A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [257]
‘I can’t make head or tail of this Picasso,’ Shekhar said.
‘Picasso is a man I loathe,’ Owad said.
‘But isn’t he a comrade?’ Anand said.
Owad frowned. ‘And as for Chagall and Rouault and Braque —’
‘What do you think of Matisse?’ Shekhar asked, using a name he had got from Life and putting a stop to the flow of names he didn’t know.
‘He’s all right,’ Owad said. ‘Delicious colour.’
This was unfamiliar language to Shekhar. He said, ‘That was a nice picture they made. Didn’t do too well, though. The Moon and Sixpence. With George Sanders.’
Owad, concentrating on his cards, didn’t reply.
‘These artists are funny fellers,’ Shekhar said.
They were playing for matches. Anand scattered his heap and said, ‘Portrait by Picasso.’
Everyone laughed, except Owad.
‘Is a long time now I want to read the book,’ Shekhar said. ‘Isn’t it by Somerset Morgue-hum?’ Anand scattered his matches again.
Owad said, ‘Why don’t you look in the mirror if you want to see a portrait by Picasso?’
This was clearly one of Owad’s scathing comments. Shekhar smiled and grunted. The watching sisters and their children roared with laughter. Owad acknowledged their approval by smiling at his cards.
Anand felt betrayed. He had adopted all of Owad’s political and artistic views; he had announced himself as a communist at school, he had stated that Eliot was a man he loathed. It was his turn to deal. In his confusion he dealt to himself first. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, looking down and trying to inject a laugh into his voice.
‘There is no need to apologize for that,’ Owad said sternly. ‘It is simply a sign of your conceited selfishness and egocentricity.’
The watchers held their breath.
Joviality fled from the table, Shekhar studied his cards. Owad frowned at his. His foot was tapping on the concrete floor. More watchers came.
Anand felt his ears burning. He looked hard at his cards, feeling the silence that had spread to all parts of the house. He was aware of watchers coming, Savi, Myna, Kamla. He was aware of Shama.
Owad breathed heavily and swallowed noisily.
When Shekhar bid his voice was low, as though he wished to take no part in the struggle. Vidiadhar, Shekhar’s partner, bid in a voice choked by saliva; but there was no mistaking the voice of the free, unoffending man.
Anand bid stupidly.
Owad pressed his teeth far below his lower lip, shook his head slowly, tapped his feet, and breathed more loudly. When he bid, his voice, full of anger now, suggested that he was trying to redeem a hopeless situation.
The game dragged on. Anand played worse and worse. Shekhar, as though doing it against his will, gathered in trick after trick.
Owad’s breathing and swallowing made Anand feel choked. His back was cold: his shirt was wet with perspiration.
At last the game was over. Neatly, deliberately, Shekhar noted the score. They waited for Owad to speak. Shuffling the cards, though it was not his turn, breathing heavily, he said, ‘That’s what we get from your genius.’
The tears rushed to Anand’s eyes. He jumped up, throwing his chair backwards, and shouted, ‘I didn’t tell you I was any blasted genius.’
Slap! His right cheek burned; then trembled, even after Owad’s hand was removed, as though the cheek had had to wait before registering the blow. And Owad was standing and Shekhar was bending down, picking up the cards from the dusty floor. And slap! his left cheek burned and trembled heavily. He forgot the watchers, concentrating only on the breathing before, the rising of the white-shirted chest. Owad’s chair was overthrown. And Shekhar, leaning awkwardly on the table, his chair pushed back, was looking at the cards as he let them fall from one palm to another, his brow furrowed, his top lip swelling over the lower.
The table was jerked aside. Anand found himself standing ridiculously upright, half blinded by the shaming tears.