House for Mister Biswas Part 34

Shama said, 'I glad it make somebody happy.'

And Mr Biswas was soon to regret his jubilation. The Christmas school holidays came and Shama took the children to Hanuman House. By now they were complete strangers there. The old crepe paper decorations and the goods in the dark, choked Tulsi Store were petty country things after the displays in the Port of Spain shops, and Savi felt pity for the people of Arwacas, who had to take them seriously. At last on Christmas Eve the store was closed and the uncles went away. Savi, Anand, Myna and Kamla hunted for stockings and hung them up. And got nothing. There was no one to complain to. Some of the sisters had secretly provided gifts for their children; and on Christmas morning in the hall, where Mrs Tulsi was not waiting to be kissed, the gifts were displayed and compared. With Owad in England, Mrs Tulsi in her room, all the uncles away, and Shekhar spending the day with his wife's family, there was no one to organize games, to give a lead to the gaiety. And Christmas was reduced to lunch and Chinta's icecream, as tasteless and rust-rippled as ever. The sisters were sullen; the children quarrelled, and some were even flogged.

Shekhar came on the morning of Boxing Day with a large bag of imported sweets. He went up to Mrs Tulsi's room, had lunch in the hall, and then went away again. When Mr Biswas arrived later that afternoon he found that the talk among the sisters was not of Seth, but of Shekhar and his wife. The sisters felt that Shekhar had abandoned them. Yet no one blamed him. He was under the influence of his wife, and the fault was wholly hers.

Relations between the sisters and Shekhar's wife had never been easy. Despite the untraditional organization of Hanuman House, where married daughters lived with their mother, the sisters were alert to certain of the conventions of Hindu family relationships: mothers-in-law, for example, were expected to be hard on daughters-in-law, sisters-in-law were to be despised. But Shekhar's wife had from the first met Tulsi patronage with arrogant Presbyterian modernity. She flaunted her education. She called herself Dorothy, without shame or apology. She wore short frocks and didn't care that they made her look lewd and absurd: she was a big woman who had grown fat after the birth of her first child, and her dresses hung from her high, shelflike hips as from a hoop. Her voice was deep, her manner hearty; once, when she had damaged her ankle, she used a stick, and Chinta remarked that it suited her. Added to all this she sometimes sold the tickets at her cinema; which was disgraceful, besides being immoral. So far, however, from making any impression on Dorothy, the sisters continually found themselves defeated. They had said she wouldn't be able to keep a house: she turned out to be maddeningly house-proud. They had said she was barren: she was bearing a child every two years. Her children were all girls, but this was scarcely a triumph for the sisters. Dorothy's daughters were of exceptional beauty and the sisters could complain only that the Hindi names Dorothy had chosen Mira, Leela, Lena were meant to pa.s.s as Western ones.

And now old charges were made again and for the benefit of Shama and other attentive visiting sisters fresh details added. As the talk scratched back and forth over the same topic these details became increasingly gross: Dorothy, like all Christians, used her right hand for unclean purposes, her s.e.xual appet.i.te was insatiable, her daughters already had the eyes of wh.o.r.es. Over and over the sisters concluded that Shekhar was to be pitied, because he had not gone to Cambridge and had instead been married against his will to a wife who was shameless. Padma, Seth's wife, was present, and Seth's behaviour could not be discussed. Whenever Cambridge was mentioned looks and intonation made it clear to Padma that she was excluded from this implied criticism of her husband, that she, like Shekhar, was to be pitied for having such a spouse. And Mr Biswas marvelled again at the depth of Tulsi family feeling.

Mr Biswas had always got on well with Dorothy; he was attracted by her loudness and gaiety and regarded her as an ally against the sisters. But on that hot still afternoon, when a holiday staleness lay over Arwacas, the hall, with its confused furniture, its dark loft and sooty green walls, with flies buzzing in and out of the white sunny spots on the long table, seemed abandoned, deprived of animation; and Mr Biswas, feeling Shekhar's absence as a betrayal, could sympathize with the sisters.

