A Bend in the River - V.S. Naipaul [36]
I was taking lunch that day with the old Asian couple—they had had a transport business until independence, when business just stopped, and the rest of the family went away. Nothing had changed there since I had made the arrangement to have lunch with them twice a week. They were people almost without news, and we still had very little conversation. The view, from the verandah of the rough, ranch-like house, was still of abandoned motor vehicles, relics of the old business, rotting away in the yard. I would have minded that view, if it had been my business. But the old people didn’t seem to mind or know that they had lost a lot. They seemed content just to live out their lives. They had done all that their religion and family customs had required them to do; and they felt—like the older people of my own family—that they had lived good and complete lives.
On the coast I used to grieve for people of our community who were like that, indifferent to what lay around them. I wanted to shake them up and alert them to danger. But it was soothing now to be with these calm old people; and it would have been nice, on a day like this, not to have to leave that house, to be a child again, protected by the wisdom of the old, and to believe that what they saw was true.
Who wanted philosophy or faith for the good times? We could all cope with the good times. It was for the bad that we had to be equipped. And here in Africa none of us were as well equipped as the Africans. The Africans had called up this war; they would suffer dreadfully, more than anybody else; but they could cope. Even the raggedest of them had their villages and tribes, things that were absolutely theirs. They could run away again to their secret worlds and become lost in those worlds, as they had done before. And even if terrible things happened to them they would die with the comfort of knowing that their ancestors were gazing down approvingly at them.
But this was not true of Ferdinand. With his mixed parentage, he was almost as much a stranger in the town as I was. He came to the flat in the afternoon, and he was wild, close to hysteria, possessed by all the African terror of strange Africans.
Classes had been suspended at the lycée; thoughts there were of the safety of the boys and the teachers. Ferdinand had decided that the lycée wasn’t safe; he thought it would be one of the first places to be attacked if there was an uprising in the town. He had dropped all his characters, all his poses. The blazer, which he had once worn with pride as a young man of new Africa, he had discarded as dangerous, something that made him more a man apart; and he was wearing long khaki trousers, not the white shorts of the school uniform. He talked in a frantic way of returning to the south, to his father’s people. But that was impossible—he knew it was impossible; and there was no question either of sending him downriver to his mother’s village.
The big boy, almost a man, sobbed, “I didn’t want to come here. I don’t know anyone here. My mother wanted me to come. I didn’t want to be in the town or go to the lycée. Why did she send me to the lycée?”
It was a comfort to us, Metty and myself, to have someone to comfort. We decided that Ferdinand was to sleep in Metty’s room, and we dug out some bedding for him. The attention calmed Ferdinand down. We ate early, while it was still light. Ferdinand was silent then. But later, when we were in our different rooms, he and Metty talked.
I heard Metty say: “They came to a bridge. And all the trucks stalled and the guns began to bend.”
Metty’s voice was high-pitched and excited. That wasn’t the voice he had used when he had given me the news in the morning. He was talking now like the local Africans, from whom he had got the story.
In the morning the market square outside the shop didn’t come to life at all. The town remained empty. The squatters and campers in the street seemed to have gone into hiding.
When I went to Shoba and Mahesh’s flat for lunch I noticed that their better carpets