A Bend in the River - V.S. Naipaul [55]
He liked being reminded of this, being remembered from so far back. He said, almost smiling, “I cried a lot? I made a lot of noise?”
“Ali, you screamed the place down. You had your white cap on, and you went down the little alley at the side of Gokool’s house, and you were bawling. I couldn’t see where you had gone. I just heard you bawling. I couldn’t stand it. I thought they were doing terrible things to you, and I begged for you not to go to school. Then the trouble was to get you to come back home. You’ve forgotten, and why should you remember? I’ve been noticing you since you’ve been here. You’ve been very much getting on as though you’re your own man.”
“Oh, Salim! You mustn’t say that. I always show you respect.”
That was true. But he had returned home; he had found his new life. However much he wished it, he couldn’t go back. He had shed the past. His hand on my shoulder—what good was that now?
I thought: Nothing stands still. Everything changes. I will inherit no house, and no house that I build will now pass to my children. That way of life has gone. I have lost my twenties, and what I have been looking for since I left home hasn’t come to me. I have only been waiting. I will wait for the rest of my life. When I came here, this flat was still the Belgian lady’s flat. It wasn’t my home; it was like a camp. Then that camp became mine. Now it has changed again.
Later, I woke to the solitude of my bedroom, in the unfriendly world. I felt all the child’s heartache at being in a strange place. Through the white-painted window I saw the trees outside—not their shadows, but the suggestion of their forms. I was homesick, had been homesick for months. But home was hardly a place I could return to. Home was something in my head. It was something I had lost. And in that I was like the ragged Africans who were so abject in the town we serviced.
7
Discovering the ways of pain, the aging that it brings, I wasn’t surprised that Metty and myself should have been so close just at that moment when we understood that we had to go our separate ways. What had given the illusion of closeness that evening was only our regret for the past, our sadness that the world doesn’t stand still.
Our life together didn’t change. He continued to live in his room in the flat, and he continued to bring me coffee in the mornings. But now it was understood that he had a whole life outside. He altered. He lost the brightness and gaiety of the servant who knows that he will be looked after, that others will decide for him; and he lost what went with that brightness—the indifference to what had just happened, the ability to forget, the readiness for every new day. He seemed to go a little sour inside. Responsibility was new to him; and with that he must also have discovered solitude, in spite of his friends and his new family life.
I, too, breaking out of old ways, had discovered solitude and the melancholy which is at the basis of religion. Religion turns that melancholy into uplifting fear and hope. But I had rejected the ways and comforts of religion; I couldn’t turn to them again, just like that. That melancholy about the world remained something I had to put up with on my own. At some times it was sharp; at some times it wasn’t there.
And just when I had digested that sadness about Metty and the past, someone from the past turned up. He walked into the shop one morning, Metty leading him in, Metty calling out in high excitement, “Salim! Salim!”
It was Indar, the man who had first brought out my panic on the coast, confronted me—after that game of squash in the squash court of his big house—with my own fears about our future, and had sent me away from his house with a vision of disaster. He had given me the idea of flight. He had gone to England, to his university; I had fled here.
And I felt now, as Metty led him in, that he had caught me out again, sitting at my desk in the shop, with my goods spread out on the floor, as they had always been, and with my shelves full of cheap cloth and oilcloth and batteries and exercise books.