Savi said, 'This is the last Christmas I spend at Hanuman House.'

Change followed change. At Pagotes Tara and Ajodha were decorating their new house. In Port of Spain new lampposts, painted silver, went up in the main streets and there was talk of replacing the diesel buses by trolley-buses. Owad's old room was let to a middle-aged childless coloured couple. And at the Sentinel Sentinel there were rumours. there were rumours.

Under Mr Burnett's direction the Sentinel Sentinel had overtaken the had overtaken the Gazette Gazette and, though some distance behind the and, though some distance behind the Guardian, Guardian, it had become successful enough for its frivolity to be an embarra.s.sment to the owners. Mr Burnett had been under pressure for some time. That Mr Biswas knew, but he had no head for intrigue and did not know the source of this pressure. Some of the staff became openly contemptuous and spoke of Mr Burnett as uneducated; a joke went around the office that he had applied from the Argentine for a job as a sub-editor and his letter had been misunderstood. As if in reply to all this Mr Burnett became increasingly perverse. 'Let's face it,' he said. 'Editorials from Port of Spain didn't have much effect in Spain. They are not going to stop Hitler either.' The it had become successful enough for its frivolity to be an embarra.s.sment to the owners. Mr Burnett had been under pressure for some time. That Mr Biswas knew, but he had no head for intrigue and did not know the source of this pressure. Some of the staff became openly contemptuous and spoke of Mr Burnett as uneducated; a joke went around the office that he had applied from the Argentine for a job as a sub-editor and his letter had been misunderstood. As if in reply to all this Mr Burnett became increasingly perverse. 'Let's face it,' he said. 'Editorials from Port of Spain didn't have much effect in Spain. They are not going to stop Hitler either.' The Guardian Guardian responded to the war by starting a fighter fund: in a box on the front page twelve aeroplanes were outlined, and as the fund rose the outlines were filled in. Right up to the end the responded to the war by starting a fighter fund: in a box on the front page twelve aeroplanes were outlined, and as the fund rose the outlines were filled in. Right up to the end the Sentinel Sentinel had been headlining the West Indian cricket tour of England, and when the tour was abandoned it printed a drawing of Hitler which, when cut out and folded along certain dotted lines, became a drawing of a pig. had been headlining the West Indian cricket tour of England, and when the tour was abandoned it printed a drawing of Hitler which, when cut out and folded along certain dotted lines, became a drawing of a pig.

Early in the new year the blow fell. Mr Biswas was lunching with Mr Burnett in a Chinese restaurant, in one of those cubicles weakly lit by a low-hanging naked bulb, with lengths of flex loosely attached to the flyblown, grimy celotex part.i.tions, when Mr Burnett said, 'Amazing scenes are going to be witnessed soon. I'm leaving.' He paused. 'Sacked.' As if divining Mr Biswas's thoughts, he added, 'Nothing for you to worry about, though.' Then, in quick succession, he displayed a number of conflicting moods. He was gay; he was depressed; he was glad to leave; he was sorry to go; he didn't want to talk about it; he talked about it; he wasn't going to talk any more about himself; he talked about himself. He ate in spasms, attacking the food as though it had done him some injury. 'Shoots? Is that what they call this? There'll be d.a.m.ned little bamboo left in China at this rate.' He pressed the bell, which lay at the centre of a roughly circular patch of grime on the wall. They heard it ring in some distant cavern, above a mult.i.tude of other bells, the pattering of waitresses' feet and talk in adjacent cubicles.

The hara.s.sed waitress came and Mr Burnett said, 'Shoots? This is just plain bamboo. What do you think I have inside here?' He tapped his belly. 'A paper factory?'

'That was one portion,' the waitress said.

'That was one bamboo.'

He ordered more lager and the waitress sucked her teeth and went out, leaving the swing door swinging rapidly to and fro.

'One portion,' Mr Burnett said. 'They make it sound like hay. And this d.a.m.ned room is like a stall. I'm not worried. I've got other strings to my bow. You too. You could go back to your sign-writing. I leave, you leave. Let's all leave.'

They laughed.

Mr Biswas returned to the office in a state of great agitation. He had been a.s.sociated, and zestfully, with some of the most frivolous excesses of the Sentinel. Sentinel. Now at the thought of each he felt a stab of guilt and panic. He was expecting to be summoned to mysterious rooms and told by their secure occupants that his services were no longer required. He sat at his desk but it belonged to him no more than the columns of the Now at the thought of each he felt a stab of guilt and panic. He was expecting to be summoned to mysterious rooms and told by their secure occupants that his services were no longer required. He sat at his desk but it belonged to him no more than the columns of the Sentinel Sentinel he filled and listened to the noises made by the carpenters. Those were the noises he had heard on his first day in the office; building and rebuilding had gone on without interruption ever since. The newsroom came to its afternoon life. Reporters arrived, took off their jackets, opened notebooks and typed; groups gathered at the green water-cooler and broke up again; at some desks proofs were being corrected, the inner pages laid out. For more than four years he had been part of this excitement. Now, waiting for the summons, he could only observe it. he filled and listened to the noises made by the carpenters. Those were the noises he had heard on his first day in the office; building and rebuilding had gone on without interruption ever since. The newsroom came to its afternoon life. Reporters arrived, took off their jackets, opened notebooks and typed; groups gathered at the green water-cooler and broke up again; at some desks proofs were being corrected, the inner pages laid out. For more than four years he had been part of this excitement. Now, waiting for the summons, he could only observe it.

Getting to believe that by staying in the office he was increasing the risk of dismissal, he left early and cycled home. Fear led to fear. Suppose he had to send the children back to Hanuman House, would there be anyone to receive them? Suppose Mrs Tulsi gave him notice as Shama did so often to the tenement people where would he go? How would he live?

The years stretched ahead, dark.

When he got home he mixed and drank some Maclean's Brand Stomach Powder, undressed, got into bed and began to read Epictetus.

But the days went by and no summons came. And at last it was time for Mr Burnett to leave. Mr Biswas wanted to make some gesture to show his grat.i.tude and sympathy, but he could think of nothing. And after all Mr Burnett was escaping; he was staying behind. The Sentinel Sentinel reported Mr Burnett's departure on the society page. There was an unkind photograph of Mr Burnett looking uncomfortable in a dinner jacket, his small eyes popping in the flash of the camera, a cigar stuck in his mouth as if for comic effect. He was reported as being sorry to leave; he had to take up an appointment in America; he had learned much from his a.s.sociation with Trinidad and the reported Mr Burnett's departure on the society page. There was an unkind photograph of Mr Burnett looking uncomfortable in a dinner jacket, his small eyes popping in the flash of the camera, a cigar stuck in his mouth as if for comic effect. He was reported as being sorry to leave; he had to take up an appointment in America; he had learned much from his a.s.sociation with Trinidad and the Sentinel, Sentinel, and he would take a great interest in the progress of both; he thought the standards of local journalism 'surprisingly high'. It was left to the other newspapers to reveal the other strings to his bow that Mr Burnett had spoken about. They reported that an Indian troupe, made up of dancers, a fire-walker, a snake-charmer and a man who could rest on a bed of nails, was accompanying Mr Burnett, a former editor of a local newspaper, on his travels to America. One headline was and he would take a great interest in the progress of both; he thought the standards of local journalism 'surprisingly high'. It was left to the other newspapers to reveal the other strings to his bow that Mr Burnett had spoken about. They reported that an Indian troupe, made up of dancers, a fire-walker, a snake-charmer and a man who could rest on a bed of nails, was accompanying Mr Burnett, a former editor of a local newspaper, on his travels to America. One headline was THE CIRCUS MOVES ON. THE CIRCUS MOVES ON.

