A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [76]
He shook his head.
‘Remember, they can’t kill you.’
That ‘they’ again.
‘Oh,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘So it have three in the family now.’ She was warned by his tone.
‘Send me a barrel,’ he said loudly. ‘A small coal barrel.’
He came out through the side gate and wheeled his cycle past the arcade, which was already filling up with the evening crowd of old India-born men who came there to smoke and talk. He cycled to Misir’s rickety little wooden house and called at the lighted window.
Misir pushed his head past the lace curtain and said, ‘Just the man I want to see. Come in.’
Misir said he had packed his wife and children off to his mother-in-law. Mr Biswas guessed the reason to be a quarrel or a pregnancy.
‘Been working like hell without them, too,’ Misir said. ‘Writing stories.’
‘For the Sentinel?’
‘Short stories,’ Misir said with his old impatience. ‘Just sit down and listen.’
Misir’s first story was about a man who had been out of work for months and was starving. His five children were starving; his wife was having another baby. It was December and the shops were full of food and toys. On Christmas eve the man got a job. Going home that evening, he was knocked down and killed by a motorcar that didn’t stop.
‘Helluva thing,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘I like the part about the car not stopping.’
Misir smiled, and said fiercely, ‘But life is like that. Is not a fairy-story. No once-upon-a-time-there-was-a-rajah nonsense. Listen to this one.’
Misir’s second story was about a man who had been out of work for months and was starving. To keep his large family he began selling his possessions, and finally he had nothing left but a two-shilling sweepstake ticket. He didn’t want to sell it, but one of his children fell dangerously ill and needed medicine. He sold the ticket for a shilling and bought medicine. The child died; the ticket he had sold won the sweepstake.
‘Helluva thing,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘What happen?’
‘To the man? Why you asking me? Use your imagination.’
‘Hell, hell, helluva thing.’
‘People should know about these things,’ Misir said. ‘Know about life. You should start writing some stories yourself.’
‘I just don’t have the time, boy. Have a little property in The Chase now.’ Mr Biswas paused, but Misir didn’t react. ‘Married man, too, you know. Responsibilities.’ He paused again. ‘Daughter.’
‘God!’ Misir exclaimed in disgust. ‘God!’
‘Just born.’
Misir shook his head, sympathizing. ‘Cat in bag, cat in bag. That is all we get from this cat-in-bag business.’
Mr Biswas changed the subject. ‘What about the Aryans?’
‘Why you asking? You don’t really care. Nobody don’t care. Just tell them a few fairy-stories and they happy. They don’t want to face facts. And this Shivlochan is a damn fool. You know they send Pankaj Rai back to India? Sometimes I stop and wonder what happening to him over there. I suppose the poor man in rags, starving in some gutter, can’t get a job or anything. You know, you could make a good story out of Pankaj.’
‘Just what I was going to say. The man was a purist.’
‘A born purist.’
‘Misir, you still working for the Sentinel?’
‘Blasted cent a line still. Why?’
‘A damn funny thing happen today. You know what I see? A pig with two heads.’ ‘Where?’
‘Right here, Hanuman House. From their estate.’
‘But Hindus like the Tulsis wouldn’t keep pigs.’
‘You would be surprised. Of course it was dead.’
For all his reforming instincts, Misir was clearly disappointed and upset. ‘Anything for the money these days. Still, is a story. Going to telephone it in straight away.’
And when he left Misir, Mr Biswas said, ‘Occupation labourer. This will show them.’
It would be three weeks before Shama returned to The Chase. He put up a hammock for the baby in the gallery and waited. The shop and the back rooms became increasingly