A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [200]
Glancing to his left, Anand saw the mule in the cricket field. It was following them, moving along the snarled fence-wires. They reached the end of the drive. The mule reached the corner of the field and stopped.
They ran up the concrete steps, avoiding the overhanging nutmeg tree. They fumbled with the bolt on the verandah gate and the noise frightened them. They scratched at doors and windows, tapped the wall of Mrs Tulsi’s room, rattled the tall drawingroom doors. They called. There was no reply. Every noise they made seemed to them an explosion. But in the silence and blackness they were only whispering. Their footsteps, their knockings, Anand’s stumbling among the stale cakes and the widow’s corn, sounded only like the scuttling of rats.
Then they heard voices: low and alarmed: one aunt whispering to another, Mrs Tulsi calling for Sushila
Anand shouted: ‘Aunt!’
The voices were silenced. Then they were raised again, this time defiantly. Anand knocked hard on a window. A woman’s voice said, ‘Two of the little people!’ There was an exclamation.
They were thought to be the spirits of Hari and Padma.
Mrs Tulsi groaned and spoke a Hindi exorcism. Inside, doors were opened, the floor pounded. There was loud aggressive talk about sticks, cutlasses and God, while Sushila, the sickroom widow, an expert on the supernatural, asked in a sweet conciliatory voice, ‘Poor little people, what can we do for you?’
‘Fire!’ Anand cried.
‘Fire,’ Savi said.
‘Our house on fire!’
And Sushila, though she had taken part in the whisperings against Savi and Mr Biswas, found herself obliged to continue talking sweetly to Savi and Anand.
The apprehension of the house turned to joyous energy at the news of the fire.
‘But really,’ Chinta said, as she happily got ready, ‘what fool doesn’t know that to set fire to land in the night is to ask for trouble?’
Lights went on everywhere. Babies squealed, were hushed. Mrs Tuttle was heard to say, ‘Put something on your head, man. This dew isn’t good for anyone.’ ‘A cutlass, a cutlass,’ Sharma’s widow called. And the children excitedly relayed the news: ‘Uncle Mohun’s house is burning down!’ Some thrilled alarmists feared that the fire might spread through the woods to the big house itself; and there was speculation about the effects of the fire on the explosives.
The journey to the fire was like an excursion. Once there, the Tulsi party fell to work with a will, cutting, clearing, beating. It became a celebration. Shama, host for the second time to her family, prepared coffee in the kitchen, which was untouched. And Mr Biswas, forgetful of animosities, shouted to everyone, ‘Is all right. Is all right. Everything under control.’
Some eggs were discovered, burnt black, and dry inside. Whether they were snakes’ eggs or the eggs of the widows’ errant hens no one knew. A snake was found burnt to death less than twenty yards from the kitchen. ‘The hand of God,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘Burning the bitch up before it bite me.’
Morning revealed the house, still red and raw, in a charred and smoking desolation. Villagers came running to see, and were confirmed in their belief that their village had been taken over by vandals.
‘Charcoal, charcoal,’ Mr Biswas called to them. ‘Anybody want charcoal?’
For days afterwards the valley darkened with ash whenever the wind blew. Ash dusted the plot Bipti had forked.
‘Best thing for the land,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘Best sort of fertilizer.’
4. Among the Readers and Learners
HE COULD not simply leave the house in Shorthills. He had to be released from it. And presently this happened. Transport became impossible. The bus service deteriorated; the sports car began to give as much trouble as its predecessor and had to be sold. And just about this time Mrs Tulsi’s house in Port of Spain fell vacant. Mr Biswas was offered two rooms in it, and he immediately accepted.
He considered