House for Mister Biswas Part 30

'Marcus Aurelius.'

The editor smiled.

'Epictetus.'

The editor continued to smile, and Mr Biswas smiled back, to let the editor know that he knew he was sounding absurd.

'You read those people just for pleasure, eh?'

Mr Biswas recognized the cruel intent of the question, but he didn't mind. 'No,' he said. 'Just for the encouragement.' All his excitement died.

There was a pause. The editor looked at the proof. Through the frosted gla.s.s Mr Biswas saw figures pa.s.sing in the newsroom. He became aware of the noise again: the traffic in the street, the regular rattle of machinery, the intermittent chatter of typewriters, occasional laughter.

'How old are you?'

'Thirty-one.'

'You have come from the country, you are thirty-one, you have never written, and you want to be a reporter. What do you do?'

Mr Biswas thought of estate-driver, exalted it to overseer, rejected it, rejected shopkeeper, rejected unemployed. He said, 'Sign-painter.'

The editor rose. 'I have just the job for you.'

He led Mr Biswas out of the office, through the newsroom (the group around the water-cooler had broken up), past a machine unrolling sheets of typewritten paper, into a partially dismantled room where carpenters were at work, through more rooms, and then into a yard. Down the lane at one end Mr Biswas could see the street he had left a few minutes before.

The editor walked about the yard, pointing. 'Here and here,' he said. 'And here.'

Mr Biswas was given paint and a brush, and he spent the rest of the afternoon writing signs: No Admittance to Wheeled Vehicles, No Entry, Watch out for Vans, No Hands Wanted.

Around him machinery clattered and hummed; the carpenters beat rhythms on the nails as they drove them in.

Amazing scenes were witnessed yesterday when...

'Tcha!' he exclaimed angrily.

Amazing scenes were witnessed yesterday when Mohun Biswas, 31, a sign-painter, set to work on the offices of the TRINIDAD SENTINEL. TRINIDAD SENTINEL. Pa.s.sers-by stopped and stared as Biswas, father of four, covered the walls with obscene phrases. Women hid their faces in their hands, screamed and fainted. A traffic jam was created in St Vincent Street and police, under Superintendent Grieves, were called in to restore order. Interviewed by our special correspondent late last night, Biswas said... Pa.s.sers-by stopped and stared as Biswas, father of four, covered the walls with obscene phrases. Women hid their faces in their hands, screamed and fainted. A traffic jam was created in St Vincent Street and police, under Superintendent Grieves, were called in to restore order. Interviewed by our special correspondent late last night, Biswas said...

'Didn't even know who Marcus Aurelius was, the crab-catching son of a b.i.t.c.h.'

...interviewed late last night, Biswas...Mr Biswas said, 'The ordinary man cannot be expected to know the meaning of "No Admittance".'

'What, still here?'

It was the editor. He was less pink, less oiled, and his clothes were dry. He was smoking a short fat cigar; it repeated and emphasized his shape.

The yard was in shadow; the light was going. Machinery clattered more a.s.sertively: a series of separate noises; the carpenters' rhythms had ceased. In the street traffic had subsided, footsteps resounded; the pa.s.sing of a motor, the trilling of a bicycle bell could be heard from afar.

'But that is good,' the editor said. 'Very good indeed.'

You sound surprised, you little chunk of lard. 'I got the letters from a magazine.' You think you are the only one laughing, eh?

'I could eat the Gill Sans R,' the editor said. 'You know, I don't really see why you should want to give up your job.'

'Not enough money.'

'Not much in this either.'

Mr Biswas pointed to a sign. 'No wonder you are doing your best to keep people out.'

'Oh. No Hands Wanted.'

'A nice little sign,' Mr Biswas said.

The editor smiled and then was convulsed with laughter.

And Mr Biswas, the clown again, laughed too.

'That was for carpenters and labourers,' the editor said. 'Come tomorrow, if you are serious. We'll give you a month's trial. But no pay.'

A chance encounter had led him to sign-writing. Sign-writing had taken him to Hanuman House and the Tulsis. Sign-writing found him a place on the Sentinel. Sentinel. And neither for the Tulsi Store signs nor for those at the And neither for the Tulsi Store signs nor for those at the Sentinel Sentinel was he paid. was he paid.

