A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [117]
When Mr Biswas returned from the fields he found the brushed site marked in white with the plan of the house. Holes for pillars had been indicated and Edgar was digging. Not far off Mr Maclean had constructed a frame which rested level on stones and answered wonderfully to the design he had drawn in his yard.
‘Gallery, drawingroom, bedroom, bedroom,’ Mr Biswas said, hopping over the spars. ‘Gallery, bedroom, bedroom, drawingroom.’
The air smelled of sawdust. Sawdust had spilled rich red and cream on the grass and had been ground into the damp black earth by Edgar’s bare feet and Mr Maclean’s old, unshining working-boots.
Mr Maclean talked to Mr Biswas about the difficulties of labour.
‘I try to get Sam,’ he said. ‘But he a little too erratic and don’t-care. Edgar, now, does do the work of two men. The only trouble is, you got to keep a eye on him all the time. Look at him.’
Edgar was knee-deep in a hole and regularly throwing up spadefuls of black earth.
‘You got to tell him to stop,’ Mr Maclean said. ‘Otherwise, he dig right through till he come out the other side. Well, boss, how about something to wet the job?’ He made a drinking gesture. In the early days he had preferred to drink on the completion of a job; now he got his drink as soon as he could.
Mr Biswas nodded and Mr Maclean called, ‘Edgar!’ Edgar went on digging.
Mr Maclean tapped his forehead. ‘You see what I tell you?’ He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled.
Edgar looked up and jumped out of his hole. Mr Maclean asked him to go to the rumshop and buy a nip of rum. Edgar ran to where his belongings were, seized a dusty, squashed and abbreviated felt hat, pressed it on his head and ran off. Some minutes later he came back, still running, one hand holding a bottle, the other holding down his hat.
Mr Maclean opened the bottle, said, ‘To you and the house, boss,’ and drank. He passed the bottle to Edgar, who said, ‘To you and the house, mister boss,’ and drank without wiping the bottle.
Mr Maclean required much space when he worked. Next day he built another frame and left it on the ground beside the frame of the floor. The new frame was of the back wall and Mr Biswas recognized the back door and the back window. Edgar finished digging the holes and set up three of the crapaud pillars, making them firm with stones taken from a heap left by the Public Works Department some distance away.
One thing puzzled Mr Biswas. The materials had cost nearly eighty-five dollars. That left fifteen dollars to be divided between Mr Maclean and Edgar for work which, Mr Maclean said, would take from eight to ten days. Yet they were both cheerful; though Mr Maclean had complained, in a whisper, about the cost of labour.
That afternoon, when Mr Maclean and Edgar left, Shama came.
‘What is this I hear from Seth?’
He showed her the frames on the ground, the three erect pillars, the mounds of dirt.
‘I suppose you use up every cent you had?’
‘Every red cent,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘Gallery, drawingroom, bedroom, bedroom.’
Her pregnancy was beginning to be prominent. She puffed and fanned. ‘Is all right for you. But what about me and the children?’
‘What you mean? They going to be ashamed because their father building a house?’
‘Because their father trying to set himself up in competition with people who have a lot more than him.’
He knew what was upsetting her. He could imagine the whisperings at the monkey house, the puss-puss here, the puss-puss there. He said, ‘I know you want to spend all the days of your life in that big coal barrel called Hanuman House. But don’t try to keep my children there.’
‘Where you going to get the money to finish the house?’
‘Don’t you worry your head about that. If you did worry a little bit more and a little bit earlier, by now we might have a house.’
‘You just gone and throw away your money. You want to be a pauper.’
‘O God!