The Nightwatchman's Occurrence Book (25 page)

‘But what colour you think
that
is?’

‘All government voucher white,’ Chittaranjan said.

‘Ooh, ooh. Least I did expect it woulda be pink or green or something nice like that. Eh, Goldsmith? Ooh, ooh. Just white, eh?’ He laughed and slapped Chittaranjan on the back.

Chittaranjan preserved his gravity.

‘The thing to make sure you win now,’ he said, ‘is rain.’

‘Ooh, ooh.’ Harbans poked Dhaniram in the ribs. Dhaniram laughed painfully. ‘Listen to the goldsmith, Pundit. Rain! Ooh, ooh.’

‘Rain,’ Chittaranjan explained, ‘going to keep back all those people who going to vote for Preacher. Preacher ain’t got cars to take them to the polling station. We got all the cars.’

‘Ooh, Goldsmith, how you could wish that for the poor man? I ain’t have nothing against Preacher, man. Eh, Dhaniram?’

‘I ain’t got nothing against him neither,’ Dhaniram said.

Chittaranjan said, ‘Talking about taxi remind that the ringleader last night ain’t even turn out this morning.’ He consulted his chart. ‘Oumadh. HV 5736.’

‘Ooh. HV 5736, eh?’ Harbans laughingly noted the number in a small notebook. ‘We go fix him up, Goldsmith. Going to put the police on his tail. Parking. Speeding. Overloading. From now on he going to spend more time in court than driving taxi. Eh, Goldsmith? Eh, Dhaniram?’

*

Baksh spent the morning drinking with Mahadeo, and Rampiari’s husband and Harichand. Mahadeo didn’t even vote. He had clean forgotten.

*

At noon Ramlogan closed his shop and came across.

‘Ooh, Ramlogan, man,’ Harbans greeted him. ‘Look out, man!’ Ramlogan roared with laughter.

‘Look out, man, Ramlogan. Ooh, you getting fat as a balloon. Ooh, he go bust. Ooh.’ Harbans poked Ramlogan in the belly.

Ramlogan laughed even louder. ‘You done win already, Mr Harbans.’

Harbans showed his neat false teeth and dug Dhaniram in the ribs. ‘How he could say so, eh, Pundit? How he could say so? Ooh, Ramlogan!’

‘But you done win, man.’

‘Ooh, Ramlogan, you mustn’t talk like that, man. You putting goat-mouth on me.’

And many more people kept coming to congratulate Harbans that afternoon. Even people who had announced that they were going to vote for Preacher and had in fact voted for Preacher, even they came and hung around Chittaranjan’s shop. One man said, to nobody in particular, ‘I is a kyarpenter. Preacher can’t afford to give me no kyarpentering work. Preacher and people who voting for Preacher don’t build house.’

The attitude of the policemen changed. In the morning they had been cautious and reserved: most of them had come from outside districts and didn’t know much about the prospects of the candidates. In the afternoon they began to treat Harbans and his agents with respect. They waved and smiled and tried to keep their batons out of sight.

And then Chittaranjan had his wish. It rained. The roads became
muddy and slippery; agents had to leave their positions under trees and move under houses; taxis, their windows up and misted over, steamed inside.

By three o’clock nearly everyone who was going to vote had voted. It was a fantastically high poll, more than eighty-three per cent. The fact was noted with approval in official reports.

*

Foam’s last duty was to keep an eye on the ballot-box at the polling station in the school. At five o’clock he went with a taxi-driver and waited. Through the open door he could see the poll clerk, the staggerer of the morning’s vote, sitting at Teacher Francis’s own table, flanked by Harbans’s agent and a Negro girl, one of Preacher’s few agents. The ballot-box looked old and brown and unimportant. Foam could see the clerk taking out the ballot-papers and counting them.

Harbans’s agent came to the door and waved to Foam.

Foam shouted, ‘You is a ass. Go back and see what they doing.’

The agent was a slim young man, almost a boy, with a waist that looked dangerously narrow. He said, ‘Everything under control, man,’ but he went back to the table.

The watch lasted until dark.

The policeman who had been hanging about outside the school went up the concrete steps. The clerk said something to him. The policeman came down the steps, went across the road and called, ‘Bellman!’ He spoke with a strong Barbadian accent.

A middle-aged Negro in washed-out khaki trousers and a thick flannel vest came out into his veranda.

‘Bellman, you got a lamp? They want it borrow over here.’

Bellman brought out an oil lamp. Unprotected, the flame swayed and rose high, smoking thickly.

Bellman said, ‘I sending in my account to the Warden.’

