The Middle Passage (34 page)

I wished I had paid more attention to the stories I had heard (‘anything you want’, ‘caviare for breakfast’).

‘Or fish?’ I could think of nothing else.

Pad came closer to pencil. ‘A little salmon, perhaps?’

‘Yes, a little salmon.’

I watched the chef go down the hill in his little white car. Then another car came up and a bowtied Jamaican got out with a case.

‘Your drinks, sir.’ He seemed extraordinarily pleased. With light, swift gestures he set the bottles out; and he was gone.

Glass in hand, I explored. The bedroom extended the width of the house; its glass louvres were shadowed by trees outside. The bathroom had a sunken tiled bath which was like a small pool. And there was a carpeted dressing room. I went back to the main room, slid the glass door open and went out on to the terrace on the coral cliff. At once I was aware of warmth, wind, noises: birds, leaves, the sea below. A rowing-boat bucked in the bay.

I sat down in a low chair, shook my glass to hear the ice tinkle; and, dropping the ash from my cigarette into a dark blue ashtray, began to read
The Power Elite.

Mr Wright Mills’s style becomes almost impenetrable when taken with whisky and soda. I put down
The Power Elite
and picked up a magazine. It was an escapist magazine of design. In it I saw the carpet on which my feet rested.

Someone was at the door. Mrs Williams admitted two handsome waiters carrying a basket which I thought far too large for what I had ordered. Briskly they laid the table. Then, ceremoniously, they invited me to sit. They moved lightly and their gestures – the bows, the extended dish-bearing hand – were a little extravagant. Exaggerating their role, they behaved like benevolent magicians.

The salmon was garnished with caviare.

I heard music.

The taller waiter was standing, with his magician’s smile, beside what I now recognized as a stereophonic record-player.

Within twenty-four hours my interest in food and drink had disappeared. Everything was at the end of the telephone, and it was my duty to have exactly what I wanted. But how could I be sure what I wanted
best
? Wouldn’t a whisky now spoil my appreciation of the wine later? Wouldn’t the wine now send me to sleep for the rest of the precious afternoon? Did I really want a soufflé? No decision couldn’t be regretted. I gave up. I left everything to the chef. I never ordered a meal, and the next day I went without dinner.

The struggle between duty, to indulge, and inclination, which was not to bother, was unequal. I fell into a torpor. The whisky remained untouched beyond that first day’s sampling; and at the end of my stay I had drunk only half the bottle of brandy. All the stories about Frenchman’s were true. But I didn’t want to go rafting or boating. I couldn’t be a tourist in the West Indies, not after the journey I had made.

‘You’re very quiet,’ Mrs Williams said. ‘Just like the Diefenbakers.’

For seven months I had been travelling through territories which, unimportant except to themselves, and faced with every sort of problem, were exhausting their energies in petty power squabbles and the maintaining of the petty prejudices of petty societies. I had seen how deep in nearly every West Indian, high and low, were the prejudices of race; how often these prejudices were rooted in self-contempt; and how much important action they prompted. Everyone spoke of nation and nationalism but no one was willing to surrender the privileges or even the separateness of his group. Nowhere, except perhaps in British Guiana, was there any binding philosophy: there were only competing sectional interests. With an absence of a feeling of community, there was an absence of pride, and there was even cynicism. There was, for instance, little concern about West Indian emigration to Britain. It was a lower-class thing; it was a black thing; it was a Jamaican thing. At another level, it was regarded with malicious pleasure as a means of embarrassing the British people, a form of revenge; and in this pleasure there was no thought for the emigrants or the dignity of the nation about which so much was being said and which on every side was said to be ‘emergent’. And the population was soaring – in thirty years Trinidad has more than doubled its population – and the race conflicts of every territory were growing sharper.

Dr Arthur Lewis has drawn the distinction between ‘protest’ leaders and ‘creative’ leaders in colonial societies. It is ia distinction of which the West Indies are yet scarcely aware. In the West Indies, with its large middle class and its abundance of talent, the protest leader is an anachronism, and a dangerous anachronism. For the uneducated masses, quick to respond to racial stirrings and childishly pleased with destructive gestures, the protest leader will always be a hero. The West Indies will never have a shortage of such leaders, and the danger of mob rule and authoritarianism will never cease to be real. The paternalism of colonial rule will have been replaced by the jungle politics of rewards and revenge, the text-book conditions for chaos.

In a recent issue of the
Caribbean Quarterly
there is an article called ‘A Theory of a Small Society’, in which Dr Kenneth Boulding, Professor of Economics at Michigan University, describes the small society’s ‘road to ruin’:

‘If we could,’ wrote Trollope, ‘we would fain forget Jamaica altogether.’ The West Indies, he might have said. With immigration to Britain now controlled, a
cordon sanitaire
of a sort has indeed been drawn around the islands. The process of forgetting has begun. And the West Indies, preoccupied with its internal squabbles, hardly know it.

The day before I left Frenchman’s Cove, the telephone, unusually, rang.

‘Mr Naipaul? This is Grainger Weston.’ The voice was brisk, even hurried. ‘We wonder whether you would like to come over this evening after dinner.’

I had my last dinner and, with it, a bottle of Chateau Lafitte-Rothschild.

The waiter said, ‘See you next season.’

The Westons didn’t live in Frenchman’s Cove but at Turtle Cove, a short distance away. I was not surprised to find that the house was an old-fashioned Jamaican country house, not remarkable in any way, and without air-conditioning.

Grainger Weston turned out to be a slender man with a sharp ascetic face. I thought he was in his thirties. He wore belted khaki shorts and a white T-shirt. I met his wife and his sister-in-law. We sat outside in the dark and talked, mostly about Frenchman’s Cove.

Mrs Weston said they were always interested in the reactions of their guests. Some became restless; others just grew very quiet. I recognized the Diefenbakers and myself.

Drinks were brought out: ginger ale.

I offered cigarettes. The Westons didn’t smoke.

Hesitantly, I asked exactly what the charges were at Frenchman’s.

‘I can tell you that,’ Grainger Weston said. ‘A thousand pounds a month for two.”

Two days later I was sitting in a B.O.A.C. Britannia, bound for New York. Beside me was a well-fleshed businessman from the Bahamas. In his lapel he carried a button which marked him as a Gideon, a member of an American Bible-distributing brotherhood. My appearance marks me as a heathen. My expression is benign, my manner gentle; and all the way from Kingston to Nassau I received the Christian message.

September 1960 – December 1961