The Nightwatchman's Occurrence Book (23 page)

Tanwing fell to work at once. He wasted no time sympathizing with anybody. But he was anxious to do his best; Mr Cuffy was being laid out in one of his more expensive coffins.

By now it could no longer be hidden from Elvira that something had happened to Mr Cuffy.

Shortly after the D.M.O. had signed the death certificate, Foam and Chittaranjan had taken over quantities of rum, coffee and
biscuits to the house; and the news was broken. People began to gather, solemn at first, but when the rum started to flow all was well. Harbans mingled with the mourners as though they were his guests; and everyone knew, and was grateful, that Harbans had taken all the expenses of the wake upon himself. Some of Mr Cuffy’s women disciples turned up in white dresses and hats, and sat in the drawing-room, singing hymns. The men preferred to remain in the yard. They sat on benches and chairs under Mr Cuffy’s big almond tree and talked and drank by the light of flambeaux.

Baksh came, rebuffed but unhumbled. He said nothing about the election and was full of stories about the goodness of Mr Cuffy. The mourners weren’t interested. Baksh was still officially a candidate and still the controller of the thousand Muslim votes; but politically he was a failure and everybody knew it. He knew it himself. He drank cup after cup of Harbans’s weak black coffee and maintained a strenuous sort of gaiety that fooled no one.

He felt out of everything and ran from group to group in the yard, trying to say something of interest. ‘But I telling all-you, man,’ he said over and over. ‘I see old Cawfee good good just last night. I pass by his house and I give him a right and he give me back a right.’

Baksh was romancing and no one paid attention. Besides, too many people had seen Mr Cuffy the day before.

Baksh drank. Soon the rum worked on him. It made him forget electioneering strategy and increased his loquaciousness. It also gave him an inspiration. ‘All-you know why Cawfee dead so sudden?’ he asked. ‘Come on, guess why he dead so sudden.’

Lutchman said, ‘When your time come, your time come, that is all.’

Harichand the printer was also there. He said, ‘The way Cawfee dead remind me of the way Talmaso dead. Any of all-you here remember old Talmaso? Talmaso had the laziest horse in the whole wide world …’

‘So none of all-you ain’t going to guess why Cawfee dead?’ Baksh said angrily. Then he relented. ‘All right, I go tell you. Was because of that dog.’

Harichand pricked up his ears. ‘That said dog?’

Baksh emptied his glass and rocked on his heels. ‘Said said dog.’ When Baksh drank his full face lost its hardness; his moustache lost its bristliness and drooped; his eyebrows drooped; his eyelids hung wearily over reddened eyes; his cheeks sagged. And the man spoke with a lot of conviction. ‘Said dog. Cawfee run the dog down and give the poor little thing five six kicks. Herbert did warn him that if he kick the dog he was going to dead. But you know how Cawfee was own way and harden, never listening to anybody. Well, he kick the dog and he dead.’

Rampiari’s husband, heavy with drink, said, ‘Still, the man dead and I ain’t want to hear nobody bad-talking him.’

‘True,’ Harichand said. ‘But the way Cawfee just sit down and dead remind me of how Talmaso dead. Talmaso was a grass-cutter. Eh, but I wonder when the hell Talmaso did get that horse he had. Laziest horse in the world. Lazy lazy. Tock. Tock. Tock.’ Harichand clacked his tongue to imitate the horse’s hoofbeats. ‘Tock. Tock. So it uses to walk. As if it was in a funeral. Lifting up his foot as though they was make of lead: one today, one tomorrow. Tock. Tock. Tock. And then Talmaso uses to take his whip and lash out
Pai! Pai! Pai!
And horse uses to go: tocktock-tock-tock-tock-tock-tock. Tock. Tock. Tock.
Pai!
Tock-tocktock-tock-tock. Tock. Tock. But you couldn’t laugh at Talmaso horse. Talmaso run you all over the place. Every morning horse uses to neigh. As if it did want to wake up Talmaso. Horse neigh. Talmaso get up. One morning horse neigh. Talmaso
ain’t
get up. Only Talmaso wife get up. Talmaso wife uses to give Talmaso hell, you know. Horse neigh again. Still, Talmaso sleeping. Sound sound. Like a top. Wife start one cussing-off. In Hindi. She shake up Talmaso. Horse neigh. Still, Talmaso sleeping. Like a baby. Wife push Talmaso. Talmaso roll off the bed. Stiff. Wife start one bawling. Horse neighing. Wife bawling. Talmaso dead. Horse never move again.’

