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‘So what we going to do about the shop?’ Seth asked in English. He was still irritable and his voice, though businesslike, was weary.

Mr Biswas couldn’t think. ‘Is a bad site for a shop,’ he said.

‘A bad site today could be a good site tomorrow,’ Seth said. ‘Suppose I drop a few cents here and there and get the Public Works to run the trunk road through there after all? Eh?’

Shama’s sobs mingled with the squelch of bay rum in Mrs Tulsi’s hair.

‘You got any debts?’

‘Well, a lot of people owing me but they won’t pay.’

‘Not after what happen with Mungroo. I suppose you was the only man in Trinidad who didn’t know about Seebaran and Mahmoud.’

Shama was crying openly.

Abruptly Seth lost interest in Mr Biswas. He said, ‘Tcha!’ and looked at his bluchers.

‘You mustn’t mind,’ Mrs Tulsi said. ‘I know you haven’t got a soft heart. But you mustn’t mind.’

Seth sighed. ‘So what we going to do with the shop?’

Mr Biswas shrugged.

‘Insure-and-burn?’ Seth said, making it one word: insuranburn.

Mr Biswas felt that talk like this belonged to the realms of high finance.

Seth crossed his big arms high over his chest. ‘Is the only thing for you to do now.’

‘Insuranburn,’ Mr Biswas said. ‘How much I going to make out of that?’

‘More than you would make if you don’t insuranburn. The shop is Mai own. The goods is yours. For the goods you ought to get about seventy-five, a hundred dollars.’

It was a large sum. Mr Biswas smiled.

But Seth only said, ‘And after that, what?’

Mr Biswas tried to look thoughtful.

‘You still too proud to get your hands dirty in the fields?’ And Seth displayed his own hands.

‘Soft heart,’ Mrs Tulsi muttered.

‘I want a driver at Green Vale,’ Seth said.

Shama gave a loud sob and, suddenly leaving Mrs Tulsi’s head, rushed to Mr Biswas and said, ‘Take it, man. Take it, I beg you.’ She was making it easy for him to accept. ‘He will take it,’ she cried to Seth. ‘He will take it.’

Seth looked irritable and turned away.

Mrs Tulsi groaned.

Shama, still crying, went back to the bed and pressed her fingers into Mrs Tulsi’s hair. Mrs Tulsi said, ‘Aah.’

‘I don’t know anything about estate work,’ Mr Biswas said, trying to salvage some of his dignity.

‘Nobody begging you,’ Seth said.

‘You mustn’t mind,’ Mrs Tulsi said. ‘You know what Owad always tells me. He always blames me for the way I married off my daughters. And I suppose he is right. But then Owad is going to college, reading and learning all the time. And I am very oldfashioned.’ She spoke with pride in Owad and pride in her oldfashionedness.

Seth stood up. His bluchers scraped on the floor, the bed made noises, and Mrs Tulsi was slightly disturbed. But Seth’s irritability had disappeared. He took out the ivory cigarette holder which had been pushing up through the buttoned flap of the pocket on his khaki shirt, put it in his mouth and blew whistlingly through it. ‘Owad. You remember him, Mohun?’ He laughed, opening his mouth on either side of the holder. ‘The old hen son.’

‘What is past is past,’ Mrs Tulsi said. ‘When people are boys they behave like boys. When they are men they behave like men.’

Shama squeezed vigorously at Mrs Tulsi’s head and succeeded in reducing Mrs Tulsi’s speech to a series of ‘Aah. Aah.’ She washed bay rum into Mrs Tulsi’s hair and face and held her palm over Mrs Tulsi’s nose and mouth.

‘This insuranburning,’ Mr Biswas said, and his tone was light, ‘who going to see about it? Me?’ He was putting himself back into the role of the licensed buffoon.

Shama was the first to laugh. Seth followed. A croak came from Mrs Tulsi and Shama took away her hand from Mrs Tulsi’s mouth to allow her to laugh.

Mrs Tulsi began to splutter. ‘He want,’ she said in English, choking with laughter, ‘to jump – from – the fryingpan – into – into –’

They all roared.

‘– into – the fire!’

The witty mood spread.

‘No more paddling,’ Seth said.

‘We insuranburning right away?’ Mr Biswas asked, pitching his voice high and speaking quickly.