And the new regime started at the Sentinel Sentinel The day after Mr Burnett's departure the newsroom was hung with posters which said The day after Mr Burnett's departure the newsroom was hung with posters which said DON'T BE BRIGHT, JUST GET IT RIGHT DON'T BE BRIGHT, JUST GET IT RIGHT and and NEWS NOT VIEWS NEWS NOT VIEWS and and FACTS? IF NOT AXE FACTS? IF NOT AXE and and CHECK IT OR CHUCK IT CHECK IT OR CHUCK IT. Mr Biswas regarded them all as aimed at himself alone, and their whimsicality scared him. The office was subdued and everyone wore a look of earnestness, those who had gone up, those who had gone down. Mr Burnett's news editor had been made a sub-editor. His bright reporters had been variously scattered. One went to Today's Arrangements, Invalids and The Weather, one to Shipping, one to Diana's Diary on the society page, one to Cla.s.sified Advertis.e.m.e.nts. Mr Biswas joined Court Shorts.

'Write?' he said to Shama. 'I don't call that writing. Is more like filling up a form. X, aged so much, was yesterday fined so much by Mr Y at this court for doing that. The prosecution alleged. Electing to conduct his own defence, X said. The magistrate, pa.s.sing sentence, said.'

But Shama approved of the new regime. She said, 'It will teach you to have some respect for people and the truth.'

'Hear you. Hear you! But you don't surprise me. I expect expect you to talk like that. But let them wait. New regime, eh. Just see the circulation drop now.' you to talk like that. But let them wait. New regime, eh. Just see the circulation drop now.'

It was only to Shama that Mr Biswas spoke about the changes. At the office the subject was never mentioned. Mr Burnett's favourites avoided one another and, fearing intrigue, mixed with no one else. Apart from the posters there had been no directive, but they had all, so far as their new duties permitted writing, changed their styles. They wrote longer paragraphs of complete sentences with bigger words.

Presently the directives came, in a booklet called Rules for Reporters; Rules for Reporters; and it was in keeping with the aloof severity of the new authorities that the booklets should have appeared on every desk one morning without explanation, with only the name of the reporter, preceded by a 'Mr', in the top righthand corner. and it was in keeping with the aloof severity of the new authorities that the booklets should have appeared on every desk one morning without explanation, with only the name of the reporter, preceded by a 'Mr', in the top righthand corner.

'He must have got up early this morning,' Mr Biswas said to Shama.

The booklet contained rules about language, dress, behaviour, and at the bottom of every page there was a slogan. On the front cover was printed 'THE RIGHTEST NEWS IS THE BRIGHTEST NEWS', the inverted commas suggesting that the statement was historical, witty and wise. The back cover said:REPORT NOT DISTORT.

'Report not distort,' Mr Biswas said to Shama. 'That is all the son of a b.i.t.c.h doing now, you know, and drawing a fat salary for it too. Making up those slogans. Rules for Reporters. Rules! Rules!'

A few days later he came home and said, 'Guess what? Editor peeing in a special place now, you know. "Excuse me. But I must go and pee alone." Everybody peeing in the same place for years. What happen? He taking a course of Dodd's Kidney Pills and peeing blue or something?'

In Shama's accounts Maclean's Brand Stomach Powder appeared more often, always written out in full.

'Just watch and see,' Mr Biswas said. 'Everybody going to leave. People not going to put up with this sort of treatment, I tell you.'

'When you leaving?' Shama asked.

And worse was to come.