He worked with enthusiasm. His reading had given him an extravagant vocabulary but Mr Burnett, the editor, was patient. He gave Mr Biswas copies of London papers, and Mr Biswas studied their style until he could turn out presentable imitations. It was not long before he developed a feeling for the shape and scandalizing qualities of every story. To this he added something of his own. And it was part of his sudden good fortune that he was working for the Sentinel Sentinel and not for the and not for the Guardian Guardian or the or the Gazette. Gazette. For the facetiousness that came to him as soon as he put pen to paper, and the fantasy he had hitherto dissipated in quarrels with Shama and in invective against the Tulsis, were just the things Mr Burnett wanted. For the facetiousness that came to him as soon as he put pen to paper, and the fantasy he had hitherto dissipated in quarrels with Shama and in invective against the Tulsis, were just the things Mr Burnett wanted.

'Let them get their news from the other papers,' he said. 'That is exactly what they are doing at the moment anyway. The only way we can get readers is by shocking them. Get them angry. Frighten them. You just give me one good fright, and the job is yours.'

Next day Mr Biswas turned in a story.

Mr Burnett said, 'You made this one up?'

Mr Biswas nodded.

'Pity.'

The story was headlined: FOUR CHILDREN ROASTED IN HUT BLAZE.

Mother, Helpless, Watches 'I liked the last paragraph,' Mr Burnett said.

This read: 'Sightseers are pouring into the stricken village, and we do not feel we are in a position to divulge its name as yet. "In times like this," an old man told me last night, "we want to be left alone."'

Abandoning fiction, Mr Biswas persevered. And Mr Burnett continued to give advice.

'I think you'd better go a little easy on the amazing scenes being witnessed. And how about turning your pa.s.sers-by into ordinary people every now and then? "Considerably" is a big word meaning "very", which is a pointless word any way. And look. "Several" has seven letters. "Many" has only four and oddly enough has exactly the same meaning. I liked your piece on the Bonny Baby Compet.i.tion. You made me laugh. But you haven't frightened me yet.'

'Anything funny happen at the Mad House?' Mr Biswas asked Ramchand that evening.

Ramchand looked annoyed.

And Mr Biswas gave up the idea of an exposure piece on the Mad House.

On his way to the Sentinel Sentinel next morning he called at a police station. From there he went to the mortuary, then to the City Council's stable-yard. When he got to the next morning he called at a police station. From there he went to the mortuary, then to the City Council's stable-yard. When he got to the Sentinel he Sentinel he sat down at a free desk no desk was yet his and wrote in pencil: sat down at a free desk no desk was yet his and wrote in pencil: Last week the Sentinel Sentinel Bonny Baby Compet.i.tion was held at Prince's Building. And late last night the body of a dead male baby was found, neatly wrapped in a brown paper parcel, on the rubbish dump at Cocorite. Bonny Baby Compet.i.tion was held at Prince's Building. And late last night the body of a dead male baby was found, neatly wrapped in a brown paper parcel, on the rubbish dump at Cocorite.

I have seen the baby and I am in a position to say that it did not win a prize in our Bonny Baby Compet.i.tion.

Experts are not yet sure whether the baby was specially taken to the rubbish dump, or simply put out with the rubbish in the usual way.

Hezekiah James, 43, unemployed, who discovered the dead baby, told me...

'Good, good,' Mr Burnett said. 'But heavy. Heavy. Why not "I am able" instead of "I am in a position"?'

'I got that from the Daily Express.' Daily Express.'

'All right. Let it pa.s.s. But promise me that for a whole week you won't be in a position to do or say anything. It's going to be hard. But try. What sort of baby?'

'Sort?'

'Black, white, green?'

'White. Blueish when I saw it, really. I thought, though, that we didn't mention race, except for Chinese.'

'Listen to the man. If I ran across a black baby on the rubbish dump at Banbury, do you think I would just say a baby?'

And the headlines the next day read: WHITE BABY FOUND ON RUBBISH DUMP.

In Brown Paper Parcel Did Not Win Bonny Baby Compet.i.tion 'Just one other thing,' Mr Burnett said. 'Lay off babies for a while.'

The job was urgent: the paper had to be printed every evening; by early morning it had to be in every part of the island. This was not the false urgency of writing signs for shops at Christmas or looking after crops. And even after a dozen years Mr Biswas never lost the thrill, which he then felt for the first time, at seeing what he had written the day before appear in print, in the newspaper delivered free.

'You haven't given me a real shock yet,' Mr Burnett said.