‘What happen to it?’

‘Horse? Like Talmaso. Sit down and dead.’

Rampiari’s husband exclaimed, ‘Look! Preacher coming. All three candidates here now.’

Preacher didn’t bustle in. He came into the yard with a solemn shuffle, kissing his right hand and waving languid benedictions to the crowd. They looked upon him with affection as a defeated candidate. His long white robe was sweat-stained and dusty; but there was nothing in his expression to show regret, either at the election or at Mr Cuffy’s death: his tolerant eyes still had their bloodshot faraway look.

In the interest which greeted Preacher’s arrival there was more than the interest which greets the newly defeated. Preacher was without staff, stone or Bible. And he was not alone. He had his left arm around Pundit Dhaniram, who was in tears and apparently inconsolable.

Mahadeo said, ‘I know this wake was Dhaniram idea. But he taking this crying too damn far, you hear.’

Foam followed. ‘No coffee from Dhaniram,’ he announced.

‘Dhaniram wife dead too?’ Harichand asked, and got a laugh.

Chittaranjan staggered in with a large five-valve radio. It was his own and he didn’t trust anyone else with it.

The women sang hymns in the drawing-room. In the yard some men were singing a calypso:

Chittaranjan and Foam fiddled with wires from the loudspeaker van, attaching them to the radio. The radio squawked and crackled.

‘Shh!’

The hymn-singers fell silent. The calypsonians fell silent. Only Dhaniram sobbed.

The radio was on. A woman sang slowly, hoarsely:

Then an awed chorus of men and women sang:

There was a murmur of disappointment among the mourners, which was silenced by the radio announcer.
‘This is Radio Trinidad and the Rediffusion Golden Network.’
He gave the time. Some trumpets blared.

‘Shh!’

A fresh blare.

‘Listen.’

The mourners became restless. Chittaranjan, responsible for the radio, felt responsible for what came out of it. He looked appeasingly at everybody.

Solemn organ music oozed out of the radio.

‘Aah.’

The announcer was as solemn as the music. ‘
We have been asked to announce the death …’

Rampiari’s husband had to be restrained from giving a shout.

But the first announcement was of no interest to Elvira.

The organ music drew Tanwing out of the bedroom where he had been busy on Mr Cuffy. The hymn-singers made room for him and looked at him with respect. He held his hands together and looked down at his shoes.

The organ music swelled again.

‘Now.’

‘We have also been asked to announce the death of Joseph Cuffy …’

There was a long, satisfied sigh. Rampiari’s husband had to be restrained again.

Then there was some more music.

As soon as the music was over Tanwing unclasped his hands and disappeared into the bedroom and set to work on Mr Cuffy again. A woman sang:

‘Take the damn thing off,’ Rampiari’s husband shouted.

The radio was turned off. The hymn-singers sang hymns.

Pundit Dhaniram’s grief was beginning to be noticed. A lot of
people felt he was showing off: ‘After all, Cawfee was Preacher best friend, and Preacher ain’t crying.’ Preacher was still consoling Dhaniram, patting the distraught pundit; while the announcement was coming over the radio Preacher had held on to him with extra firmness and affection. Now he took him to the bedroom.

It was close in the bedroom. The window was shut, the jalousies blocked up. The pictures had been turned to the wall and a towel thrown over the mirror. Tanwing and his assistants worked by the light of an acetylene lamp which was part of the equipment they had brought; candles burned impractically at the head of the bulky bed. The assistants, noiseless, were preparing the icebox for Mr Cuffy. Mr Cuffy’s corpse was without dignity. The man’s grumpiness, his fierce brows—all had gone for good. He just looked very dead and very old. The body had already been washed and dressed, with a curious clumsiness, in the shiny blue serge suit Elvira had seen on so many Friday evenings.

Preacher released Pundit Dhaniram and looked at Mr Cuffy as though he were looking at a picture. He put his hand to his chin, held his head back and moved it slowly up and down.