'I don't know,' he said. 'I suppose they just want to frighten me. I will henceforward henceforward: you hear the sort of words that son of a b.i.t.c.h using I will henceforward spend my afternoons at the cemeteries of Port of Spain. Just hand me that yellow book. Rules for Reporters! Let me see. Anything about funerals? By G.o.d! They d.a.m.n well have it in! "The Sentinel Sentinel reporter should be soberly dressed on these occasions, that is, in a dark suit." Dark suit! The man must think I haven't got a wife and four children. He must think he paying me a fortune every fortnight. "Neither by his demeanour nor by his dress should the reporter offend the mourners, since this will certainly lose the paper much goodwill. The reporter should be soberly dressed on these occasions, that is, in a dark suit." Dark suit! The man must think I haven't got a wife and four children. He must think he paying me a fortune every fortnight. "Neither by his demeanour nor by his dress should the reporter offend the mourners, since this will certainly lose the paper much goodwill. The Sentinel Sentinel reporter should remember that he represents the reporter should remember that he represents the Sentinel. Sentinel. He should encourage trust. It cannot be stressed too often that the reporter should get every name right. A name incorrectly spelt is offensive. All orders and decorations should be mentioned, but the reporter should use his discretion in making inquiries about these. To be ignorant of an individual's decorations is almost certain to offend him. To ask an He should encourage trust. It cannot be stressed too often that the reporter should get every name right. A name incorrectly spelt is offensive. All orders and decorations should be mentioned, but the reporter should use his discretion in making inquiries about these. To be ignorant of an individual's decorations is almost certain to offend him. To ask an OBE OBE whether he is an whether he is an MBE MBE is equally likely to offend. Far better, in this hypothetical case, to make inquiries on the a.s.sumption that the individual is a is equally likely to offend. Far better, in this hypothetical case, to make inquiries on the a.s.sumption that the individual is a CBE CBE. After the immediate family, the names of all mourners should be set out in alphabetical order."

'G.o.d! G.o.d! G.o.d! Isn't this just the sort of a.r.s.eness to make you go and dance on the grave afterwards? You know, I could turn the funeral column into a bright little feature. Yesterday's Undertakings. By Gravedigger. Just next to Today's Arrangements. Or set it next to Invalids. Heading: Going Going, Gone. How about this? Photo of weeping widow at graveside. Later, photo of widow hearing about will and laughing. Caption: "Smiling, Mrs X? We thought so. Where there's a will there Isn't this just the sort of a.r.s.eness to make you go and dance on the grave afterwards? You know, I could turn the funeral column into a bright little feature. Yesterday's Undertakings. By Gravedigger. Just next to Today's Arrangements. Or set it next to Invalids. Heading: Going Going, Gone. How about this? Photo of weeping widow at graveside. Later, photo of widow hearing about will and laughing. Caption: "Smiling, Mrs X? We thought so. Where there's a will there is a is a way." Two photos side by side.' way." Two photos side by side.'

In the meantime he bought a dark serge suit on credit. And while Anand walked beside the wall of Lapeyrouse Cemetery on his way to the Dairies in the afternoon, Mr Biswas was often inside the cemetery, moving solemnly among the tombstones and making discreet inquiries about names and decorations. He came home tired, complaining of headaches, his stomach rising.

'A capitalist rag,' he began to say. 'Just another capitalist rag.'

Anand remarked that his name no longer appeared in it.

'Glad like h.e.l.l,' Mr Biswas said.

And on four Sat.u.r.days in succession he was sent to unimportant cricket matches, just to get the scores. The game of cricket meant nothing to him, but he was made to understand that the a.s.signment was part of his retraining and he cycled from fourth-cla.s.s match to fourth-cla.s.s match, copying symbols and scores he did not understand, enjoying only the brief esteem of surprised and thrilled players under trees. Most of the matches finished at half past five and it was impossible to be at all the grounds at the same time. It sometimes happened that when he got to a ground there was no one there. Then secretaries had to be hunted out and there was more cycling. In this way those Sat.u.r.day afternoons and evenings were ruined, and often Sunday as well, for many of the scores he had gathered were not printed.

He began to echo phrases from the prospectus of the Ideal School of Journalism. 'I can make a living by my pen,' he said. 'Let them go ahead. Just let them push me too far.' At this period one-man magazines, nearly all run by Indians, were continually springing up. 'Start my own magazine,' Mr Biswas said. 'Go around like Bissessar, selling them myself. He tell me he does sell his paper like hot cakes. Like hot cakes, man!'

He abandoned his own regime of strictness at home and instead spoke so long of various members of the Sentinel Sentinel staff that Shama and the children got to feel that they knew them well. From time to time he indulged in a tiny rebellion. staff that Shama and the children got to feel that they knew them well. From time to time he indulged in a tiny rebellion.

