A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [124]
‘What you say?’
‘Is a funny thing. You ever notice that when you insult people or tell them the truth they always pretend not to hear you the first time?’
‘Is my own fault for meddling in what is not my business. I don’t know why I come here for. If it wasn’t for the children –’
‘So all-you send Hari with his little black box, eh? All-you must think I look like a real fool.’
‘Black box?’
‘You see what I mean? You didn’t hear the first time.’
‘Look, I just don’t have the time to stand up here talking to you like this, you hear. I wish you had a real fever. That would stop your mouth.’
He was beginning to enjoy the argument. ‘I know you want me to get a real fever. I know all-you want to see me dead. And then see the old she-fox crying, the little gods laughing, you crying – dressed up like hell to boot. Nice, eh? I know that is what all-you want.’
‘Dress-up and powder-up? Me? On what you give me?’
Abruptly Mr Biswas went cold with fear.
Seth and the land and the corrugated iron; Hari and the black box; the blessing; and now, since Shama had come, this fatigue.
He was dying.
They were killing him. He would just remain in this room and die.
She was in the kitchen area, cooing to the baby in the hammock.
‘Get out!’
Shama looked up.
He jumped out of bed and grabbed the walking-stick. He was cold all over. His heart beat fast and painfully.
Shama climbed up the step to the room. ‘Get out!
Don’t come inside. Don’t touch me!’
Myna was crying.
‘Man,’ Shama said.
‘Don’t come into this room. Don’t set foot in it again.’ He waved the stick. He moved to the window and, looking at her, waving the stick, began to draw the bolt. ‘Don’t touch me,’ he bawled, and there were sobs mixed with his words.
She blocked the door.
But he had thought of the window. He pushed it open. It swung out shakily. Light came into the room and fresh air mingled with the musty smell of old boards and newspapers – he had forgotten how musty they smelled. Beyond the flat barrackyard he saw the trees that lined the road and screened his house.
Shama walked towards him.
He began screaming and crying. He pressed his palms on the window-sill and tried to hoist himself up, looking back at her, the stick now useless as a weapon of defence since his hands were occupied.
‘What are you doing?’ she said in Hindi. ‘Look, you will damage yourself.’
He was aware of Tarzan, Savi and Anand below the window. Tarzan was wagging his tail, barking and leaping up against the wall.
Shama came closer.
He was on the sill.
‘O God!’ he cried, winding his head up and down. ‘Go away.’
She was near enough to touch him.
He kicked at her.
She gave a yelp of pain.
He saw, too late, that he had kicked her on the belly.
The women from the barracks rushed up when they heard Shama cry out, and helped her from the room.
Savi and Anand came round to the kitchen area in front. Tarzan ran in puzzlement between them and the women and Mr Biswas.
‘Pack up your clothes and go home,’ Dookhnee, one of the barrack-women, said. She had often been beaten and had witnessed many wife-beatings; they made all women sisters.
Savi went into the room fearfully and, not looking at her father, started to pack clothes into a suitcase.
Mr Biswas stared and shouted, ‘Take your children and go away. Go away!’
Shama, surrounded by the barrack-women, called, ‘Anand, pack up your clothes quick.’
Mr Biswas jumped down from the sill.
‘No!’ he said. ‘Anand is not going with you. Take your girl children and go.’ He didn’t know why he had said that. Savi was the only child he knew, yet he had gone out of his way to hurt her; and he didn’t know whether he wanted Anand to stay. Perhaps he had spoken only because Shama had mentioned the name.
‘Anand,’ Shama said, ‘Go and pack your clothes.