A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [247]
Then they saw him. He was wearing a suit they had never known, and he had a Robert Taylor moustache. His jacket was open, his hands in his trouser pockets. His shoulders had broadened and he had grown altogether bigger. His face was fuller, almost fat, with enormous round cheeks; if he wasn’t tall he would have looked gross.
‘Is the cold in England,’ someone said, explaining the cheeks.
Mrs Tulsi, Miss Blackie, the sisters, Shekhar, Dorothy and every granddaughter who had borne a child began to cry silently.
A young white woman joined Owad behind the rails. They laughed and talked.
‘Aré bap!’ one of Mrs Tulsi’s woman friends cried out through her tears.
But it was only a passing alarm.
The gangway was laid down. The children went to the edge of the quay and examined the mooring ropes and tried to look through the lighted portholes. Someone started a discussion about anchors.
And then he was down. His eyes were wet.
Mrs Tulsi, sitting on her chair, all her effervescence gone, lifted her face to him as he stooped to kiss her. Then she held him round the legs. Sushila, in tears, opened her bag and held a bright blue bottle of smellig-salts at the ready. Miss Blackie wept with Mrs Tulsi, and every time Mrs Tulsi sniffed, Miss Blackie said, ‘Hm-mm. Hm. Mm.’ Children, ungreeted, stared. The brothers shook hands, like men, and smiled at one another. Then it was the turn of the sisters. They were kissed; they burst into new tears and feverishly attempted to introduce those of their children who had been born in the intervening years. Owad, kissing, crying, went through them quickly. Then it was the turn of the eight surviving husbands. Govind, who had known Owad well, was not there, but W. C. Tuttle, who had scarcely known him, was. Long brahminical hairs sprouted out of his ears, and he drew further attention to himself by closing his eyes, neatly shaking away tears, putting a hand on Owad’s head and speaking a Hindi benediction. As his turn came nearer Mr Biswas felt himself weakening, and when he offered his hand he was ready to weep. But Owad, though taking the hand, suddenly grew distant.
Seth was advancing towards Owad. He was smiling, tears in his eyes, raising his hands as he approached.
In that moment it was clear that despite his age, despite Shekhar, Owad was the new head of the family. Everyone looked at him. If he gave the sign, there was to be a reconciliation.
‘Son, son,’ Seth said in Hindi.
The sound of his voice, which they had not heard for years, thrilled them all.
Owad still held Mr Biswas’s hand.
Mr Biswas noted Seth’s cheap, flapping brown jacket, the stained cigarette holder. Seth held out his hands and nearly touched Owad.
Owad turned and said in English, ‘I think I’d better go and see about the baggage.’ He released Mr Biswas’s hand and walked briskly away, his jacket swinging.
Seth stood still. The tears suddenly stopped. But the smile remained.
The Tulsi crowd became agitated, drowning their relief in noise.
He could have turned away before, Mr Biswas kept on thinking. He could have turned away before.
Seth’s hands dropped slowly. The smile died. One hand went up to the cigarette holder and he held his head to one side as though he was going to say something. But he only jiggled the cigarette holder, turned and walked firmly away between two customs sheds towards the main gates.
Owad came back to the group.
‘With mother? With brother? With father? Or with all of all-you?’ someone asked, and Mr Biswas recognized the sardonic voice of the Sentinel photographer.
The photographer nodded and smiled at Mr Biswas, as though he had found Mr Biswas out.
‘By himself,’ Mrs Tulsi said. ‘Just by himself.’
Owad threw back his shoulders and laughed. His teeth showed; his moustache widened; his cheeks, shining and perfectly round, rose and rested against his nose.
‘Thank you,’ the photographer said.
A young reporter, whom Mr Biswas didn’t know, came up with a notebook and pencil, and from the way he handled these implements Mr