A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [61]
Tears spilled over from Shama’s big eyes and ran down her cheeks.
‘What happen? Somebody beat you too?’
She shook her tears away, without removing her hand from her chin.
‘Go and get me a tin of salmon. Canadian. And get some bread and peppersauce.’
‘What happen? You have a craving? You making baby?’
He would have liked to hit her. But that would have been ridiculous after what had just happened.
‘You making baby?’ Shama repeated. She rose, shook down her skirt and straightened it. Loudly, as though trying to catch the attention of the people downstairs, she said, ‘Go and get it yourself. You not going to start ordering me around, you hear.’ She blew her nose, wiped it, and left.
He was alone. He gave a kick at a lotus on the wall. The noise startled him, his toe hurt, and he aimed another kick at his pile of books. He sent them toppling and marvelled at the endurance and uncomplainingness of inanimate objects. The bent corner of the cover of Bell’s Standard Elocutionist was like a wound silently, accusingly borne. He stooped to pick the books up, then decided it would be a sign of self contempt to do so. Better for them to lie like that for Shama to see and even rearrange. He passed a hand over his face. It felt heavy and dead. Squinting downwards, he could see the rise of cheek. His jaw ached. He was beginning to ache all over. It was odd that the blows had made so little impression at the time. Surprise was a good neutralizer. Perhaps it was the same with animals. Jungle life could be bearable, then; it was part of God’s plan. He went over to the cheap mirror hanging at the side of the window. He had never been able to see properly in it. It was an idiotic place to put a mirror, and he was mad enough to pull it down. He didn’t. He stepped to one side and looked over his shoulder at his reflection. He knew his face felt heavy; he had no idea it looked so absurd. But he had to go out, leave the house for the time being, get his salmon, bread and peppersauce – bad for him, but the suffering would come later. He put on his trousers, and the rattle of the belt buckle was such a precise, masculine sound that he silenced it at once. He put on his shirt and opened the second button to reveal his hollow chest. But his shoulders were fairly broad. He wished he could devote himself to developing his body. How could he, though, with all that bad food from that murky kitchen? They had salmon only on Good Friday: the influence, doubtless, of the orthodox Roman Catholic Hindu Mrs Tulsi. He pulled his hat low over his forehead and thought that in the dark he might just get away with his face.
As he went down the stairs the chatter became a babel. Past the landing, he waited for the silence, the reanimation.
It happened as he feared.
Shama didn’t look at him. Among gay sisters she was the gayest.
Padma said. ‘You better feed Mohun, Shama.’
Govind didn’t look up. He was smiling, at nothing, it seemed, and was eating in his savage, noisy way, rice and curry spilled all over his hairy hand and trickling down to his wrist. Soon, Mr Biswas knew, he would clean his hand with a swift, rasping lick.
Mr Biswas, his back to everyone in the hall, said, ‘I not eating any of the bad food from this house.’
‘Well, nobody not going to beg you, you hear,’ Shama said.
He curled the brim of his hat over his eye and went down into the courtyard, lit only by the light from the hall.
The god said, ‘Anyone see a spy pass through here?’
Mr Biswas heard the laughter.
Under the eaves of a bicycle shop across the High Street an oyster stall was yellowly, smokily lit by a flambeau with a thick spongy wick. Oysters lay in a shining heap, many-faceted, grey and black and yellow. Two bottles, stopped with twists of brown paper, contained red peppersauce.
Postponing the salmon, Mr Biswas crossed the road and asked the man, ‘How the oysters going?’
‘Two for a cent.’
‘Start opening.’
The man