The Nightwatchman's Occurrence Book (10 page)

That midday, shortly after Lorkhoor had left Mr Cuffy, Mahadeo, plump and sweating in his tight khaki driver’s uniform, came up to Mr Cuffy’s shop and tried to open a conversation with him. Mr Cuffy had relapsed into a mood of gloomy suspicion; opening a conversation with him was like opening a bottle of beer with your teeth. Mr Cuffy wasn’t liking anything at all at that moment; he wasn’t liking the Witnesses, wasn’t liking this talk of
obeah,
wasn’t liking Lorkhoor.

Mahadeo took off his topee. ‘Working hard, Mr Cawfee?’

Silence. Mr Cuffy wasn’t liking Mahadeo either.

Mahadeo scratched the mauve sweat-stains under his arms. ‘Elections, Mr Cawfee.’

No reply.

‘Progress, Mr Cawfee. Democracy. Elvira going ahead.’

‘Why you don’t go ahead yourself and haul your arse outa my yard?’

Mahadeo’s eyes began to bulge, hurt but determined. ‘One of the candidates want my help in the election, Mr Cawfee.’

Mr Cuffy grunted.

Mahadeo brought out his red pocket-notebook and a small pencil. ‘I have to ask you a few questions, Mr Cawfee.’ He tried some elementary flattery: ‘After all, you is a very important man in Elvira.’

Mr Cuffy liked elementary flattery. ‘True,’ he admitted. ‘It’s God’s will.’

‘Is what I think too. Mr Cawfee, how your Negro people getting on in Elvira?’

‘All right, I believe, praise be to God.’

‘You sure, Mr Cawfee?’

Mr Cuffy squinted. ‘How you mean?’

‘Everybody
all right? Nobody sick or anything like that?’

‘What the hell you up to, Mahadeo?’

Mahadeo laughed like a clerk in a government office. ‘Just doing a job, Mr Cawfee. Just a job. If any Negro fall sick in Elvira, you is the fust man they come to, not true?’

Mr Cuffy softened. ‘True.’

‘And
no
body sick?’

‘
No
body.’ Mr Cuffy didn’t care for the hopeful note in Mahadeo’s voice.

Mahadeo’s pencil hesitated, disappointed. ‘Nobody deading or dead?’

Mr Cuffy jumped up and dropped the black boot.
‘Obeah!’
he cried, and took up an awl.
‘Obeah!
Lorkhoor was right. You people
trying to work some
obeah.
Haul you tail outa my yard! Go on, quick sharp.’

‘How you mean,
obeah?’

Mr Cuffy advanced with the awl.

‘Mr Cawfee!’

Mahadeo retreated, notebook open, pencil pointing forward, as protection. ‘Just wanted to help, that is all. And this is the thanks I getting. Just wanted to help, doing a job, that is all.’

‘Nobody ask for your help,’ Mr Cuffy shouted, for Mahadeo was now well away. ‘And listen, Mahadeo, one thing I promising you. If anybody dead, anybody at all, you going to be in trouble. So watch out. Don’t try no magic. If anybody dead, anybody.
Obeah!’
Mr Cuffy bawled. ‘
Obeah!’

Mr Cuffy sounded serious.

And now Mahadeo was really worried.

*

Mahadeo wouldn’t have got into that mess if Baksh had kept his mouth shut. Mrs Baksh had warned him not to say anything about Tiger. But nothing like it had ever happened to him and he wanted people to know. Nearly everybody else in Elvira had some experience of the supernatural; when the conversation turned to such matters in Ramlogan’s rumshop, Baksh had had to improvise.

As soon as Mrs Baksh and Herbert left for Tamana, Baksh went to see Harichand the printer and caught him before he started for his printery in Couva.

Harichand, the best-dressed man in Elvira, was knotting his tie in the Windsor style before a small looking-glass nailed to one of the posts in his back veranda. He listened carefully, but without excitement.

‘Nothing surprising in what you say,’ he said at the end.

‘How you mean, man, Harichand? Was a big big dog …’

‘If you think
that
surprising, what you going to think about the sign I had just before my father dead?’

‘Sign, eh?’ It was a concession, because Baksh had heard Harichand’s story many times before.

