House for Mister Biswas Part 39

Could they be considered Deserving Dest.i.tutes?

She spoke in a steady, considered way.

Mr Biswas was too embarra.s.sed to reply.

Of course, Sus.h.i.+la said, they couldn't all all be Deserving Dest.i.tutes. But couldn't one? be Deserving Dest.i.tutes. But couldn't one?

It was impossible. However dest.i.tute they might be, they were relations. But they had put on their best clothes and jewellery and come all the way from Shorthills, and he could not reject them at once. 'What about the name?' he asked.

That had occurred to them. The Tulsi name need not be mentioned. Their husbands' names could be used.

Mr Biswas thought rapidly. 'But what about the children at school?'

They had thought of that too. Sus.h.i.+la had no children. And as for the photograph: with veil, gla.s.ses and a few pieces of facial jewellery she could be effectively disguised.

Mr Biswas could think of no other delaying objection. He scratched his arms slowly.

The widows gazed solemnly, then accusingly at him. As his silence lengthened, Shama's smile turned to a look of annoyance; in the end she, too, was accusing.

Mr Biswas slapped his left arm. 'I would lose my job.'

'But that time,' Sus.h.i.+la said, 'when you were the Scarlet Pimpernel, you went around dropping tokens-okens to your mother, your brothers and all the children.'

'That was different,' Mr Biswas said. 'I am sorry. Really.'

The five widows were silent. For some time they remained immobile, staring at Mr Biswas until their eyes went blank. He avoided their eyes, felt for cigarettes, and patted the bed until the matchbox rattled.

Sus.h.i.+la started on a deep sigh, and one by one the widows, staring at Mr Biswas's forehead, sighed and shook their heads. Shama gave Mr Biswas a look of perfect fury. Then she and the widows trooped out of the door.

A child was being flogged downstairs. W. C. Tuttle's gramophone was playing 'One Night When the Moon Was so Mellow'.

'I am sorry,' Mr Biswas said, to the back of the last widow. 'But I would lose my job. Sorry.'

And really he was sorry. But even if they were not relations, he could not have made their case convincing. How could one speak of a woman as dest.i.tute when she lived on her mother's estate, in one of her mother's three houses; when her brother was studying medicine in the United Kingdom; and when another brother was a figure of growing importance in the South, his name all over the paper, in the gossip columns, in the news columns for his business deals and political statements, in his own stylish advertis.e.m.e.nts ('Tulsi Theatres Trinidad proudly present...')?

It was not long after this that Mr Biswas had another request which disturbed him. It came from Bhandat, Ajodha's ostracized brother. Mr Biswas had never seen Bhandat since Bhandat had left the rumshop in Pagotes for his Chinese mistress in Port of Spain; he had only heard from Jagdat, Bhandat's son, that Bhandat was living in a poverty which he bore with fort.i.tude. Mr Biswas could do nothing for Bhandat. They were related, and again it would have been impossible to make a case for a man whose brother was known to be one of the wealthiest men in the colony.

Bhandat had given an address in the city centre which might have led someone without a knowledge of the city's slums to believe that Bhandat was a dealer in cocoa or sugar, an import-and-export king. In fact he lived in a tenement that lay between an importer of eastern goods and an exporter of sugar and copra. It was an old, Spanish style building. The flat facade, diversified by irregular areas of missing plaster, small windows with broken shutters, and two rusty iron balconies, rose directly from the pavement.

From the exporter came the rancid smell of copra and the heavy smell of sacked sugar, a smell quite different from the fetid, sweet smell of the sugar factories and buffalo ponds Mr Biswas remembered from his boyhood. From the importer came the many-accented smell of pungent spices. From the road came the smell of dust, straw, the urine and droppings of horses, donkeys and mules. At every impediment the gutters had developed a wrinkled film of sc.u.m, as white as the skin on boiled milk, with a piercing, acrid smell, which, blended and heated by the afternoon sun, rose suffocatingly from the road and pursued Mr Biswas as he turned off into the sudden black shadow of an archway between the tenement and the exporter's. He leaned his bicycle against the cool wall, fought off the bees from the exporter's sugar, and made his way down a cobbled lane along which ran a shallow green and black gutter, glittering in the gloom. The lane opened out into a paved yard which was only slightly wider. On one side was the high blank wall of the exporter's; on the other was the wall of the tenement, with windows that gaped black above dingy curtains. A leaning standpipe dripped on a mossy base and fed the gutter; at the end of the yard, their doors open, were a newspaper-littered lavatory and a roofless bathroom. Above was the sky, bright blue. Sunlight struck diagonally across the top of the exporter's wall.