And Mr Biswas wanted to shock Mr Burnett. It seemed unlikely that he would ever do so, for in his fourth week he was made shipping reporter, taking the place of a man who had been killed at the docks by a crane load of flour accidentally falling from a great height. It was the tourist season and the harbour was full of ships from America and Europe. Mr Biswas went aboard German ships, was given excellent lighters, saw photographs of Adolf Hitler, and was bewildered by the Heil Hitler salutes.

Excitement!

The ships sailed away with their scorched tourists, distinguished by their tropical clothes, after only a few hours. But they had come from places with famous names. And in the Sentinel Sentinel office news from those places spilled out continually on to spools of paper. Outside was the hot sun, the horse-dunged streets, the choked slums, the rooms where he lived with Ramchand and Dehuti; and, beyond that, the level acres of sugarcane, the sunken ricelands, the repet.i.tive labour of his brothers, the short roads leading from known settlement to known settlement, the Tulsi establishment, the old men who gathered every evening in the arcade of Hanuman House and would travel no more. But within the walls of the office every part of the world was near. office news from those places spilled out continually on to spools of paper. Outside was the hot sun, the horse-dunged streets, the choked slums, the rooms where he lived with Ramchand and Dehuti; and, beyond that, the level acres of sugarcane, the sunken ricelands, the repet.i.tive labour of his brothers, the short roads leading from known settlement to known settlement, the Tulsi establishment, the old men who gathered every evening in the arcade of Hanuman House and would travel no more. But within the walls of the office every part of the world was near.

He went aboard American ships on the South American tourist route, interviewed businessmen, had difficulty in understanding the American accent, saw the galleys and marvelled at the quant.i.ty and quality of the food thrown away. He copied down pa.s.senger lists, was invited by a ship's cook to join a smuggling ring that dealt in camera flash-bulbs, declined and was unable to write the story because it would have incriminated his late predecessor.

He interviewed an English novelist, a man about his own age, but still young, and shining with success. Mr Biswas was impressed. The novelist's name was unknown to him and to the readers of the Sentinel, Sentinel, but Mr Biswas had thought of all writers as dead and a.s.sociated the production of books not only with distant lands, but with distant ages. He visualized headlines but Mr Biswas had thought of all writers as dead and a.s.sociated the production of books not only with distant lands, but with distant ages. He visualized headlines FAMOUS NOVELIST SAYS PORT OF SPAIN WORLD'S THIRD WICKEDEST FAMOUS NOVELIST SAYS PORT OF SPAIN WORLD'S THIRD WICKEDEST CITY CITY and fed the novelist with leading questions. But the novelist considered Mr Biswas's inquiries to have a sinister political motive, and made slow statements about the island's famed beauty and his desire to see as much of it as possible. and fed the novelist with leading questions. But the novelist considered Mr Biswas's inquiries to have a sinister political motive, and made slow statements about the island's famed beauty and his desire to see as much of it as possible.

I want to see that frighten anybody, Mr Biswas thought.

(Years later Mr Biswas came across the travel-book the novelist had written about the region. He saw himself described as an 'incompetent, aggrieved and fanatical young reporter, who distastefully noted my guarded replies in a laborious longhand'.) Then a ship called on the way to Brazil.

Within twenty-four hours Mr Biswas was notorious, the Sentinel, Sentinel, reviled on every hand, momentarily increased its circulation, and Mr Burnett was jubilant. reviled on every hand, momentarily increased its circulation, and Mr Burnett was jubilant.

He said, 'You have even chilled me.'

The story, the leading one on page three, read: DADDY COMES HOME IN A COFFIN.

U.S. Explorer's Last Journey

ON ICE.

by M. Biswas

Somewhere in America in a neat little red-roofed cottage four children ask their mother every day, 'Mummy, when is Daddy coming home?'

Less than a year ago Daddy George Elmer Edman, the celebrated traveller and explorer left home to explore the Amazon.

Well, I have news for you, kiddies.

Daddy is on his way home.

Yesterday he pa.s.sed through Trinidad. In a coffin.

Mr Biswas was taken on the staff of the Sentinel Sentinel at a salary of fifteen dollars a fortnight. at a salary of fifteen dollars a fortnight.

'The first thing you must do,' Mr Burnett said, 'is to get out and get yourself a suit. I can't have my best reporter running about in those clothes.'

It was Ramchand who brought about the reconciliation between Mr Biswas and the Tulsis; or rather, since the Tulsis had few thoughts on the subject, made it possible for Mr Biswas to recover his family without indignity. Ramchand's task was easy. Mr Biswas's name appeared almost every day in the Sentinel, Sentinel, so that it seemed he had suddenly become famous and rich. Mr Biswas, believing himself that this was very nearly so, felt disposed to be charitable. so that it seemed he had suddenly become famous and rich. Mr Biswas, believing himself that this was very nearly so, felt disposed to be charitable.