‘Two weeks before my father dead,’ Harichand began, blocking his moustache with a naked razor-blade. ‘Was a night-time. Did sleeping sound. Sound sound. Like a top. Eh, I hear this squeaky noise. Squeaky squeaky. Like little mices. Get up. Still hearing this squeaky noise. Was a moonlight night. Three o’clock in the morning. Moonlight making everything look like a belling-ground. Dead and funny. Squeak. Squeak. Open the window. No wind at all. All the trees black and quiet. Squeak. Squeak. Road looking white in the moonlight. White and long. Squeak. Squeak. Lean out. No wind. Nothing. Only squeak, squeak. Look down. Something in the road. Black, crawling. Look down again. Four tiny tiny horses harness together. Big as little puppies. Black little horses. And they was pulling a funeral huss. Squeak. Squeak. Huss big as a shoebox.’

Harichand put away the razor-blade.

‘Two weeks later, my father dead. Three o’clock in the morning.’

‘But talking about puppies,’ Baksh said. ‘This thing was a big big dog last night. I just open the back door and I see it. Walking about in a funny limping way. You know how Haq does walk? Limping, as though he walking on glass? This dog was walking about like Haq. It ain’t say nothing. It just look at me.
Sly.
I get one frighten and I run upstairs. In the morning is a tiny tiny puppy, thin, all the ribs showing. But the same coloration.’

Harichand bent down to shine his shoe. ‘Somebody trying to put something on you.’ His tone was matter-of-fact.

‘Was a big dog, man.’

‘Just don’t feed it,’ Harichand said.

‘Feed it! Preacher ain’t catching me so easy.’

‘Ah, is Preacher, eh?’ Harichand gave a knowing chuckle. ‘Election thing starting already?’

‘We helping out Harbans.’

‘Harbans ain’t getting
my
vote. Eh, the man ain’t bring nothing yet for me to print.’

‘How you could say that, man? We fixing up something for you.’

‘Mark you, I ain’t begging nobody. But if you want my vote, you want my printery. It have a lot of people who wouldn’t like it if they know you wasn’t treating me nice.’

‘We fixing you up, man. So just don’t feed it, eh?’

‘Well, I waiting to see what all-you bringing. Just don’t feed it. And try to get it outa the house.’

And then Baksh ran around telling his story to nearly everyone who wasn’t too busy to listen. He had to listen to many stories in return. Etwariah, Rampiari’s mother, told (in Hindi) how two days after her husband died she saw him standing at the foot of her bed. He looked at her and then at the baby—he had died the day Rampiari was born—and he cried a little before disappearing. Etwariah cried a lot when she told the story and Baksh had to cry too; but he couldn’t keep on crying with Etwariah and in the end he had to leave, very rudely.

So it went on all morning. The story of Tiger got round nearly everywhere. Lorkhoor heard and told Mr Cuffy.

*

Before Rafiq went to school Foam called him to the little ajoupa at the back of the house and said, ‘Rafiq, you is a nasty little good-for-nothing bitch.’

Rafiq began to sniffle.

‘You pretending you ain’t know why I calling you a bitch?’

‘I ain’t tell no lie.’

Foam slapped him. ‘No, you ain’t tell no lie,’ he mimicked. ‘But you tell.’

‘The Bible turn for itself. I didn’t have nothing to do with it.’

Foam slapped him again. ‘How else Ma know, unless you did tell she about the dog?’

Rafiq began to cry. ‘I didn’t know she was going to bless Herbert.’

‘When Herbert come back this evening from Tamana, I want
you to beg his pardon. And I want you to give him that red-and-blue top you hiding on top of the brass bed.’

‘Is my top. I thief it from a boy at school. Big Lambie.’

‘I want you to give Herbert the top.’

‘Not going to give it. You could do what you like. Touch me again and I going to tell Ma.’

‘Rafiq! What sorta obscene language you using? Where you pick up those words? Ma ever hear you using those sorta words?’

‘What sorta words?’

‘Again, Rafiq? I just have to tell Ma now.’

Rafiq understood blackmail. ‘All right, I going to give the top to Herbert.’

*

One of the first things Foam bought with his campaign manager’s salary was an expensive pair of dark glasses. He wore them whenever he took out the loudspeaker van.

He was cruising down Ravine Road—if you could cruise down any road in Elvira—when he saw Nelly Chittaranjan coming back from school. She was walking briskly, head a little high.

Foam slowed up and gave a little election speech. Nelly Chittaranjan turned and saw and turned away again, head a little higher.

Foam followed her with the van.

‘Want a lift home, girl?’

She didn’t reply. He followed.

‘Foreman, I will kindly ask you to stop following me about.’

‘Why you so formal? Is because you getting married to Harbans son? Call me Foam, man, like everybody else.’

‘Some people in Elvira don’t know their elders and betters.’

He gave a dry laugh. ‘Ah, is because of the dark glasses that you can’t recognize me!’

‘Foreman, please drive off. Otherwise I will just have to tell my father.’