Beyond the standpipe Mr Biswas turned into a pa.s.sage. He was pa.s.sing a curtained doorway when a shrill voice cried out, almost gaily, 'Mohun!'

He felt he had become a boy again. All the sense of weakness and shame returned.

It was a low, windowless room, lit only by the light from the pa.s.sage. A folding screen barred off one corner. In another corner there was a bed, and from it came gurgling happy sounds. Bhandat was not decrepit. Mr Biswas, who had feared to find him shrunken to a melodramatic Indian decrepitude, was relieved. The face was thinner; but the b.u.mps on the top lip were the same; the eyebrows, still those of a worrying man, bunched over eyes that were still bright.

Bhandat raised thin arms. 'You are my child, Mohun. Come.' The shrillness in the voice was new.

'How are you, Uncle?'

Bhandat didn't seem to hear. 'Come, come. You may think you are a big man, but to me you are still my child. Come, let me kiss you.'

Mr Biswas stood on the sugarsack rug and bent over the stale-smelling bed. He was at once pulled vigorously down. He saw that the distempered ceiling and walls were coated with dust and soot, felt Bhandat's unshaven chin sc.r.a.ping against his neck, felt Bhandat's dry lips on his cheek. Then he cried out. Bhandat had pulled sharply at his hair. He jumped back and Bhandat hooted.

Waiting for Bhandat to calm down, Mr Biswas looked around the room. Clothes hung on one wall from nails that had been driven into the mortar between the stones. On the gritty concrete floor what had at first looked like bundles of clothes turned out to be stacks of newspapers. Next to the screen there was a small table with more newspapers, a cheap writingpad, a bottle of ink and a chewed pen: it was at that table, no doubt, that Bhandat had written his letter.

'You are examining my mansion, Mohun?'

Mr Biswas refused to be moved. 'I don't know. It seems to me that you are all right here. You should see how some people live.' And he nearly added, 'You should see how I live.'

'I am an old man,' Bhandat said, in his new, hooting voice. His eyes became wet, and a small, unreliable smile appeared on his lips.

Mr Biswas edged further away from the bed.

Sounds came from behind the dingy cotton-print screen: a clink of a coal-pot ring, the striking of a match, brisk fanning. The Chinese woman. A thrill of curiosity ran through Mr Biswas. White charcoal smoke rose above the screen, coiled about the room and escaped, racing, through the door.

'Why do you use Lux Toilet Soap?'

Mr Biswas saw that Bhandat was staring at him earnestly. 'Lux Toilet? I think we use Palmolive. A green thing '

Bhandat said in English, 'I use Lux Toilet Soap because it is the soap used by lovely film stars.'

Mr Biswas was disturbed.

Bhandat turned on his side and began to rummage among the newspapers on the floor. 'None of my worthless sons ever come to see me. You are the only one, Mohun. But you were always like that.' He frowned at a newspaper. 'No. This one is over. Fernandes Rum. The perfect round in every circle. That is the sort ofthing they want. Rum, Mohun. Remember? Ah! Yes, this is the one.' He handed Mr Biswas a newspaper and Mr Biswas read the details of the Lux slogan compet.i.tion. 'Help an old man, Mohun. Tell me why you use Lux Toilet Soap.'

Mr Biswas said, 'I use Lux Toilet Soap because it is antiseptic, refres.h.i.+ng, fragrant and inexpensive.'

Bhandat frowned. The words had made no impression on him. And Mr Biswas knew for sure then, what he had intuited and dismissed: Bhandat was deaf.

'Write it down, Mohun,' Bhandat cried. 'Write it down before I forget it. I don't have any luck with these things. Crosswords. Missing Ball compet.i.tions. Slogans. They are all the same.'