He was at that time touring the island as the Scarlet Pimpernel, in the hope of having people come up to him and say, 'You are the Scarlet Pimpernel and I claim the Sentinel Sentinel prize.' Every day his photograph appeared in the prize.' Every day his photograph appeared in the Sentinel Sentinel together with his report on the previous day's journey and his itinerary for the day. The photograph was half a column wide and there was no room for his ears; he was frowning, in an unsuccessful attempt to look menacing; his mouth was slightly open and he stared at the camera out of the corners of his eyes, which were shadowed by the low-pulled brim of his hat. As a circulation raiser the Scarlet Pimpernel was a failure. The photograph concealed too much; and he was too well dressed for ordinary people to accost him in a sentence of such length and correctness. The prizes went unclaimed for days and the Scarlet Pimpernel reports became increasingly fantastic. Mr Biswas visited his brother Prasad and readers of the together with his report on the previous day's journey and his itinerary for the day. The photograph was half a column wide and there was no room for his ears; he was frowning, in an unsuccessful attempt to look menacing; his mouth was slightly open and he stared at the camera out of the corners of his eyes, which were shadowed by the low-pulled brim of his hat. As a circulation raiser the Scarlet Pimpernel was a failure. The photograph concealed too much; and he was too well dressed for ordinary people to accost him in a sentence of such length and correctness. The prizes went unclaimed for days and the Scarlet Pimpernel reports became increasingly fantastic. Mr Biswas visited his brother Prasad and readers of the Sentinel Sentinel learned next morning that a peasant in a remote village had rushed up to the Scarlet Pimpernel and said, 'You are the Scarlet Pimpernel and I claim the learned next morning that a peasant in a remote village had rushed up to the Scarlet Pimpernel and said, 'You are the Scarlet Pimpernel and I claim the Sentinel Sentinel prize.' The peasant was then reported as saying that he read the prize.' The peasant was then reported as saying that he read the Sentinel Sentinel every day, since no other paper presented the news so fully, so amusingly, and with such balance. every day, since no other paper presented the news so fully, so amusingly, and with such balance.

Then Mr Biswas visited his eldest brother Pratap. And there he had a surprise. He found that his mother had been living with Pratap for some weeks. For long Mr Biswas had considered Bipti useless, depressing and obstinate; he wondered how Pratap had managed to communicate with her and persuade her to leave the hut in the back trace at Pagotes. But she had come and she had changed. She was active and lucid; she was a lively and important part of Pratap's household. Mr Biswas felt reproached and anxious. His luck had been too sudden, his purchase on the world too slight. When he got back late that evening to the Sentinel Sentinel office he sat down at a desk, his own (his towel in the bottom drawer), and with memories coming from he knew not where, he wrote: office he sat down at a desk, his own (his towel in the bottom drawer), and with memories coming from he knew not where, he wrote: SCARLET PIMPERNEL SPENDS NIGHT IN A TREE.

Anguish of Six-Hour Vigil Oink! Oink!

The frogs croaked all around me. Nothing but that and the sound of the rain on trees in the black night.

I was dripping wet. My motorcycle had broken down miles from anywhere. It was midnight and I was alone.

The report then described a sleepless night, encounters with snakes and bats, the two cars that pa.s.sed in the night, heedless of the Scarlet Pimpernel's cries, the rescue early in the morning by peasants who recognized the Scarlet Pimpernel and claimed their prize.

It was not long after this that Mr Biswas went to Arwacas. He got there in the middle of the morning but did not go to Hanuman House until after four, when he knew the store would be closed, the children back from school and the sisters in the hall and kitchen. His return was as magnificent as he had wished. He was still climbing up the steps from the courtyard when he was greeted by shouts, scampering and laughter.

'You are the Scarlet Pimpernel and I claim the Sentinel Sentinel prize!' prize!'

He went around, dropping Sentinel Sentinel dollar-tokens into eager hands. dollar-tokens into eager hands.

'Send this in with the coupon from the Sentinel. Sentinel. Your money will come the day after tomorrow.' Your money will come the day after tomorrow.'

Savi and Anand at once took possession of him.

Shama, emerging from the black kitchen, said, 'Anand, you will get your father's suit dirty.'