Collected Short Fiction (18 page)

So she bought another taxi, and hired a man to drive it. She said, ‘Two better than one.’

Bhakcu was reading the
Ramayana
more and more.

And even that began to annoy the people in the street.

Hat said, ‘Hear the two of them now. She with that voice she got, and he singing that damn sing-song Hindu song.’

Picture then the following scene. Mrs Bhakcu, very short, very fat, standing at the pipe in her yard, and shrilling at her husband. He is in his pants, lying on his belly, dolefully intoning the
Ramayana
. Suddenly he springs up and snatches the cricket bat in the corner of the room. He runs outside and begins to beat Mrs Bhakcu with the bat.

The silence that follows lasts a few minutes.

And then only Bhakcu’s voice is heard, as he does a solo from the
Ramayana
.

But don’t think that Mrs Bhakcu lost any pride in her husband. Whenever you listened to the rows between Mrs Bhakcu and Mrs Morgan, you realized that Bhakcu was still his wife’s lord and master.

Mrs Morgan would say, ‘I hear your husband talking in his sleep last night, loud loud.’

‘He wasn’t talking,’ Mrs Bhakcu said, ‘he was singing.’

‘Singing? Hahahahaaah! You know something, Mrs Bhakcu?’

‘What, Mrs Morgan?’

‘If your husband sing for his supper, both of all you starve like hell.’

‘
He
know a damn lot more than any of the ignorant man it have in this street, you hear.
He
could read and write, you know. English
and
Hindi. How you so ignorant you don’t know that the
Ramayana
is a holy book? If you coulda understand all the good thing
he
singing, you wouldn’t be talking all this nonsense you talking now, you hear.’

‘How your husband this morning, anyway? He fix any new cars lately?’

‘I not going to dirty my mouth arguing with you here, you hear.
He
know how to fix his car. Is a wonder nobody ain’t tell your husband where he can fix all his so-call fireworks.’

Mrs Bhakcu used to boast that Bhakcu read the
Ramayana
two or three times a month. ‘It have some parts he know by heart,’ she said.

But that was little consolation, for money wasn’t coming in. The man she had hired to drive the second taxi was playing the fool. She said, ‘He robbing me like hell. He say that the taxi making so little money I owe him now.’ She sacked the driver and sold the car.

She used all her financial flair. She began rearing hens. That failed because a lot of the hens were stolen, the rest attacked by street dogs, and Bhakcu hated the smell anyway. She began selling bananas and oranges, but she did that more for her own enjoyment than for the little money it brought in.

My mother said, ‘Why Bhakcu don’t go out and get a work?’

Mrs Bhakcu said, ‘But how you want that?’

My mother said, ‘I don’t want it. I was thinking about you.’

Mrs Bhakcu said, ‘You could see
he
working with all the rude and crude people it have here in Port of Spain?’

My mother said, ‘Well, he have to do something. People don’t pay to see a man crawling under a motor-car or singing
Ramayana.
’

Mrs Bhakcu nodded and looked sad.

My mother said, ‘But what I saying at all? You sure Bhakcu know the
Ramayana
?’

‘I sure sure.’

My mother said, ‘Well, it easy easy. He is a Brahmin, he know the
Ramayana
, and he have a car. Is easy for him to become a pundit, a real proper pundit.’

Mrs Bhakcu clapped her hands. ‘Is a first-class idea. Hindu pundits making a lot of money these days.’

So Bhakcu became a pundit.

He still tinkered with his car. He had to stop beating Mrs Bhakcu with the cricket bat, but he was happy.

I was haunted by thoughts of the
dhoti
-clad Pundit Bhakcu, crawling under a car, attending to a crank-shaft, while poor Hindus waited for him to attend to their souls.

IT WAS NOT UNTIL
1947 that Bolo believed that the war was over. Up till then he used to say, ‘Is only a lot of propaganda. Just lies for black people.’

In 1947 the Americans began pulling down their camp in the George V Park and many people were getting sad.

I went to see Bolo one Sunday and while he was cutting my hair he said, ‘I hear the war over.’

I said, ‘So I hear too. But I still have my doubts.’

Bolo said, ‘I know what you mean. These people is master of propaganda, but the way I look at it is this. If they was still fighting they woulda want to keep the camp.’

‘But they not keeping the camp,’ I said.

Bolo said, ‘Exactly. Put two and two together and what you get? Tell me, what you get?’

I said, ‘Four.’

He clipped my hair thoughtfully for a few moments.

He said, ‘Well, I glad the war over.’

When I paid for my trim I said, ‘What you think we should do now, Mr Bolo? You think we should celebrate?’

He said, ‘Gimme time, man. Gimme time. This is a big thing. I have to think it over.’

And there the matter rested.

I remember the night when the news of peace reached Port of Spain. People just went wild and there was a carnival in the streets. A new calypso sprang out of nothing and everybody was dancing in the streets to the tune of:

Bolo looked at the dancers and said, ‘Stupidness! Stupidness! How black people so stupid?’

I said, ‘But you ain’t hear, Mr Bolo? The war over.’

He spat. ‘How you know? You was fighting it?’

‘But it come over on the radio and I read it in the papers.’

Bolo laughed. He said, ‘Anybody would think you was still a little boy. You mean you come so big and you still does believe anything you read in the papers?’

I had heard this often before. Bolo was sixty and the only truth he had discovered seemed to be, ‘You mustn’t believe anything you read in the papers.’

It was his whole philosophy, and it didn’t make him happy. He was the saddest man in the street.

I think Bolo was born sad. Certainly I never saw him laugh except in a sarcastic way, and I saw him at least once a week for eleven years. He was a tall man, not thin, with a face that was a caricature of sadness, the mouth curling downwards, the eyebrows curving downwards, the eyes big and empty of expression.

It was an amazement to me that Bolo made a living at all after he had stopped barbering. I suppose he would be described in a census as a carrier. His cart was the smallest thing of its kind I knew.

It was a little box on two wheels and he pushed it himself, pushed with his long body in such an attitude of resignation and futility you wondered why he pushed it at all. On this cart he could take just about two or three sacks of flour or sugar.

On Sundays Bolo became a barber again, and if he was proud of anything he was proud of his barbering.

Often Bolo said to me, ‘You know Samuel?’

Samuel was the most successful barber in the district. He was so rich he took a week’s holiday every year, and he liked everybody to know it.

I said, ‘Yes, I know Samuel. But I don’t like him to touch my hair at all at all. He can’t cut hair. He does zog up my head.’

Bolo said, ‘You know who teach Samuel all he know about cutting hair? You know?’

I shook my head.

‘I. I teach Samuel. He couldn’t even shave hisself when he start barbering. He come crying and begging, “Mr Bolo, Mr Bolo, teach me how to cut people hair, I beg you.” Well, I teach him, and look what happen, eh. Samuel rich rich, and I still living in one room in this break-down old house. Samuel have a room where he does cut hair, I have to cut hair in the open under this mango tree.’

I said, ‘But it nice outside, it better than sitting down in a hot room. But why you stop cutting hair regular, Mr Bolo?’

‘Ha, boy, that is asking a big big question. The fact is, I just can’t trust myself.’

‘Is not true. You does cut hair good good, better than Samuel.’

‘It ain’t that I mean. Boy, when it have a man sitting down in front of you in a chair, and you don’t like this man, and you have a razor in your hand, a lot of funny things could happen. I does only cut people hair these days when I like them. I can’t cut any-and-everybody hair.’

Although in 1945 Bolo didn’t believe that the war was over, in 1939 he was one of the great alarmists. In those days he bought all three Port of Spain newspapers, the
Trinidad Guardian
, the
Port of Spain Gazette
, and the
Evening News
. When the war broke out and the
Evening News
began issuing special bulletins, Bolo bought those too.

Those were the days when Bolo said, ‘It have a lot of people who think they could kick people around. They think because we poor we don’t know anything. But I ain’t in that, you hear. Every day I sit down and read my papers regular regular.’

More particularly, Bolo was interested in the
Trinidad Guardian
. At one stage Bolo bought about twenty copies of that paper every day.

The
Guardian
was running a Missing Ball Competition. They printed a photograph of a football match in progress, but they had rubbed the ball out. All you had to do to win a lot of money was to mark the position of the ball with an X.