While Mr Biswas wrote, Bhandat began on an account of his life. His deafness must have occurred some time ago: he spoke in complete sentences, which gave his talk a literary quality. It was a familiar story of jobs acquired and lost, great enterprises which had failed, wonderful opportunities Bhandat had not taken because of his own honesty or the dishonesty of his a.s.sociates, all of whom were now famous and rich.

He liked the slogan. 'This is bound to win, Mohun. Now, what about the crosswords, Mohun. Couldn't you make me win just one?'

Mr Biswas was saved from replying, for just then the woman came from behind the screen. She moved briskly, furtively, setting an enamel plate with small yellow cakes on the table, pulling out the chair, placing it next to where Mr Biswas stood, then hurrying behind the screen again. She was middle-aged, very thin, with a long neck and a small face. She gave an impression of perpendicularity: her unwashed black hair hung straight, her washed-out blue cotton dress dropped straight, her thin legs were straight.

Mr Biswas looked at Bhandat for signs of embarra.s.sment. But Bhandat went on talking undisturbed about the compet.i.tions he had entered and lost.

The woman came out again with two tall enamel cups of tea. She put a cup on the table and pushed the plate of cakes towards Mr Biswas, who was now seated on the chair she had pulled out. She gave the other cup to Bhandat, who sat up to receive it, handing her the sheet of paper on which Mr Biswas had written the slogan.

Bhandat sipped his tea, and for a moment he could have been Ajodha. The gesture was the same: the slow bringing of the cup to the lips, the half-closing of the eyes, the lips resting on the brim, the blowing at the tea. Then came the sip with closed eyes, as though the drink had been consecrated; and peace spread across the tormented face.

He opened his eyes: torment returned. 'It good, eh?' he said to the woman in English. She glanced hastily at Mr Biswas. She seemed anxious to return behind her screen.

'He is a big man now,' Bhandat said. 'But you know, I did know him when he was a boy so high.' He gave a hoot. 'Yes, so high.'

Mr Biswas tried to avoid Bhandat's gaze by taking one of the yellow cakes and biting at it.

'Since he was a boy so high. He is a big man now. But I used to put the licks on him good too, you know. Eh, Mohun? Yes, man.' Bhandat held the cup in his left hand and whipped his right forefinger against his thumb.

This was the moment Mr Biswas had feared. But now that it had come, he found only that he was relieved. Bhandat had not revived the shame: he had removed it.

The cup trembled in Bhandat's hand. The woman ran to the bed and opened her mouth wide. No words came out of that mouth: only a clacking of the tongue that erupted, at the end, into a shrill croak.

The tea had spilled on the bed, on Bhandat. And Mr Biswas, thinking of deafness, dumbness, insanity, the horror of the s.e.xual act in that grimy room, felt the yellow cake turn to a sweet slippery paste in his mouth. He could neither chew nor swallow. On the bed Bhandat was in a paroxysm of rage, cursing in Hindi, while the woman, unheeding, took the cup from his hand, ran behind the screen and brought out a floursack rag, burned in places, and began rubbing briskly on the sheet and Bhandat's vest.

'You awkward barren cow!' Bhandat screamed in Hindi. 'Always full to the brim! Always full to the brim!'

As she rubbed, her thin dress shook, revealing the thick coa.r.s.e hair under her arms, the shape of her graceless body, the outline of one of her undergarments. Mr Biswas forced himself to swallow the paste in his mouth and washed it down with the strong sweet tea. He was glad when the woman rolled up the floursack rag, put it under Bhandat's vest, and went behind the screen.

Bhandat calmed down at once. He smiled impishly at Mr Biswas and said, 'She doesn't understand Hindi.'

Mr Biswas rose to go.

The woman appeared again, and croaked at Bhandat.

'Stay and eat a proper meal, Mohun,' Bhandat said. 'I am not so poor that I can't afford to feed my child.'

Mr Biswas shook his head and tapped the notebook in his jacket pocket.

The woman withdrew.

'Antiseptic, fragrant, refres.h.i.+ng and inexpensive, eh? G.o.d will thank you for this, Mohun. As for those worthless sons of mine ' Bhandat smiled. 'Come and let me kiss you before you go, Mohun.'