The policeman laughed and took the lamp to the school. The checking was still going on. Apparently there had been some mistake
in the checking because the ballot-box had been emptied again and the ballot-papers lay in a jagged white pile on the table.

The taxi-driver said, ‘If that agent don’t look out, they work some big big sort of trick here, you know.’

The policeman looked at Foam and the taxi-driver and swung his long baton, a casual warning.

Another of Harbans’s taxis came up. The driver leaned out and asked, ‘You got the score here yet?’

Harbans’s agent, hearing the noise, came out with a sheet of paper. ‘Preliminary,’ he said, smiling, handing it over.

‘Haul your tail back quick,’ Foam said. ‘See what they doing.’

The agent smiled and ran back up the steps.

Foam’s taxi-driver said, ‘What you want for elections is strong agents. Strong strong agents.’

They looked at the paper.

Foam read: ‘Harbans 325, Thomas 57, Baksh 2.’

The other taxi-driver whistled. ‘We giving them licks on all fronts. But some people don’t listen at all, man. Baksh get two votes after the man ask them not to vote for him.’ Then he delivered his own news: ‘At Cordoba, Harbans 375, Thomas 19, Baksh 0. At Cordoba again, the second polling station, is Harbans 345, Thomas 21, Baksh o.’

Foam’s taxi-driver said, ‘Yaah!’ and took a drink of rum from the bottle on the dashboard shelf.

The other taxi-driver drove away.

The box was being sealed and signed.

Foam couldn’t help feeling sorry for Preacher’s agent. She was one of those who had sung the hymns at Mr Cuffy’s wake. She sat unflinchingly at the table, being brave and unconcerned; while Harbans’s agent, to the disgust of Foam and the taxi-driver, was jumping about here and there, doing goodness knows what.

Bellman pushed his head through his window curtain and said, ‘Look, all-you finish with my lamp? That costing the Warden six
cents, you know. I sure all-you done burn six cents’ pitch-oil already.’

They were finished. The box was sealed, signed and brought out to the steps. The policeman took the lamp back to Bellman; then he rejoined the girl, Harbans’s agent and the ballot-box. The clerk was padlocking the school door.

Foam shouted, ‘What the hell all-you waiting for?’

Harbans’s agent smiled.

They waited for about twenty minutes.

The clerk went home. The girl, Preacher’s agent, went home. Harbans’s agent said, ‘This is a lot of arseness. Foreman, you could look after the ballot-box now yourself. I hungry like hell.’

Foam said, ‘Good. Go. But I marking you for this. You hungry? You ain’t eat? The food van ain’t bring you nothing?’

‘What food van? I ain’t even see the food van. Everybody did tell me about this famous food van, but I ain’t see nothing.’ And he went home.

Foam said to his taxi-driver, ‘Let that teach you a lesson. Never pay people in advance.’

The policeman kept on coughing in the darkness.

‘Put on your lights,’ Foam said.

When the lights went on, the policeman stopped coughing.

The taxi-driver went for a little walk. Then Foam went for a little walk. The policeman was still waiting.

When it was nearly half past seven and it seemed that no one had even honourable designs on the ballot-box, Foam lost his patience.

He went to the policeman. ‘What you waiting for?’

The policeman said, ‘I ain’t know. They did just tell me to wait.’

‘You want a lift to the Warden Office?’

‘You going there?’

They took the policeman and the ballot-box to the Warden’s Office.

In the asphalt yard next to the Warden’s Office, Foam heard the
loudspeaker—his father’s voice; and he heard the enthusiastic shouts of the crowd. Apparently some results had already been rechecked and given out as official.

They delivered the policeman and the ballot-box; then they drove through the crowd to a free place in the yard.

Baksh was announcing: ‘Kindly corporate with the police. Keep death off the roads. Beware of the Highway Code. This is the voice of Baksh telling you to beware of the Highway Code and keep death off the roads. Come in a lil bit more, ladies and gentlemen. Come in a lil bit. Another result just come in. But come in a lil bit more fust. This is the voice of Baksh begging you and beseeching you to corporate with the Highway Code and keep death off the roads. Another result. From Cordoba, station number one. Another result. From Cordoba One. Final result. Baksh nought. Baksh nought.’

The crowd appreciated the joke.

‘Harbans 364, Harbans 364.’

Clamour.

‘Come in a lil bit, ladies and gentlemen. Be aware of the Highway Code. Beware of the Highway Code. Thomas 45.’

Shouts of ‘Yaah!’ Spontaneous drumming on car bonnets.