Spotting the missing ball became one of Bolo’s passions.

In the early stages Bolo was happy enough to send in one X a week to the
Guardian
.

It was a weekly excitement for all of us.

Hat used to say, ‘Bolo, I bet you forget all of us when you win the money. You leaving Miguel Street, man, and buying a big house in St Clair, eh?’

Bolo said, ‘No, I don’t want to stay in Trinidad. I think I go go to the States.’

Bolo began marking two X’s. Then three, four, six. He never won a penny. He was getting almost constantly angry.

He would say, ‘Is just a big bacchanal, you hear. The paper people done make up their mind long long time now who going
to win the week prize. They only want to get all the black people money.’

Hat said, ‘You mustn’t get discouraged. You got to try really hard again.’

Bolo bought sheets of squared paper and fitted them over the Missing Ball photograph. Wherever the lines crossed he marked an X. To do this properly Bolo had to buy something like a hundred to a hundred and fifty
Guardian
s every week.

Sometimes Bolo would call Boyee and Errol and me and say, ‘Now, boys, where you think this missing ball is? Look, I want you to shut your eyes and mark a spot with this pencil.’

And sometimes again Bolo would ask us, ‘What sort of things you been dreaming this week?’

If you said you didn’t dream at all, Bolo looked disappointed. I used to make up dreams and Bolo would work them out in relation to the missing ball.

People began calling Bolo ‘Missing Ball’.

Hat used to say, ‘Look the man with the missing ball.’

One day Bolo went up to the offices of the
Guardian
and beat up a sub-editor before the police could be called.

In court Bolo said, ‘The ball not missing, you hear. It wasn’t there in the first place.’

Bolo was fined twenty-five dollars.

The
Gazette
ran a story:

THE CASE OF THE MISSING BALL
Penalty for a foul

Altogether Bolo spent about three hundred dollars trying to spot the missing ball, and he didn’t even get a consolation prize.

It was shortly after the court case that Bolo stopped barbering regularly and also stopped reading the
Guardian
.

I can’t remember now why Bolo stopped reading the
Evening News
, but I know why he stopped reading the
Gazette
.

A great housing shortage arose in Port of Spain during the war, and in 1942 a philanthropist came to the rescue of the unhoused. He said he was starting a co-operative housing scheme. People who wished to take part in this venture had to deposit some two hundred dollars, and after a year or so they would get brand-new houses for next to nothing. Several important men blessed the new scheme, and lots of dinners were eaten to give the project a good start.

The project was heavily advertised and about five or six houses were built and handed over to some of the people who had eaten the dinners. The papers carried photographs of people putting keys into locks and stepping over thresholds.

Bolo saw the photographs and the advertisements in the
Gazette
, and he paid in his two hundred dollars.

In 1943 the Director of the Co-operative Housing Society disappeared and with him disappeared two or three thousand dream houses.

Bolo stopped reading the
Gazette
.

It was on a Sunday in November that year that Bolo made his announcement to those of us who were sitting under the mango tree, waiting for Bolo to cut our hair.

He said, ‘I saying something now. And so help me God, if I ever break my word, it go be better if I lose my two eyes. Listen. I stop reading papers. If even I learn Chinese I ain’t go read Chinese papers, you hearing. You mustn’t believe anything you read in the papers.’

Bolo was cutting Hat’s hair at the moment, and Hat hurriedly got up and left.

Later Hat said, ‘You know what I think. We will have to stop getting trim from Bolo. The man get me really frighten now, you hear.’

We didn’t have to think a lot about Hat’s decision because a few days later Bolo came to us and said, ‘I coming round to see you people one by one because is the last time you go see me.’

He looked so sad I thought he was going to cry.

Hat said, ‘What you thinking of doing now?’

Bolo said, ‘I leaving this island for good. Is only a lot of damn crooks here.’

Eddoes said, ‘Bolo, you taking your box-cart with you?’

Bolo said, ‘No. Why, you like it?’

Eddoes said, ‘I was thinking. It look like good materials to me.’

Bolo said, ‘Eddoes, take my box-cart.’