Mr Biswas smiled, left Bhandat hooting, and went behind the screen to say good-bye to the woman. A lighted coal-pot stood on a box; on another box there were vegetables and plates. A basin of dirty water rested on the wet, black floor.

He said, 'I'll see what I can do. But I can't promise anything.'

The woman nodded.

'Is his back, really.'

The words were low but clear. She was not dumb!

He did not wait for an explanation. He hurried out of the room into the lane. It was chokingly warm. Once more he received the shock of the street's hot smells. The bees, honey-makers, buzzed around the exporters' sweating sugarsacks. Bits of the coa.r.s.e cake were still between his teeth. He swallowed. Instantly his mouth filled with saliva again.

As soon as he got to the house he went to the old bookcase, dug past his newspaper clippings, his correspondence from the Ideal School, a nest of pink blind baby mice, and took out his unfinished Escape Escape stories, the dreams of the barren heroine. He took the stories to the lavatory in the yard and stayed there for some time, creating a din of his own, pulling the chain again and again. When he came out there was a little queue of readers and learners, impatient but interested. stories, the dreams of the barren heroine. He took the stories to the lavatory in the yard and stayed there for some time, creating a din of his own, pulling the chain again and again. When he came out there was a little queue of readers and learners, impatient but interested.

On Sundays the din of the readers and learners was at its peak, and Mr Biswas started once more to take his children on visits to Pagotes. But now he spent little time with them when they got there. Jagdat, like a vicious schoolboy eager to corrupt, was always anxious to get Mr Biswas out of the house, and Mr Biswas was always willing. Between Jagdat and Mr Biswas there had developed an easy, relaxing relations.h.i.+p. They had never quarrelled; they could never be friends; yet each was always pleased to see the other. Neither believed or was interested in what the other said, and did not feel obliged even to listen. Mr Biswas liked, too, to be with Jagdat in Pagotes, for once outside the house Jagdat was a person of importance, Ajodha's heir, and his manner was that of someone used to obedience and affection. Despite his age, his family, his premature, attractive grey hair, Jagdat was still treated as the young man for whom allowances had to be made. His main pleasure lay in breaking Ajodha's rules, and for a few hours Mr Biswas had to pretend that these rules applied to him as well. Smoking was forbidden: they began to smoke as soon as they were in the road. Drinking was forbidden, and on Sunday mornings rumshops were closed by law: therefore they drank. Jagdat had an arrangement with a rumshop-keeper who, in return for free petrol from Ajodha's pumps, offered the use of his drawingroom for this Sunday morning drinking. In this drawingroom, which was strangely respectable, with four highly polished morris chairs around a small table, Mr Biswas and Jagdat drank whisky and soda. In the beginning they were young men, for whom the world was still new, and neither mentioned the affections to which he had that day to return. But there always came a time when, after a silence, with each willing the talk to continue as before, anxieties and affections returned. Jagdat mentioned his family; he spoke their names: they became individuals. Mr Biswas spoke about the Sentinel, Sentinel, about Anand and the exhibition. And always at the end the talk turned to Ajodha. Mr Biswas heard old and new stories of Ajodha's selfishness and cruelty; again and again he heard how it was Bhandat who had made Ajodha's early success possible. Distrustful of the family, despite the drink, Mr Biswas listened and made no comments, only squeezing in words about the Tulsis from time to time, half-heartedly trying to suggest that he had suffered as grand a betrayal as Bhandat. One Sunday morning he told Jagdat about his visit to Bhandat. about Anand and the exhibition. And always at the end the talk turned to Ajodha. Mr Biswas heard old and new stories of Ajodha's selfishness and cruelty; again and again he heard how it was Bhandat who had made Ajodha's early success possible. Distrustful of the family, despite the drink, Mr Biswas listened and made no comments, only squeezing in words about the Tulsis from time to time, half-heartedly trying to suggest that he had suffered as grand a betrayal as Bhandat. One Sunday morning he told Jagdat about his visit to Bhandat.

'Ah! So you see the old man then, Mohun? How he keeping? Tell me, he say anything about that bloodsucking hog?'

