A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [143]
He turned down a lane, pushed open a door on the right, and then another. The noise of machinery was louder. An important, urgent noise, but it did not intimidate him. He said to the man behind the high caged desk, ‘I want to see the editor.’
Amazing scenes were witnessed in St Vincent Street yesterday when Mohun Biswas, 31 …
‘You got an appointment?’
… assaulted a receptionist.
‘No,’ Mr Biswas said irritably.
In an interview with our reporter … In an interview with our special correspondent late last night Mr Biswas said …
‘The editor is busy. You better go and see Mr Woodward.’
‘You just tell the editor I come all the way from the country to see him.’
Amazing scenes were witnessed in St Vincent Street yesterday when Biswas, 31, unemployed, of no fixed address, assaulted a receptionist at the offices of the TRINIDAD SENTINEL. People ducked behind desks as Biswas, father of four, walked into the building with guns blazing, shot the editor and four reporters dead, and then set fire to the building. Passers-by stopped and stared as the flames rose high, fanned by a strong breeze. Several tons of paper were destroyed and the building itself gutted. In an exclusive interview with our special correspondent late last night Mr Biswas said …
‘This way,’ the receptionist said, climbing down from his desk, and led Mr Biswas into a large room which belied the urgent sounds of typewriters and machinery. Many typewriters were idle, many desks untenanted. A group of men in shirtsleeves stood around a green water-cooler in one corner; other groups of two or three were seated on desks; one man was spinning a swivel-chair with his foot. There was a row of frosted-glass cubicles along one wall, and the receptionist, going ahead of Mr Biswas, knocked on one of these, pushed the door open, allowed Mr Biswas to enter, and closed the door.
A small fat man, pink and oiled from the heat, half rose from behind a desk littered with paper. Slabs of lead, edged with type, served as paperweights. And Mr Biswas was thrilled to see the proof of an article, headlined and displayed. It was a glimpse of a secret; isolated on the large white sheet, the article had an eminence tomorrow’s readers would never see. Mr Biswas’s excitement increased. And he liked the man he saw before him.
‘And what is your story?’ the editor asked, sitting down.
‘I don’t have a story. I want a job.’
Mr Biswas saw almost with delight that he had embarrassed the editor; and he pitied him for not having the decision to throw him out. The editor went pinker and looked down at the proof. He was unhappy in the heat and seemed to be melting. His cheeks flowed into his neck; his neck bulged over his collar; his round shoulders drooped; his belly hung over his waistband; and he was damp all over. ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘Have you worked on a paper before?’
Mr Biswas thought about the articles he had promised to write, but hadn’t, for Misir’s paper, which had never appeared. ‘Once or twice,’ he said.
The editor looked at the door, as though for help. ‘Do you mean once? Or do you mean twice?’
‘I have read a lot.’ Mr Biswas said, getting out of dangerous ground.
The editor played with a slab of lead.
‘Hall Caine, Marie Corelli, Jacob Boehme, Mark Twain. Hall Caine, Mark Twain,’ Mr Biswas repeated. ‘Samuel Smiles.’
The editor looked up.
‘Marcus Aurelius.’
The editor smiled.
‘Epictetus.’
The editor continued to smile, and Mr Biswas smiled back, to let the editor know that he knew he was sounding absurd.
‘You read those people just for pleasure, eh?’
Mr Biswas recognized the cruel intent of the question, but he didn’t mind. ‘No,’ he said.