Baksh took advantage of the pause to have another drink. The gurgling noises were magnified by the loudspeaker. Someone was heard saying, ‘Give
me
a chance at the loudspeaker. Beware of the Highway Code, ladies and gentlemen. Beware …’ Baksh’s voice broke in, conversationally, ‘Is for the government I working tonight, you know. Not for any- and everybody. But for the government.’ Then officially: ‘Thomas 45. Thomas 45.’

What Baksh said was true. He was working for the government, as an official announcer; he had paid well to get the job.

The loudspeaker was silent for some time.

Then there was a shout, and sustained frenzied cheering. Harbans had appeared. In his moment of triumph he managed to look sad and absent-minded. The crowd didn’t mind. They rushed to him and lifted him on their shoulders and they took him to the
loud-speaker van and made him stand on one of the wings and then they grabbed the microphone from Baksh and thrust it into Harbans’s hands and shouted, ‘Speech!’

Baksh tried to get the microphone back.

‘This is government business, man. All-you want me to get in trouble or what?’

Harbans didn’t object. ‘Is true, eh, Baksh?’ and he passed the microphone back.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, corporate with the police. Beware of the Highway Code. Be aware of the Highway Code, ladies and gentlemen.’

The crowd shouted obscene abuse at Baksh. Some of it was picked up by the loudspeaker.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, unless you corporate with the government and unless and until you corporate with the police and start bewaring of the Highway Code, I cannot give out the last and final result which I have at this very present moment in my own own hand. Ladies and gentlemen, come in a lil bit fust, ladies and gentlemen. Keep the road clear. Keep death off the roads. Think before you drink. Drive slowly. ‘Rrive safely. Come in a lil bit fust. Last result. Last result. Corporate with the police. Last result. Final grand total. Ladies and gentlemen, come in a lil bit.’

Harbans remained on the wing of the van, almost forgotten.

‘Baksh 56. Baksh 56.’

Boos. Ironical cheers. Laughter.

‘Repeat. Final result. Baksh 56. Harbans five thousand …’

Tumult.

‘Beware of the Highway Code. Harbans five thousand, three hundred and thirty-six. Five three three six.’

The crowd swarmed around the van, grabbed at Harbans’s ankles, knees. Some offered up hands. Harbans grabbed them with astonishing vigour and shook them fervently.

Baksh tried to carry on calmly, like a man on government business. ‘Thomas seven hundred …’

They wanted to hear no more.

Baksh shouted at them without effect. He shouted and shouted and then waited for them to calm down.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, you is
not
corporating. Thomas seven hundred and sixteen. Seven one six. And so, ladies and gentlemen, I give you your new Onble Member of the Legislative Council, Mr Surujpat Harbans. But before I give him to you, let me make a final appeal to corporate with the police. Beware of the Highway Code.’

Harbans, on the wing, was in tears when he took the microphone. His voice, coming over the loudspeaker, was a magnified coo. ‘I want to thank everybody. I want to thank you and you and you …’

Somebody whispered, ‘The police.’

‘… and I want to thank the police and the Warden and the clerks and I want to thank everybody who vote for me and even people who ain’t vote for me. I want to thank …’ Tears prevented him from going on.

Baksh recovered the microphone. ‘Corporate, ladies and gentlemen. That was your new Onble Member of the Legislative Council, Mr Surujpat Harbans.’

Foam wandered among the crowd looking for members of the committee. Mahadeo was drunk and useless. Dhaniram he couldn’t see. At the edge of the yard, in the darkness, he saw Chittaranjan, leaning against the radiator of a car.

‘Well, Goldsmith, we do it. We win.’

Chittaranjan pressed down his hat and folded his arms. ‘What else you did expect?’

*

At that moment Preacher was going round briskly from house to house, thanking the people.

*

And so democracy took root in Elvira.

H
ARBANS SPENT THE REST
of that night settling his bills. The taxi-drivers had to be paid off, Ramlogan’s rum-account settled, petrol vouchers honoured, agents given bonuses. And when all that was done, Harbans left Elvira, intending never to return.

But he did return, once.

It was because of that case of whisky Ramlogan had promised the committee of the winning candidate. Ramlogan wanted the presentation to be made in style, by the new Member of the Legislative Council. Chittaranjan thought it was fitting. He hadn’t always approved of the publicity Ramlogan gave the case of whisky; but now he was glad of the excuse to get Harbans back in Elvira. Harbans hadn’t dropped a word about marrying his son to Nelly. Chittaranjan knew the rumours that had been going around Elvira during the campaign, knew that people were laughing at him behind his back. But that had only encouraged him to work harder for Harbans. He had made those heart-shaped buttons at his own expense. He had worn his visiting outfit nearly every day; he had used up one shirt; his shoes needed half-soling. Harbans had taken it all for granted.