This was clearly Ajodha. Mr Biswas, looking down at his gla.s.s as though deeply moved, shook his head.

'You see the sort of man he is, Mohun. No malice.'

Mr Biswas drank some whisky. 'He tell me that none of you does go to see him or give him a little help or anything.'

After a pause Jagdat said, 'Son of a b.i.t.c.h lying like h.e.l.l. That old b.i.t.c.h he living with smart too, you know. She always putting him up to something or the other.'

Thereafter Jagdat never spoke of Bhandat, and Mr Biswas resolved only to listen.

At these sessions Jagdat gave every indication of growing drunk. Mr Biswas nearly always became drunk, and when they left the rumshop-keeper's drawingroom they sometimes decided to break more rules. They went to Ajodha's garage, filled one of Ajodha's vans or lorries with Ajodha's petrol and drove to the river or the beach. Jagdat drove very fast, but with acute judgement; and it was a recurring mortification to Mr Biswas to find that as soon as they got back to Ajodha's Jagdat became quite sober. He said that he had been out on some business, described conversations and incidents with an abundance of inconsequential, credible detail, and talked happily all through lunch. Mr Biswas said little and moved with a slow precision. His children noted his bloodshot eyes and wondered what had happened to subdue the vivacity he had shown earlier that morning in the bus-station in Port of Spain.

At lunch Ajodha invariably spoke to Mr Biswas of his business problems. 'They didn't give me that contract, you know, Mohun. I think you should write an article about these Local Road Board contracts.' And: 'Mohun, they are not giving me a permit to import diesel lorries. Can you find out why? Will you write them a letter for me? I am sure the oil companies are behind it. Why don't you write an article about it, Mohun?' And there and then followed the looking at official forms, correspondence, ill.u.s.trated booklets from American firms, with Mr Biswas adopting a side-sitting att.i.tude, breathing away from Ajodha, mumbling inanities through half-closed lips about the war and restrictions.

When the children asked Mr Biswas what was wrong he complained of his indigestion; and sometimes he slept through the afternoon. He did get indigestion too: his increased consumption of Maclean's Brand Stomach Powder, his silence, his unquenchable thirst were symptoms which Shama came to understand, to her shame.

So the children often found themselves on their own at Pagotes. There was only Tara to welcome them, and she was now crippled by asthma. In the large, well-equipped, empty house only the antagonism between Ajodha and his nephews could be felt. Anything could lead to a quarrel: the p.r.o.nunciation of 'Iraq', a discussion of the merits of the Buick. As quarrels became more frequent they became shorter, but so violent and obscene it seemed impossible that uncle and nephews could ever speak to one another again. Yet in a few minutes Ajodha would come out of his room, his gla.s.ses on, papers in his hand, and there would be normal talk and even laughter. Ajodha was bound to his nephews, and they to him. Ajodha needed his nephews in his business, since he distrusted strangers; he needed them more in his house, since he feared to be alone. And Jagdat and Rabidat, with large unacknowledged families, with no money, no gifts, and no status except that they derived from Ajodha's protection, knew that they were tied to Ajodha for as long as he lived. Rabidat, of the beautiful, exposed body, seemed to have his prognathous mouth perpetually set for a snarl. Jagdat's giggles could turn in a moment to screams and tears. In Ajodha's presence he was always on the verge of hysteria: it showed in his small unsteady eyes, which always belied his hearty, back-slapping manner.

More and more the children felt like intruders. They became aware of their status. And they were eventually humiliated.

In response to a plea from Aunt Juanita of the Guardian Guardian Tinymites League, Anand had gone around with a blue card collecting money for Polish refugee children. He had collected from teachers, the school caretaker, shopkeepers, and even from W. C. Tuttle. The cas.h.i.+er at the Dairies in Port of Spain had given six cents and congratulated him for undertaking good works while yet so young. And in the back verandah at Pagotes one Sunday morning, after he had read out an article on the importance of breathing, he presented the blue card to Ajodha and asked for a contribution. Tinymites League, Anand had gone around with a blue card collecting money for Polish refugee children. He had collected from teachers, the school caretaker, shopkeepers, and even from W. C. Tuttle. The cas.h.i.+er at the Dairies in Port of Spain had given six cents and congratulated him for undertaking good works while yet so young. And in the back verandah at Pagotes one Sunday morning, after he had read out an article on the importance of breathing, he presented the blue card to Ajodha and asked for a contribution.