Foam sang:

‘Simple things amuse small minds, I see.’

‘Look, girl, you want this lift or you ain’t want it? Don’t waste my time. Is work I have to work these days.’

‘Huh! I don’t see what sort of work you could ever do.’

‘I is your father boss in this election, you know.’

‘Huh!’ But she stopped.

The van stopped too. Foam rested an elbow on the door. ‘Just managing Harbans campaign for him. That is all. Seventy-five dollars a month. See these glasses? Guess how much.’

‘Sixty cents.’

‘Garn. Twelve dollars, if you please.’

‘Huh!’

‘You like the old loudspeaking voice?’ He gave a loud and vigorous demonstration.

‘You mean to say you learn off all that by heart?’

‘Nah! Just make it up as I go along. Want to hear some more?’

She shook her head. ‘It
is
hot. You can give me a lift to the end of Ravine Road.’

‘Only up to there, eh? Ah, you shame to let the old man see you with me.’ He opened the door for her. ‘Now that you is practically a married woman.’

He drove off with much noise, and settled down with one hand on the steering wheel, his back in the angle of the seat and door. He looked reposed and casual.

‘So little Nelly getting married off, eh?’

He was embarrassing her.

‘I don’t see why you shame about it. You marrying a doctor, man. You could take down prescriptions
and
type them out. Especially with doctors’ handwriting so hard to read.’

He had gone too far. It looked as though she might cry. ‘I don’t want to get married, Foreman.’

He hadn’t thought of that. ‘What you want to do then?’

‘I want to go to the Poly.’

He couldn’t make anything of that. ‘Well, things could always mash up. From what I hear, Harbans ain’t too anxious to see you as a daughter-in-law either.’

She wept. ‘I want to go to the Poly.’

‘Poly, eh?’

‘In London. Regent Street.’

‘Oh.’ He spoke as though he knew it well. ‘Teacher Francis been putting ideas in your head. Well, you never know what could happen between now and election day.’ He paused. ‘Look, you like dogs?’

Weeping, Nelly Chittaranjan remembered refinement. ‘I adore dogs.’

Foam stamped on the brakes and brought the van to a noisy halt. ‘Look, I ain’t want that sort of talk. I ask you if you like dogs. You answer me yes or you answer me no. None of this educative nonsense, you hear. You ain’t gone to the Poly yet.’

She stopped crying.

She said, ‘I like dogs.’

‘You is a nice girl. I have a dog—well, small dog, puppy really. Can’t keep it home. You want to look after it?’

She nodded.

He was surprised. ‘Giving it to you. Wedding present from Foam. What time you does stop taking lessons from Teacher Francis in the evening?’

‘Half past eight.’

‘See you at quarter to nine. Where we meet today.’

She got off at the end of the Ravine Road.

*

In the afternoon Chittaranjan put on his visiting outfit, left Mrs Chittaranjan to look after the two workmen downstairs, and went out to campaign for Harbans. Chittaranjan’s visiting outfit was as special as
his home clothes. Item number one was an untorn white shirt, size thirteen, with the sleeves carefully rolled up—not rolled, folded rather—and when it wasn’t in use it hung on its own hanger in Chittaranjan’s expensive, spacious and practically empty wardrobe. Chittaranjan was extra careful with his shirt. He didn’t like to have it washed too often because that weakened the material; but he never liked keeping a shirt in use for more than two months at a time. He wore it as little as possible, and only on special occasions; Chittaranjan liked a shirt to grow dirty gradually and gracefully. Item number two was a pair of brown gaberdine trousers which he kept flat between
Trinidad Sentinels
under his mattress. Item number three was a pair of brown shoes, old, cracked, but glittering; this replaced the sabots he wore at home. The fourth and last item of Chittaranjan’s visiting outfit was a vast grey felt hat, smooth, ribbonless, with only one stain, large, ancient and of oil, on the wide brim.

When Elvira saw Chittaranjan in this outfit, it knew he meant business.

Chittaranjan campaigned.

At first things went well. But then Chittaranjan found people a little less ready to commit themselves. They talked about
obeah
and magic and dogs. But they always yielded in the end. Only Rampiari’s husband, who had cut his foot with a hoe, played the fool. At the best of times Rampiari’s husband was a truculent lout; now he was in pain and ten times worse. He had been there in the morning when Baksh had come to Etwariah with the story of Tiger; and he made a big thing of it. He said he wasn’t going to vote for anybody because he didn’t want anybody to put any
obeah
on him, he didn’t believe in this new politics business, politicians were all crooks, and nobody was going to do anything for him anyway.