'Anand, on your way to school stop at the cafe and telephone the Sentinel. Sentinel. Tell them I don't feel like coming to work today.' Tell them I don't feel like coming to work today.'

'Why you don't telephone them yourself? You know I don't like telephoning.'

'We can't always do what we like, boy.'

'And you want me to say that you just don't feel like going out to work today.'

'Tell them I'm sick. Cold, headache, fever. You know.'

When Anand left, Mr Biswas would say, 'Let them sack me. Let them sack me like h.e.l.l. Think I care? I want want them to sack me.' them to sack me.'

'Yes,' Shama said. 'You want them to sack you.'

But he was careful to s.p.a.ce out these days.

He made himself unpopular among the boys and young men of the street who played cricket on the pavement in the afternoons and chattered under the lamp-post at night. He shouted at them from his window and, because of his suit, his job, the house he lived in, his connexion with Owad, his influence with the police, they were cowed. Sometimes he ostentatiously went to the cafe and telephoned the local police sergeant, whom he had known well in happier days. And he rejoiced in the glares and the mutterings of the players when, soberly dressed, unlikely to offend mourners, he cycled out to his funerals in the afternoon.

He read political books. They gave him phrases which he could only speak to himself and use on Shama. They also revealed one region after another of misery and injustice and left him feeling more helpless and more isolated than ever. Then it was that he discovered the solace of d.i.c.kens. Without difficulty he transferred characters and settings to people and places he knew. In the grotesques of d.i.c.kens everything he feared and suffered from was ridiculed and diminished, so that his own anger, his own contempt became unnecessary, and he was given strength to bear with the most difficult part of his day: dressing in the morning, that daily affirmation of faith in oneself, which at times was for him almost like an act of sacrifice. He shared his discovery with Anand; and though he abstracted some of the pleasure of d.i.c.kens by making Anand write out and learn the meanings of difficult words, he did this not out of his strictness or as part of Anand's training. He said, 'I don't want you to be like me.'

Anand understood. Father and son, each saw the other as weak and vulnerable, and each felt a responsibility for the other, a responsibility which, in times of particular pain, was disguised by exaggerated authority on the one side, exaggerated respect on the other.

Suddenly the pressure ceased at the Sentinel. Sentinel. Mr Biswas was taken off court shorts, funerals and cricket matches, and put into the Sunday Magazine, to do a weekly feature. Mr Biswas was taken off court shorts, funerals and cricket matches, and put into the Sunday Magazine, to do a weekly feature.

'If they did just push me so much farther,' he told Shama, 'I would have resigned.'

'Yes. You would have resigned.'

'Sometimes I don't know why the h.e.l.l I ever bother to talk to you.'

He had in fact mentally composed many sonorous letters of resignation, varying from the abusive to the dignified to the humorous and even to the charitable (these ended with his best wishes for the continued success of the Sentinel). Sentinel).

But the features he now wrote were not the features he wrote for Mr Burnett. He didn't write scandalous interviews with one-eyed men: he wrote serious surveys of the work done by the Inst.i.tute for the Blind. He didn't write 'I Am Trinidad's Maddest Man': he wrote about the splendid work of the Lunatic Asylum. It was his duty to praise, to look always beyond the facts to the official figures; for it was part of the Sentinel's Sentinel's new policy of sobriety that this was the best of all worlds and Trinidad's official inst.i.tutions its most magnificent aspects. He had not so much to distort as to ignore: to forget the bare, toughened feet of the children in an orphanage, the sullen looks of dread, the shameful uniforms; to accept a temporary shaming eminence and walk through workshops and vegetable gardens, noting industry, rehabilitation and discipline; to have lemonade and a cigarette in the director's office, and get the figures; to put himself on the side of the grotesques. new policy of sobriety that this was the best of all worlds and Trinidad's official inst.i.tutions its most magnificent aspects. He had not so much to distort as to ignore: to forget the bare, toughened feet of the children in an orphanage, the sullen looks of dread, the shameful uniforms; to accept a temporary shaming eminence and walk through workshops and vegetable gardens, noting industry, rehabilitation and discipline; to have lemonade and a cigarette in the director's office, and get the figures; to put himself on the side of the grotesques.