Ajodha bunched his eyebrows and looked offended.

'You are a funny sort of family,' Ajodha said. 'Father collecting money for dest.i.tutes. You collecting for Polish refugees. Who collecting for you?'

It was a long time before Anand went back to Ajodha's. He collected no more money for Polish refugees, tore up the card. The money he had collected melted away, and for some months he lived in the dread of being summoned by Aunt Juanita to account for it. The kindness he received every afternoon from the woman in the Dairies was like a pain.

These Sunday excursions, mornings of makebelieve, afternoons and evenings of distress, grew less frequent, and Mr Biswas found himself more fully occupied with his campaigns at home.

To combat W. C. Tuttle's gramophone Chinta and Govind had been giving a series of pious singings from the Ramayana. Ramayana. The study of the The study of the Ramayana, Ramayana, which Chinta had started many years before, while Mr Biswas still lived at Green Vale, was now apparently complete; she sang very well. Govind sang less mellifluously: he partly whined and partly grunted, from his habit of singing while lying on his belly. Caught in this crossfire of song, which sometimes lasted a whole evening, Mr Biswas, listening, listening, would on a sudden rush in pants and vest to the inner room and bang on the part.i.tion of Govind's room and bang on the part.i.tion of W. C. Tuttle's drawingroom. which Chinta had started many years before, while Mr Biswas still lived at Green Vale, was now apparently complete; she sang very well. Govind sang less mellifluously: he partly whined and partly grunted, from his habit of singing while lying on his belly. Caught in this crossfire of song, which sometimes lasted a whole evening, Mr Biswas, listening, listening, would on a sudden rush in pants and vest to the inner room and bang on the part.i.tion of Govind's room and bang on the part.i.tion of W. C. Tuttle's drawingroom.

The Tuttles never replied. Chinta sang with added zest. Govind sometimes only chuckled between couplets, making it appear to be part of his song: the Ramayana Ramayana singer is free to add his own rubric in sound between couplets. Sometimes, however, he interrupted his singing to shout insulting things through the part.i.tion. Mr Biswas shouted back, and then Shama had to run upstairs to silence Mr Biswas. singer is free to add his own rubric in sound between couplets. Sometimes, however, he interrupted his singing to shout insulting things through the part.i.tion. Mr Biswas shouted back, and then Shama had to run upstairs to silence Mr Biswas.

Govind had become the terror of the house. It was as if his long spells in his taxi with his back to his pa.s.sengers had turned him into a complete misanthrope, as if his threepiece suits had b.u.t.toned up whatever remained of his eagerness and loyalty and turned it into a brooding which was liable to periodic sour eruptions. He had suffered a corresponding physical change. His weak handsome face had become gross and unreadable, and since he had taken to driving a taxi his body had lost its hardness and broadened into the sort of body that needs a waistcoat to give it dignity, to suggest that the swelling flesh is under control. His behaviour was odd and unpredictable. The Ramayana Ramayana singing had taken nearly everyone by surprise, and would have been amusing if it hadn't coincided with several displays of violence. For days he noticed n.o.body; then, without provocation, he fastened his attention on someone and pursued him with childish taunts and a frightening smile. He insulted Shama and the children; Shama, appreciating the limitations of Mr Biswas's hammock-like muscles, bore these insults in silence. He made a number of surprise a.s.saults on Basdai's readers and learners and generally terrorized them. Appeals to Chinta were useless; the fear Govind inspired was to her a source of pride. The story how Govind had once thrashed Mr Biswas she pa.s.sed on to her children, and they pa.s.sed it on to the readers and learners, terrifying them utterly. singing had taken nearly everyone by surprise, and would have been amusing if it hadn't coincided with several displays of violence. For days he noticed n.o.body; then, without provocation, he fastened his attention on someone and pursued him with childish taunts and a frightening smile. He insulted Shama and the children; Shama, appreciating the limitations of Mr Biswas's hammock-like muscles, bore these insults in silence. He made a number of surprise a.s.saults on Basdai's readers and learners and generally terrorized them. Appeals to Chinta were useless; the fear Govind inspired was to her a source of pride. The story how Govind had once thrashed Mr Biswas she pa.s.sed on to her children, and they pa.s.sed it on to the readers and learners, terrifying them utterly.

