic in the street, the regular rattle of machinery, the intermittent chatter of typewriters, occasional laughter.

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“You have come from the country, you are thirty-one, you have never written, and you want to be a reporter. What do you do?”

Mr. Biswas thought of estate-driver, exalted it to overseer, rejected it, rejected shopkeeper, rejected unemployed. He said, “Sign-painter.”

The editor rose. “I have just the job for you.”

He led Mr. Biswas out of the office, through the newsroom (the group around the water-cooler had broken up), past a machine unrolling sheets of typewritten paper, into a partially dismantled room where carpenters were at work, through more rooms, and then into a yard. Down the lane at one end Mr. Biswas could see the street he had left a few minutes before.

The editor walked about the yard, pointing. “Here and here,” he said. “And here.”

Mr. Biswas was given paint and a brush, and he spent the rest of the afternoon writing signs: No Admittance to Wheeled Vehicles, No Entry, Watch out for Vans, No Hands Wanted.

Around him machinery clattered and hummed; the carpenters beat rhythms on the nails as they drove them in.

Amazing scenes were witnessed yesterday when …

“Tcha!” he exclaimed angrily.

Amazing scenes were witnessed yesterday when Mohun Biswas , 31, a sign-painter, set to work on the offices of the TRINIDAD SENTINEL . Passers-by stopped and stared as Biswas, father of four, covered the walls with obscene phrases. Women hid their faces in their hands, screamed and fainted. A traffic jam was created in St. Vincent Street and police, under Superintendent Grieves, were called in to restore order. Interviewed by our special correspondent late last night, Biswas said…

“Didn’t even know who Marcus Aurelius was, the crab-catching son of a bitch.”

… interviewed late last night, Biswas… Mr. Biswas said, “The ordinary man cannot be expected to know the meaning of ‘No Admittance’. ”

“What, still here?”

It was the editor. He was less pink, less oiled, and his clothes were dry. He was smoking a short fat cigar; it repeated and emphasized his shape.

The yard was in shadow; the light was going. Machinery clattered more assertively: a series of separate noises; the carpenters’ rhythms had ceased. In the street traffic had subsided, footsteps resounded; the passing of a motor, the trilling of a bicycle bell could be heard from afar.

“But that is good,” the editor said. “Very good indeed.”

You sound surprised, you little chunk of lard. “I got the letters from a magazine.” You think you are the only one laughing, eh?

“I could eat the Gill Sans R,” the editor said. “You know, I don’t really see why you should want to give up your job.”

“Not enough money.”

“Not much in this either.”

Mr. Biswas pointed to a sign. “No wonder you are doing your best to keep people out.”

“Oh. No Hands Wanted.”

“A nice little sign,” Mr. Biswas said.

The editor smiled and then was convulsed with laughter.

And Mr. Biswas, the clown again, laughed too.

“That was for carpenters and labourers,” the editor said. “Come tomorrow, if you are serious. We’ll give you a month’s trial. But no pay.”

A chance encounter had led him to sign-writing. Sign-writing had taken him to Hanuman House and the Tulsis. Sign-writing found him a place on the Sentinel . And neither for the Tulsi Store signs nor for those at the Sentinel was he paid.

He worked with enthusiasm. His reading had given him an extravagant vocabulary but Mr. Burnett, the editor, was patient. He gave Mr. Biswas copies of London papers, and Mr. Biswas studied their style until he could turn out presentable imitations. It was not long before he developed a feeling for the shape and scandalizing qualities of every story. To this he added something of his own. And it was part of his sudden good fortune that he was working for the Sentinel and not for the Guardian or the Gazette . For the facetiousness that came to him as soon as he put pen to paper, and the fantasy he had hitherto dissipated in quarrels with Shama and in invective against the Tulsis, were just the things Mr. Burnett wanted.

“Let them get their news from the other papers,” he said. “That is exactly what they are doing at the moment anyway. The only way we can get readers is by shocking them. Get them angry. Frighten them. You just give me one good fright, and the job is yours.”

Next day Mr. Biswas turned in a story.

Mr. Burnett said, “You made this one up?”

Mr. Biswas nodded.

“Pity.”

The story was headlined:

Four Children Roasted in Hut Blaze

Mother, Helpless, Watches

“I liked the last paragraph,” Mr. Burnett said.

This read: “Sightseers are pouring into the stricken village, and we do not feel we are in a position to divulge its name as yet. ‘In times like this,’ an old man told me last night, ‘we want to be left alone.’ “

Abandoning fiction, Mr. Biswas persevered. And Mr. Burnett continued to give advice.

“I think you’d better go a little easy on the amazing scenes being witnessed. And how about turning your passers-by into ordinary people every now and then? ‘Considerably’ is a big word meaning ‘very’, which is a pointless word any way. And look. ‘Several’ has seven letters. ‘Many’ has only four and oddly enough has exactly the same meaning. I liked your piece on the Bonny Baby Competition. You made me laugh. But you haven’t frightened me yet.”