A Bend in the River - V.S. Naipaul [132]
And it was as Metty had said. The President had sprung another of his surprises, and this surprise concerned us. I—and others like me—had been nationalized. Our businesses had ceased to be ours, by decree, and were being given out by the President to new owners. These new owners were called “state trustees.” Citizen Théotime had been made the state trustee of my business; and Metty said that for the last week the man had actually been spending his days in the shop.
“What does he do?”
“Do? He’s waiting for you. He’ll make you the manager. That is what you have come back for, patron. But you will see. Don’t hurry yourself. Théo doesn’t come to work too early.”
When I went to the shop I saw that the stock, which had gone down in six weeks, was displayed in the old way. Théo hadn’t touched that. But my desk had been moved from its place next to the pillar in the front of the shop to the storeroom at the back. Metty said that had happened on the first day. Citizen Théo had decided that the storeroom was to be his office; he liked the privacy.
In the top drawer of the desk (where I used to keep Yvette’s photographs, which had once transformed the view of the market square for me) there were many tattered French-African photo-novels and comic books: Africans shown living very modern lives, and in the comic books they were drawn almost like Europeans—in the last two or three years there had been a lot of this French-produced rubbish around. My own things—magazines, and shop documents I had thought Metty would need—were in the two bottom drawers. They had been handled with care; Théo had had that grace. Nationalization: it had been a word. It was shocking to face it in this concrete way.
I waited for Théo.
And when the man came I could see that he was embarrassed and his first impulse, when he saw me through the glass, was to walk past the door. I had known him years before as a mechanic; he used to look after the vehicles in the health department. Then, because he had certain tribal connections, he had risen politically, but not very high. He would have had trouble signing his name. He was about forty, undistinguished in appearance, with a broad, dark-brown face beaten up and spongy with drink. He was drunk now. But only on beer; he hadn’t yet moved on to whisky. Nor had he moved on to the regulation official dress of short-sleeved jacket and cravat. He stuck to trousers and shirt. He was, really, a modest man.
I was standing where my desk used to be. And it occurred to me, noticing how sweated and grimy Théo’s white shirt was, that it was like the time when the schoolboys, treating me like prey,used to come to the shop to try to get money out of me in simple ways. Théo was sweating through the pores on his nose. I don’t believe he had washed his face that morning. He looked like a man who had added fresh drink, and nothing else, to a bad hangover.
He said, “Mis’ Salim. Salim. Citizen. You mustn’t take this personally. It has not come about through any wish of mine. You know that I have the highest regard for you. But you know what the situation was like. The revolution had become”—he fumbled for the word—“un pé pourrie. A little rotten. Our young people were becoming impatient. It was necessary”—trying to find the right word, he looked confused, clenched his fist and made a clumsy cuffing gesture—“it was necessary to radicalize. We had absolutely to radicalize. We were expecting too much of the President. No one was willing to take responsibility. Now responsibility has been forced on the people. But you will suffer in no way. Adequate compensation will be paid. You will prepare your own inventory. And you will continue as manager. The business will run as before. The President insists on that. No one is to suffer. Your salary will be fair. As soon as the commissioner arrives, the papers will come through.”
After his hesitant start, he had spoken formally, as though he had prepared his words. At the end