A quarrel between Govind and Mr Biswas upstairs was invariably accompanied by a quarrel between their children downstairs.

Once Savi said, 'I wonder why Pa doesn't buy a house.'

Govind's eldest daughter replied, 'If some people could put money where their mouth is they would be living in palaces.'

'Some people only have mouth and belly.'

'Some people at least have a belly. Other people have nothing at all.'

Savi took these defeats badly. As soon as the quarrel upstairs subsided she went to the inner room and lay down on the fourposter. Not wis.h.i.+ng to hurt herself again or to hurt her father, she could not tell him what had happened; and he was the only person who could have comforted her.

In the circ.u.mstances W. C. Tuttle came to be regarded as a useful ally. His physical strength matched Govind's (though this was denied by Govind's children), and their dispute about the garage still stood. It helped, too, that W. C. Tuttle and Mr Biswas had something in common: they both felt that by marrying into the Tulsis they had fallen among barbarians. W. C. Tuttle regarded himself as one of the last defenders of brahmin culture in Trinidad; at the same time he considered he had yielded gracefully to the finer products of Western civilization: its literature, its music, its art. He behaved at all times with a suitable dignity. He exchanged angry words with no one, contenting himself with silent contempt, a quivering of his longhaired nostrils.

And, indeed, apart from the unpleasantness caused by the gramophone, there was between Mr Biswas and W. C. Tuttle only that rivalry which had been touched off when Myna broke the torchbearer's torchbearing arm and Shama bought a gla.s.s cabinet. The battle of possessions Mr Biswas lost by default. After the acquisition of the gla.s.s cabinet (its broken door unrepaired, its lower shelves filled with schoolbooks and newspapers) and the grateful dest.i.tute's diningtable, Mr Biswas had no more room. W. C. Tuttle had the whole of the front verandah: he bought two moms rockingchairs, a standard lamp, a rolltop desk and a bookcase with sliding gla.s.s doors. Mr Biswas had gained a slight advantage by being the first to enrol his children in the Guardian Guardian Tinymites League; but he had squandered this by imitating W. C. Tuttle's khaki shorts. W. C. Tuttle's shorts were proper shorts, and he had the figure for them. Mr Biswas lacked this figure, and his khaki shorts were only long khaki trousers which Shama, against her judgement, had amputated, and hemmed on her machine with a wavering line of white cotton. Mr Biswas suffered a further setback when the Tuttle children revealed that their father had taken out a life insurance policy. 'Take out one too?' Mr Biswas said to Myna and Kamla. 'If I start paying insurance every month, you think any of you would live to draw it?' Tinymites League; but he had squandered this by imitating W. C. Tuttle's khaki shorts. W. C. Tuttle's shorts were proper shorts, and he had the figure for them. Mr Biswas lacked this figure, and his khaki shorts were only long khaki trousers which Shama, against her judgement, had amputated, and hemmed on her machine with a wavering line of white cotton. Mr Biswas suffered a further setback when the Tuttle children revealed that their father had taken out a life insurance policy. 'Take out one too?' Mr Biswas said to Myna and Kamla. 'If I start paying insurance every month, you think any of you would live to draw it?'

The picture war started when Mr Biswas bought two drawings from an Indian bookshop and framed them in pa.s.separtout. He found he liked framing pictures. He liked playing with clean cardboard and sharp knives; he liked experimenting with the colours and shapes of mounts. He saw the gla.s.s cut to his measurements, he cycled tremulously home with it, and a whole evening was transformed. Framing a picture was like writing a sign: it required neatness and precision; he could concentrate on what his hands did, forget the house, subdue his irritations. Soon his two rooms were as hung with pictures as the barrackroom in Green Vale had been with religious quotations.