A House for Mr. Biswas - V.S. Naipaul [78]
Afterwards, the sticks, their heads carved, were soaked in coconut oil in bamboo cylinders, to give them greater strength and resilience. Then Mungroo took the sticks to an old stickman he knew, to have them ‘mounted’ with the spirit of a dead Spaniard. So that the ritual ended in romance, awe and mystery. For the Spaniards, Mr Biswas knew, had surrendered the island one hundred years before, and their descendants had disappeared; yet they had left a memory of reckless valour, and this memory had passed to people who came from another continent and didn’t know what a Spaniard was, people who, in their huts of mud and grass where time and distance were obliterated, still frightened their children with the name of Alexander, of whose greatness they knew nothing.
By profession Mungroo was a roadmender. He preferred to say that he worked for the government, and he preferred not to work at all. He made it plain that because he defended the honour of the village, the village owed him a living. He exacted contributions for pitch-oil for the flambeaux, for the ‘mounting’ fees, and for the expensive costumes the stick-fighters wore on days of battle. At first Mr Biswas contributed willingly. Then Mungroo, the better to devote himself to his art, abandoned the road-gang for weeks at a time and lived on credit from Mr Biswas and other shopkeepers. Mr Biswas admired Mungroo. He felt it would be disloyal to refuse Mungroo credit, unbecoming to remind him of his debts, and dangerous to do either. Mungroo became steadily more demanding. Mr Biswas complained to other customers; they told Mungroo. Mungroo didn’t reply, as Mr Biswas had feared, with violence, but with a dignity which, though it struck Mr Biswas as hollow, hurt him as deeply as the silences and sighs of Shama. Mungroo refused to speak to Mr Biswas and spat, casually, whenever he passed the shop. Mungroo’s bills remained unpaid; and Mr Biswas lost a few more customers.
Earlier than Mr Biswas had expected, Moti returned and said, ‘You are a lucky man. Seebaran has decided to help you. I told him you were a friend of mine and a good Hindu, and he’s a very strict Hindu himself, as you know. He is going to help you. Even though he’s busy.’ He took out the papers from his shirt pocket, found the one he wanted and slapped it down on the counter. At the top a mauve stamp, slightly askew, said that L. S. Seebaran was a solicitor and conveyancer. Below that there were many dotted lines between printed sentences. ‘Seebaran going to full up those for you as soon as he get your papers,’ Moti said, using English, the language of the law.
Unless this sum, Mr Biswas read with a thrill, together with One Dollar and Twenty Cents ($1.02c), the cost of this letter, is paid within ten days, legal proceedings shall he instituted against you. And there was another dotted line below that, where L. S. Seebaran was to sign himself yours faithfully.
‘Powerful, powerful, man,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘Legal proceedings, eh. I didn’t know it was so easy to bring people up.’
Moti gave a knowing little grunt.
‘One dollar and twenty cents, the cost of this letter,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘You mean I don’t even have to pay that?’
‘Not with Seebaran fighting your case for you.’
‘One dollar and twenty cents. You mean Seebaran getting that just for fulling up those dotted lines? Education, boy. It have nothing like a profession.’
‘You is your own boss, if you is a professional man,’ Moti said, his voice touched with a remote sadness.
‘But one twenty, man. Five minutes’ writing for one twenty.’
‘You forgetting that Seebaran had to spend years and years studying all sort of big and heavy books before they allow him to send out papers like this.’
‘You know, the thing to do is to have three sons. Make one a doctor, one a dentist, and one