These features were not easy to write. In the days of Mr Burnett once he had got a slant and an opening sentence, everything followed. Sentence generated sentence, paragraph led to paragraph, and his articles had a flow and a unity. Now, writing words he did not feel, he was cramped, and the time came when he was not sure what he did feel. He had to note down ideas and juggle them into place. He wrote and rewrote, working extremely slowly, nagged by continual headaches, completing his articles only to meet the Thursday dead-line. The results were laboured, dead, incapable of giving pleasure except to the people written about. He didn't look forward to Sunday. He was up early as usual, but the paper remained on the front steps until Shama or one of the children brought it in. He avoided turning to his article for as long as possible. It was always a surprise, when he did turn to it, to see how photographs and lay-out concealed the dullness of the matter. Even then he did not read through what he had written, but glanced at odd paragraphs, looking for cuts and changes that would indicate editorial disapproval. He said nothing to Shama, but he lived now in constant expectation of the sack. He knew his work was not good.

At the office the authorities remained aloof. There was no criticism, but no rea.s.surance. The new regime was still a forbidden subject and reporters still did not mix easily. Of Mr Burnett's favourites only the former news editor was generally accepted; he had, indeed, become an office character. He had grown haggard with worry. He lived in Barataria and came up every morning by bus through the packed, narrow and dangerous Eastern Main Road. He had developed a fear that he would die in a road accident and leave his wife and baby daughter unprovided for. All travel terrified him; morning and evening he had to travel; and every day he laid out stories of accidents, with photographs of 'the twisted wreckage'. He spoke continually of his fear, ridiculed it and allowed himself to be ridiculed. But as the afternoon wore on his agitation became more marked, and at the end he was quite frantic, anxious to go home, yet fearing to leave the office, the only place where he felt safe.

Untended, the rose trees grew straggly and hard. A blight made their stems white and gave them sickly, ill-formed leaves. The buds opened slowly to reveal blanched, tattered blooms covered with minute insects; other insects built bright brown domes on the stems. The lily-pond collapsed again and the lily-roots rose brown and s.h.a.ggy out of the thick, muddy water, which was white with bubbles. The children's interest in the garden was spasmodic, and Shama, claiming that she had learned not to interfere with anything of Mr Biswas's, planted some zinnias and marigolds of her own, the only things, apart from an oleander tree and some cactus, that had flourished in the garden of Hanuman House.

The war was beginning to have its effects. Prices were rising everywhere. Mr Biswas's salary was increased, but the increases were promptly absorbed. And when his salary reached thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents a fortnight the Sentinel Sentinel started giving started giving COLA COLA, a cost-of-living allowance. Henceforth it was COLA COLA that went up; the salary remained stationary. that went up; the salary remained stationary.

'Psychology,' Mr Biswas said. 'They make it sound like a tea party at the orphanage, eh?' He raised his voice. 'All right, kiddies? Got your cake? Got your icecream? Got your cola?'

The shorter the money became, the worse the food, the more meticulously Shama kept her accounts, filling reporter's notebook after reporter's notebook. These she never threw away; they lay in a swollen, grubby pile on the kitchen shelf.

There were fights in shops for h.o.a.rded, weevil-ridden flour. The police kept a sharp eye on stall holders in markets, and a number of vegetable growers and small farmers were fined and imprisoned for selling above the scheduled price. Flour continued to be scarce and full of weevils; and Shama's food became worse.

To Mr Biswas's complaints she said, 'I walk miles every Sat.u.r.day to save a cent here and a cent there.'

And soon, food forgotten, they were quarrelling. Their quarrels lasted from day to day, from week to week, quarrels differing only in words from those they had had at The Chase.

'Trapped!' Mr Biswas would say. 'You and your family have got me trapped in this hole.'

