A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [209]
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 competition. ‘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, refreshing, 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 competitions. 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 associates, 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 embarrassment. But Bhandat went on talking undisturbed about the competitions 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