A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [236]
There was no need for Mr Biswas to ask where they wanted to go. They all wanted to go to Balandra, to repeat the experience of delight: the drive in the private car, the hampers, the beach.
They went to Balandra, but it was a different experience. They did not attend to the landscape. They savoured the smell of new leather, the sweet smell of a new car. They listened to the soft, steady beat of the engine and compared it with the grinding and pounding of the vehicles they met. And they listened acutely for wrong noises. The grilled cover of an ashtray on one door did not sit properly and tinkled distractingly; they attempted to stop it with a matchstick. The ignition key had already been provided by Mr Biswas with a chain. The chain struck the dashboard. That distracted them too. At one moment it looked as though it might rain; a few drops flecked the windshield. Anand promptly put the wiper on. ‘You’ll scratch the glass!’ Mr Biswas cried. They worried about putting their shoes on the floormats. They consulted the dashboard clock constantly, comparing it with those they saw on the road. They marvelled at the working of the speedometer.
‘Man was telling me,’ Mr Biswas said, ‘that these Prefect clocks go wrong in no time.’
And they decided to call in on Ajodha.
They parked the car in the road and walked around the house to the back verandah. Tara was in the kitchen. Ajodha was reading the Sunday Guardian. Mr Biswas said they were going to the beach and had just dropped in for a minute. There was a pause, and each of them wondered whether they should tell.
Ajodha commented on the sickliness of them all, pinched Anand’s arms and laughed when the boy winced. Then, as though to cure them at once, he made them drink glasses of fresh milk and had the servant girl peel some oranges from the bag in the corner of the verandah.
Jagdat came in, his funeral clothes relieved by his broad, bright tie, his unbuttoned cuffs folded back above hairy wrists. He asked jocularly, ‘Is your car outside, Mohun?’
The children studied their glasses of milk.
Mr Biswas said gently, ‘Yes, man.’
Jagdat roared as at a good joke. ‘The old Mohun, man!’
‘Car?’ Ajodha said, puzzled, petulant. ‘Mohun?’
‘A little Prefect,’ Mr Biswas said.
‘Some of those pre-war English cars can be very good,’ Ajodha said.
‘This is a new one,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘Got it yesterday.’
‘Cardboard.’ Ajodha bunched his fingers. ‘It will mash like cardboard.’
‘A drive, man, Mohun!’ Jagdat said.
The children, Shama, were alarmed. They looked at Mr Biswas, Jagdat smiling, slapping his hands together.
Mr Biswas was aware of their alarm.
‘You are right, Mohun,’ Ajodha said. ‘He will lick it up.’
‘It isn’t that,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘Seaside.’ He looked at his Cyma watch. Then, noticing that Jagdat had stopped smiling, he added, ‘Running in, you know.’
‘I run in more cars than you,’ Jagdat said angrily. ‘Bigger and better.’
‘He will lick it up,’ Ajodha repeated.
‘It isn’t that,’ Mr Biswas said again.
‘Hear him,’ Jagdat said. ‘But don’t give me that, eh, man. Listen. I was driving motorcars before you even learn to drive a donkey-cart. Look at me. You think I pining to drive in your sardine can? You think that?’
Mr Biswas looked embarrassed.
The children didn’t mind. The car was safe.
‘Mohun! You think that?’
At Jagdat’s scream the children jumped.
‘Jagdat,’ Tara said.
He strode out of the verandah into the yard, cursing.
‘I know what it is, Mohun,’ Ajodha said. ‘The first time you get a car is always the same.’ He waved at his yard, the graveyard of many vehicles.
He went out with them to the road. When