'Yes,' Shama would say. 'I suppose if it wasn't for my family you would have a gra.s.s roof over your head.'

'Family! Family! Put me in one poky little barrackroom and pay me twenty dollars a month. Don't talk to me about your family.'

'I tell you, if it wasn't for the children '

And often, in the end, Mr Biswas would leave the house and go for a long night walk through the city, stopping at some empty shack of a cafe to eat a tin of salmon, trying to stifle the pain in his stomach and only making it worse; while below the weak electric bulb the sleepy-eyed Chinese shopkeeper picked and sucked his teeth, his slack, bare arms resting on a gla.s.scase in which flies slept on stale cakes. Up to this time the city had been new and held an expectation which not even the deadest two o'clock sun could destroy. Anything could happen: he might meet his barren heroine, the past could be undone, he would be remade. But now not even the thought of the Sentinel's Sentinel's presses, rolling out at that moment reports of speeches, banquets, funerals (with all names and decorations carefully checked), could keep him from seeing that the city was no more than a repet.i.tion of this: this dark, dingy cafe, the chipped counter, the flies thick on the electric flex, the empty Coca Cola cases stacked in a corner, the cracked gla.s.scase, the shopkeeper picking his teeth, waiting to close. presses, rolling out at that moment reports of speeches, banquets, funerals (with all names and decorations carefully checked), could keep him from seeing that the city was no more than a repet.i.tion of this: this dark, dingy cafe, the chipped counter, the flies thick on the electric flex, the empty Coca Cola cases stacked in a corner, the cracked gla.s.scase, the shopkeeper picking his teeth, waiting to close.

And in the house, while he was out, the children would come out of bed and go to Shama. She would take down her bloated reporter's notebooks and try to explain how she had spent the money given her.

At school one day Anand asked the boy who shared his desk, 'Your father and mother does quarrel?'

'What about?'

'Oh, about anything. About food, for instance.'

'Nah. But suppose he ask her to go to town and buy something. And suppose she don't buy it. Boy!'

One evening, after a quarrel had flared up and died without being concluded, Anand went to Mr Biswas's room and said, 'I have a story to tell you.'

Something in his manner warned Mr Biswas. He put down his book, settled a pillow against the head of the bed and smiled.

'Once upon a time there was a man -' Anand's voice broke.

'Yes?' Mr Biswas said, in a mocking friendly voice, still smiling, sc.r.a.ping his lower lip with his teeth.

'Once upon a time there was a man who ' His voice broke again, his father's smile confused him, he forgot what he had planned to say and abandoning grammar, added quickly, 'Who, whatever you do for him, wasn't satisfied.'

Mr Biswas burst out laughing, and Anand ran out of the room, trembling with rage and humiliation, to the kitchen, where Shama comforted him.

For many days Anand didn't speak to Mr Biswas and, in secret revenge, didn't drink milk at the Dairies, but iced coffee. Mr Biswas was effusive towards Savi and Myna and Kamla, and relaxed with Shama. The atmosphere in the house was less heavy and Shama, now Anand's defender, took much pleasure in urging Anand to speak to his father.

'Leave him, leave him,' Mr Biswas said. 'Leave the storyteller.'

Anand became steadily more morose. When he came home after private lessons one afternoon he refused to eat or talk. He went to his room, lay down on the bed and, despite Shama's coaxings, stayed there.

Mr Biswas came in and presently walked into the room, saying in his rallying voice, 'Well, well. What happen to our Hans Andersen?'

'Eat some prunes, son,' Shama said, taking out the little brown paper-bag from the table drawer.

Mr Biswas saw the distress on Anand's face and his manner changed. 'What's the matter?'

Anand said, 'The boys laugh at me.'

'He who laughs last laughs best,' Shama said.

'Lawrence say that his father is your boss.'

There was silence.

Mr Biswas sat on the bed and said, 'Lawrence is the night editor. Nothing to do with me.'

'He say they have you like an office boy in the office.'

'You know I write features.'

'And he say that when you go to his father house you have to go to the back door.'