A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [113]
‘Well, as a matter of fact,’ Mr Biswas said briskly, ‘it was that I wanted to talk to you about. You see, this is a steady job –’
Ajodha said, ‘Mohun, I don’t think you are looking well at all. Eh, Tara? Look at his face. And, eh –’ He broke off with a giggle and said in English, ‘Look, look. He getting a punch.’ He stabbed at Mr Biswas’s belly with a long sharp finger, and when Mr Biswas winced Ajodha gave a little yelping laugh. ‘Pap,’ he said. ‘Your belly soft like pap. Like a woman. All you young people getting bellies these days.’ He winked at Mr Biswas; then, tilting back his head, he said loudly, ‘Even Rabidat got a punch.’
Tara gave a short, chesty laugh.
Rabidat came out of the kitchen, chewing, his mouth full, and mumbled incomprehensibly.
Ajodha grimaced, ‘Take your face back to the kitchen. You know you make me ill when you talk with your mouth full.’
Rabidat swallowed hurriedly. ‘Punch?’ he said, nibbling at his lower lip. ‘I got a punch?’ He pulled his shirt off his shoulders, drew in his breath and the definitions of his abdominal muscles became sharper. Above his sneering mouth his small eyes glittered.
Smiling, Ajodha said, ‘All right, Rabidat. Go back and eat. I was only teasing.’ The demonstration had pleased him; he was as proud of Rabidat’s body as of his own. ‘Good food,’ he told Mr Biswas. ‘And lots of exercise.’ He threw back his shoulders, stuck out his stomach, grabbed Mr Biswas’s soft hand with his firm, long fingers and said, ‘Feel that. Come on, feel it.’ Mr Biswas didn’t respond. Ajodha seized one of Mr Biswas’s fingers and pulled it hard against his stomach. Mr Biswas felt his finger bend backwards; he wrenched it from Ajodha’s grasp. ‘There,’ Ajodha said. ‘Hard as steel. You still sleep with a pillow, I imagine?’
Surreptitiously rubbing his paining finger against its neighbour, Mr Biswas nodded.
‘I never use a pillow. Nature didn’t intend us to use pillows. Train your children from the start, Mohun. Don’t let them use pillows. Ooh! Four children!’ Ajodha gave another little yelp of laughter, jumped out of his chair, walked to the verandah half-wall and shouted irritably to someone outside. He had heard the cowman preparing to leave and was only bidding him good night; that was the voice he always used with his employees. The cowman replied and Ajodha returned to his chair. ‘Married man!’
‘Well, as I was saying,’ Mr Biswas said, ‘this job I have is steady. And I am beginning to build a little house.’
‘O good, Mohun,’ Tara said. ‘Very good.’
‘I don’t know how you managed to live at Hanuman House,’ Ajodha said. ‘How many people live in that place?’
‘About two hundred,’ Mr Biswas said, and they all laughed. ‘Now, this house is going to be a proper house —’
‘You know what you should do, Mohun?’ Ajodha said. ‘You should take Sanatogen. Not one bottle. Take the full course. You don’t get any benefit unless you take the full course.’
Tara nodded.
Rabidat came out of the kitchen again. ‘What is this I hear about a house, Mohun? You build a house? Where you get all this money from?’
‘He has been saving up,’ Ajodha said impatiently. ‘Not like you. You are going to end up living in a hole in the ground, Rabidat. I don’t know what you do with your money.’ It was only indirectly, like this, that Ajodha referred to Rabidat’s outside life.
‘Look. You!’ Rabidat said. ‘I wasn’t born with money, you hear. And I don’t have the scheming mind to make any. My father neither.’ He was being provocative, since any mention of his father, like any mention of Mr Biswas’s sister, was forbidden.
Ajodha frowned and rocked violently.
And Mr Biswas realized that the time to ask had gone for good.
Ajodha’s look wasn’t the one he assumed so easily, of worry and petulance, which meant nothing, though it filled his employees with dread. It