A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [80]
Earlier than Mr Biswas had expected, Moti returned and said, ‘You are a lucky man. Seebaran has decided to help you. I told him you were a friend of mine and a good Hindu, and he’s a very strict Hindu himself, as you know. He is going to help you. Even though he’s busy.’ He took out the papers from his shirt pocket, found the one he wanted and slapped it down on the counter. At the top a mauve stamp, slightly askew, said that L. S. Seebaran was a solicitor and conveyancer. Below that there were many dotted lines between printed sentences. ‘Seebaran going to full up those for you as soon as he get your papers,’ Moti said, using English, the language of the law.
Unless this sum, Mr Biswas read with a thrill, together with One Dollar and Twenty Cents ($1.02c), the cost of this letter, is paid within ten days, legal proceedings shall he instituted against you. And there was another dotted line below that, where L. S. Seebaran was to sign himself yours faithfully.
‘Powerful, powerful, man,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘Legal proceedings, eh. I didn’t know it was so easy to bring people up.’
Moti gave a knowing little grunt.
‘One dollar and twenty cents, the cost of this letter,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘You mean I don’t even have to pay that?’
‘Not with Seebaran fighting your case for you.’
‘One dollar and twenty cents. You mean Seebaran getting that just for fulling up those dotted lines? Education, boy. It have nothing like a profession.’
‘You is your own boss, if you is a professional man,’ Moti said, his voice touched with a remote sadness.
‘But one twenty, man. Five minutes’ writing for one twenty.’
‘You forgetting that Seebaran had to spend years and years studying all sort of big and heavy books before they allow him to send out papers like this.’
‘You know, the thing to do is to have three sons. Make one a doctor, one a dentist, and one a lawyer.’
‘Nice little family. If you have the sons. And if you have the money. They don’t give trust in those places.’
Mr Biswas brought out Shama’s accounts. Moti asked to see the credit slips again, and his face fell as he looked through them. ‘A lot of these ain’t signed,’ he said.
Mr Biswas had for long thought it discourteous to ask his creditors to do so. He said, ‘But they wasn’t signed the last time either.’
Moti gave a nervous laugh. ‘Don’t worry. I know cases where Seebaran recover people money even without paper or anything. But is a lot of work here, you know. You got to show Seebaran that you serious.’
Mr Biswas went to the drawer below the shelves. The drawer was large but not heavy, and pulled out in an easy, awkward way; the wood inside was oily but surprisingly white. ‘A dollar and twenty cents?’ he said.
A throat was cleared. Shama’s.
‘Maharajin,’ Moti said.
There was no reply.
Mr Biswas didn’t turn. ‘One twenty?’ he repeated, rattling the coins in the drawer.
Moti said unhappily, ‘You can’t give a man like Seebaran one twenty to fight a case for you.’
‘Five,’ Mr Biswas said.
‘That would be good,’ Moti said, as though he had hoped to get ten.
‘Two,’ Mr Biswas said, walking briskly to the counter and laying down a red note.
‘Is all right,’ Moti said. ‘Don’t bother to count it.’
‘And one is three.’ Mr Biswas put down a blue note. ‘And one is four. And one is five.’
‘Five,’ Moti said.
‘Tell Seebaran I send that.’
Moti put the notes in his side pocket and Shama’s Shorthand Reporter’s Notebook