A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [144]
There was a pause. The editor looked at the proof. Through the frosted glass Mr Biswas saw figures passing in the newsroom. He became aware of the noise again: the traffic in the street, the regular rattle of machinery, the intermittent chatter of typewriters, occasional laughter.
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-one.’
‘You have come from the country, you are thirty-one, you have never written, and you want to be a reporter. What do you do?’
Mr Biswas thought of estate-driver, exalted it to overseer, rejected it, rejected shopkeeper, rejected unemployed. He said, ‘Sign-painter.’
The editor rose. ‘I have just the job for you.’
He led Mr Biswas out of the office, through the newsroom (the group around the water-cooler had broken up), past a machine unrolling sheets of typewritten paper, into a partially dismantled room where carpenters were at work, through more rooms, and then into a yard. Down the lane at one end Mr Biswas could see the street he had left a few minutes before.
The editor walked about the yard, pointing. ‘Here and here,’ he said. ‘And here.’
Mr Biswas was given paint and a brush, and he spent the rest of the afternoon writing signs: No Admittance to Wheeled Vehicles, No Entry, Watch out for Vans, No Hands Wanted.
Around him machinery clattered and hummed; the carpenters beat rhythms on the nails as they drove them in.
Amazing scenes were witnessed yesterday when …
‘Tcha!’ he exclaimed angrily.
Amazing scenes were witnessed yesterday when Mohun Biswas, 31, a sign-painter, set to work on the offices of the TRINIDAD SENTINEL. Passers-by stopped and stared as Biswas, father of four, covered the walls with obscene phrases. Women hid their faces in their hands, screamed and fainted. A traffic jam was created in St Vincent Street and police, under Superintendent Grieves, were called in to restore order. Interviewed by our special correspondent late last night, Biswas said …
‘Didn’t even know who Marcus Aurelius was, the crab-catching son of a bitch.’
… interviewed late last night, Biswas … Mr Biswas said, ‘The ordinary man cannot be expected to know the meaning of “No Admittance”.’
‘What, still here?’
It was the editor. He was less pink, less oiled, and his clothes were dry. He was smoking a short fat cigar; it repeated and emphasized his shape.
The yard was in shadow; the light was going. Machinery clattered more assertively: a series of separate noises; the carpenters’ rhythms had ceased. In the street traffic had subsided, footsteps resounded; the passing of a motor, the trilling of a bicycle bell could be heard from afar.
‘But that is good,’ the editor said. ‘Very good indeed.’
You sound surprised, you little chunk of lard. ‘I got the letters from a magazine.’ You think you are the only one laughing, eh?
‘I could eat the Gill Sans R,’ the editor said. ‘You know, I don’t really see why you should want to give up your job.’
‘Not enough money.’
‘Not much in this either.’
Mr Biswas pointed to a sign. ‘No wonder you are doing your best to keep people out.’
‘Oh. No Hands Wanted.’
‘A nice little sign,’ Mr Biswas said.
The editor smiled and then was convulsed with laughter.
And Mr Biswas, the clown again, laughed too.
‘That was for carpenters and labourers,’ the editor said. ‘Come tomorrow, if you are serious. We’ll give you a month’s trial. But no pay.’
A chance encounter had led him to sign-writing. Sign-writing had taken him to Hanuman House and the Tulsis. Sign-writing found him a place on the Sentinel. And neither for the Tulsi Store signs nor for those at the Sentinel was he paid.
He worked with enthusiasm. His reading had given him an extravagant vocabulary but Mr Burnett, the editor, was patient. He gave Mr Biswas copies of London papers, and Mr Biswas studied their style until he could turn out presentable imitations. It was not long before he developed a feeling for the shape and scandalizing qualities of every story. To this he added something of his own. And it was part of his sudden good fortune that he was working for the