Dhaniram still sobbed.

This didn’t perturb Tanwing. He looked once at Dhaniram and looked no more. He was still fussing about the body, putting on the finishing touches. He was trying to place camphor balls in the nostrils and the job was proving a little awkward. Mr Cuffy had enormous nostrils. Tanwing had to wrap the camphor balls in cotton wool before they would stay in. Tanwing had the disquieting habit of constantly passing a finger under his own nostrils as though he had a runny nose, or as though he could smell something nobody else could.

When Dhaniram and Preacher left the room they were met by Chittaranjan. Dhaniram almost fell on Chittaranjan’s shoulder, because he had to stoop to embrace him.

‘You overdoing this thing, you know, Dhaniram,’ Chittaranjan said. ‘You ain’t fooling nobody.’

‘She gone, Goldsmith,’ Dhaniram sobbed. ‘She gone.’

‘Who gone, Dhaniram?’

‘The
doolahin
gone, Goldsmith. She run away with Lorkhoor.’

‘Come, sit down and drink some coffee.’

‘She take up she clothes and she jewellery and she gone. She gone, Goldsmith. Now it ain’t have nobody to look after me or the old lady.’

Outside, the men were singing a calypso about the election:

The drinking and singing continued all that night and into the morning. Then they buried Mr Cuffy. Preacher did the preaching.

I
N
M
R
C
UFFY
’
S YARD
the flambeaux had burned themselves out and were beaded with dew. The smell of stale rum hung in the still morning air. Under the almond trees benches lay in disorder. Many were overturned; all were wet with dew and coffee or rum. Around the benches, amid the old, trampled almond leaves, there were empty bottles and glasses, and enamel cups half full of coffee; there were many more in the dust under the low floor of Mr Cuffy’s house. The house was empty. The windows and doors were wide open.

It was time for the motorcade.

Outside Chittaranjan’s the taxis were parked in jaunty confusion, banners on their radiators and backs, their doors covered with posters still tacky with paste. The taxi-drivers too had a jaunty air. They were all wearing cardboard eyeshades, printed on one side, in red,
DO YOUR PART,
and on the reverse,
VOTE THE HEART.

Some taxis grew restless in the heat and prowled about looking for more advantageous parking places. Disputes followed. The air rang with inventive obscenities.

Then a voice approached, booming with all the authority of the loudspeaker: ‘Order, my good people! My good people, keep good order! I am begging you and beseeching you.’

It was Baksh.

Without formal negotiation or notification he was campaigning for Harbans. In the loudspeaker van he ran up and down the line of taxis, directing, rebuking, encouraging: ‘The eyes of the world is on you, my good people. Get into line, get into line. Keep the road clear. Don’t disgrace yourself in the eyes of the world, my good people.’

His admonitions had their effect. Soon the motorcade was ready to start.

Harbans, Chittaranjan, Dhaniram and Mahadeo sat in the first car. Dhaniram was too depressed, Mahadeo too exhausted, to respond with enthusiasm to the people who ran to the roadside and shouted, ‘Do your part, man! Vote the heart!’

Mrs Baksh and the young Bakshes had a car to themselves. Mrs Baksh was not only reconciled to the election, she was actually enjoying it, though she pretended to be indifferent. She had decked out the young Bakshes. Carol and Zilla had ribbons in their hair, carried small white handbags which contained nothing, and small paper fans from Hong Kong. The boys wore sock and ties. Herbert and Rafiq waved to the children of poorer people until Zilla said, ‘Herbert and Rafiq, stop low-rating yourself.’

Baksh was with Foam in the loudspeaker van. He did his best to make up to Harbans for all the damage and distress he had caused him. He said, ‘This is the voice of … Baksh. Mazurus Baksh here. This is the voice of … Baksh, asking each and every one of you, the good people of Elvira, to vote for your popular candidate, Mr Surujpat Harbans. Remember, good people of Elvira, I, Mazurus Baksh, not fighting the election again. I giving my support to Mr Surujpat Harbans. For the sake of unity, my good people. This is the voice of … Baksh.’

Then Foam played the Richard Tauber record of the campaign song: