The Nightwatchman's Occurrence Book (26 page)

The presentation was fixed for the Friday after polling day; it was to take place outside Chittaranjan’s shop. Benches and chairs were brought over from the school. Dhaniram lent his Petromax. Chittaranjan lent a small table and a clean tablecloth. On the tablecloth they placed the case of whisky stencilled
WHITE HORSE WHISKY PRODUCE OF SCOTLAND 12
BOTTLES.
On the case of whisky they placed a small Union Jack—Ramlogan’s idea: he wanted to make the whole thing legal and respectable.

Haq and Sebastian came early and sat side by side on the bench against Chittaranjan’s shop. Harichand came, Rampiari’s husband, Lutchman. Tiger came and sniffed at the table legs. Haq shooed him off, but Tiger stayed to chase imaginary scents all over Chittaranjan’s terrace.

Foam dressed for the occasion as though he were going to Port of Spain.

Mrs Baksh asked, ‘And what you going to do with the three bottle of whisky? Drink it?’

‘Nah,’ Foam said. ‘Keeping it. Until Christmas. Then going to sell it in Chaguanas. You could get anything up to eight dollars for a bottle of White Horse at Christmas.’

‘You say that. But I don’t think it would please your father heart to see three bottle of whisky remaining quiet in the house all the time until Christmas.’

‘Well, you better tell him not to touch them. Otherwise it going to have big big trouble between me and he.’

Mrs Baksh sighed. Only three months ago, if Foam had talked like that, she could have slapped him. But the election had somehow changed Foam; he was no longer a boy.

Ramlogan prepared with the utmost elaborateness. He rubbed himself down with coconut oil; then he had a bath in lukewarm water impregnated with leaves of the
neem
tree; then he rubbed himself down with Canadian Healing Oil and put on his striped blue three-piece suit. A handkerchief hung rather than peeped from his breast pocket. His enormous brown shoes were highly polished; he had even bought a pair of laces for them. He wore no socks and no tie.

Chittaranjan put on his visiting outfit, Mahadeo his khaki uniform.

Dhaniram wasn’t going to be there. He was so distressed by the loss of the
doolahin
that he had lost interest even in his tractor. He didn’t see how he could replace the girl. He was a fussy Brahmin; he couldn’t just get an ordinary servant to look after his food. Ideally, he would have liked another daughter-in-law.

Outside Chittaranjan’s shop the crowd thickened. People were coming from as far as Cordoba and Pueblo Road. It was like Mr Cuffy’s wake all over again.

Foam told the other members of the committee, sitting in Chittaranjan’s drawing-room, ‘I feel it going to have some trouble tonight.’

Chittaranjan felt that himself, and despite his friendship with Ramlogan, snapped out, ‘Well, if people must show off …’

Ramlogan took it well. He laughed, took out his handkerchief and fanned his face. ‘Gosh, but these three-piece suit hot, man. What trouble it could have? Whisky is for the committee, not for everybody in Elvira. Election over, and they know that.’

It was Friday evening; the people downstairs were in the weekend mood. Talk and laughter and argument floated up to the drawing-room.

‘They could say what they want to say. But I know that Baksh coulda win that election easy easy.’

‘What I want to know is, who put Harbans in the Council? Committee or the people?’

‘No, man. Is not
one
case of whisky. Is twelve case.’

‘Hear what I say. Preacher lose the election the night Cawfee dead. I was backing the man strong, man. Had two dollars on him.’

‘That one case under the Union Jack is just a sort of
sign
for all the twelve case.’

‘If Cawfee didn’t throw up his four foot and dead, you think Harbans coulda win?’

‘Yes, twelve case of whisky on one small table wouldn’t look nice.’

Then Harbans came.

‘Pappa! Eh, but what happen to the old Dodge lorry?’

Harbans had come in a brand-new blue-and-black Jaguar.

‘Lorry! What happen to Harbans?’

He wasn’t the candidate they knew. Gone was the informality of dress, the loose trousers, the tie around the waist, the open shirt. He
was in a double-breasted grey suit. The coat was a little too wide and a little too long; but that was the tailor’s fault. Harbans didn’t wave. He looked preoccupied, kept his eye on the ground, and when he hawked and spat in the gutter, pulled out an ironed handkerchief and wiped his lips—not wiped even, patted them—in the fussiest way.

The people of Elvira were hurt.

He didn’t coo at anybody, didn’t look at anybody. He made his way silently through the silent crowd and went straight up the steps into Chittaranjan’s drawing-room. The crowd watched him go up and then they heard him talking and they heard Ramlogan talking and laughing.

They didn’t like it at all.

Presently the committee appeared on the veranda. Foam looked down and waved. Mahadeo looked down and waved. Harbans didn’t look down; Chittaranjan didn’t look down; and Ramlogan, for a man who had just been heard laughing loudly, looked ridiculously solemn.

The walk down the polished red stairs became a grave procession. Foam and Mahadeo, at the back, had to clip their steps.

‘Tock. Tock. Tock,’ Harichand said.
‘Pai! Pai! Pai!
Tocktock-tocktocktock.’

The crowd laughed. Tiger barked.

Chittaranjan frowned for silence, and got it.

Harbans looked down at his shoes all the time, looking as miserable as if he had lost the election. Ramlogan would have liked to match Harbans’s dignity, but he wanted to look at the crowd, and whenever he looked at the crowd he found it hard not to smile.

The chairs and benches had been disarrayed. The crowd had spread out into the road and formed a solid semicircle around the case of whisky draped with the Union Jack.

Harbans sat directly in front of the whisky. Ramlogan was on his right, Chittaranjan on his left. Foam was next to Ramlogan, Mahadeo next to Chittaranjan. Not far from Foam, on his right, Haq and Sebastian sat.

As soon as the committee had settled down a man ran out from the crowd and whispered to Harbans.

It was Baksh.

He whispered, urgently, ‘Jordan can’t come tonight. He sick.’

The word aroused bitter memories.

‘Jordan?’ Harbans whispered.

‘Sick?’ Mahadeo said.

Baksh ran back, on tiptoe, to the crowd.

Sebastian looked on smiling. Haq sucked his teeth and spat.

Chittaranjan stood up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen’—there were no ladies present—‘tonight Mr Harbans come back to Elvira, and we glad to welcome him again. Mr Harbans is a good friend. And Mr Harbans could see, by just looking at the amount of people it have here tonight, how much all-you think of him in Elvira.’

Harbans was whispering to Ramlogan, ‘Jordan sick? Who is Jordan? He fall sick too late.’

Ramlogan roared, for the audience.

Chittaranjan shot him a look and went on, ‘I want to see the man who could come up to me and tell me to my face that is only because Mr Harbans win a election that everybody come to see him. I know, speaking in my own pussonal, that even if Mr Harbans
didn’t
win
no
election, Mr Harbans woulda
want
to come back to Elvira, and all-you woulda
want
to come and see him.’

There was some polite clapping.

‘And so, ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, let me introduce Mr Foreman Baksh.’

Foam said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it nice to see so much of all-you here. Tonight Mr Ramlogan’—he nodded towards Ramlogan, but Ramlogan was too busy talking to Harbans to notice—‘Mr Ramlogan going to present a case of whisky to the committee. The committee, ladies and gentlemen, of which I am proud and happy to be a member. Ladies and gentlemen, times changing. People do the voting, is true. But is the committee that do the organizing. In this
modern world, you can’t get nowhere if you don’t organize. And now let me introduce Mr Mahadeo.’

Foam’s references to the whisky and the committee caused so much buzzing that Mahadeo couldn’t begin.

Baksh used the interval to run forward again.

‘Don’t forget,’ he whispered to Harbans. ‘Jordan ain’t here. He sick.’

Chittaranjan stood up and said sternly, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Mahadeo want to say a few words.’

Mahadeo said, ‘Well, all-you must remember …’

Chittaranjan pulled at Mahadeo’s trousers.

Mahadeo broke off, confused, ‘I sorry, Goldsmith.’ He coughed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ He swallowed. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Harbans ain’t have nothing to do with the whisky. I ain’t really know how the rumour get around, but this case of whisky’—he patted the Union Jack—‘is for the committee, of which I am proud and happy to be a member. The whisky ain’t for nobody else. Is not Mr Harbans whisky. Is Mr Ramlogan whisky.’

The buzzing rose again.

Mahadeo looked at Ramlogan. ‘Ain’t is your whisky, Mr Ramlogan?’

Ramlogan stood up and straightened his striped blue jacket. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, what Mr Mahadeo say is the gospel truth, as the saying goes. Is my whisky. Is my idea.’ He sat down and immediately began to talk to Harbans again.

The murmurings of the crowd couldn’t be ignored. Mahadeo remained standing, not saying anything.

Rampiari’s husband, bandageless, came out from the crowd. ‘Wasn’t what
we
hear. We didn’t hear nothing about no whisky for no committee. And I think I must say right here and now that Elvira people ain’t liking this bacchanal at all. Look at these poor people! They come from all over the place. You think a man go put on his clothes, take up his good good self and walk from Cordoba to Elvira in the night-time with all this dew falling, just to see committee get a case of whisky?’

Harichand said, ‘Everybody think they could kick poor people around. Let them take back their whisky. The people of Elvira ain’t got their tongue hanging out like dog for nobody whisky, you hear. The people of Elvira still got their pride. Take back the damn whisky, man!’

The people of Elvira cheered Harichand.

Ramlogan stopped talking to Harbans. Harbans’s hands were tapping on his knees.

Mahadeo, still standing, saying nothing, saw the crowd break up into agitated groups. He sat down.

Ramlogan didn’t smile when he looked at the crowd.

Suddenly he sprang up and said, ‘I have a damn good mind to mash up the whole blasted case of whisky.’ He grabbed the case and the Union Jack slipped off. ‘Go ahead. Provoke me. See if I don’t throw it down.’

The silence was abrupt.

Ramlogan scowled, the case of whisky in his hands.

Rampiari’s husband walked up to him and said amiably, ‘Throw it down.’

The crowd chanted, ‘
Throw it down! Throw it down!’
Tiger barked.

Chittaranjan said, ‘Sit down, bruds.’

Ramlogan replaced the case of whisky and picked up the Union Jack.

Baksh ran to Harbans. He didn’t whisper this time. ‘Don’t say I didn’t tell you. Jordan sick. Remember that.’

Harbans was puzzled.

‘Why Jordan sick?’ he asked Ramlogan.

Ramlogan didn’t laugh.

The crowd became one again. Harichand and Rampiari’s husband came to the front.

Harichand said, ‘Mr Harbans, I think I should tell you that the people of Elvira not going to take this insult lying down. They work hard for you, they waste their good good time and they go and mark X on ballot-paper for your sake.’

Rampiari’s husband tightened his broad leather belt. ‘They putting money in your pocket, Mr Harbans. Five years’ regular pay. And the committee get pay for what they do. But look at these poor people. You drag them out from Cordoba and Ravine Road and Pueblo Road. I can’t hold back the people, Mr Harbans.’

Harbans yielded. He rose, held his hands together, cracked his fingers, shifted his gaze from his feet to his hands and said, cooing like the old Harbans, ‘The good people of Elvira work hard for me and I going to give Ramlogan a order to give ten case of whisky to the committee to give you.’ It would cost him about four hundred dollars, but it seemed the only way out. He couldn’t make a run for his Jaguar. ‘Ten case of whisky. Good whisky.’ He gave a little coo and showed his false teeth. ‘Not White Horse, though. You can’t get that every day.’

Almost miraculously, the crowd was appeased. They laughed at Harbans’s little joke and chattered happily among themselves.

But Chittaranjan was in the devil of a temper. He was annoyed with the crowd; annoyed with Harbans for giving in so easily to them; annoyed because he knew for sure now that Harbans never had any intention of marrying his son to Nelly; annoyed with Ramlogan for offering the whisky and making so much noise about it.

He jumped up and shouted, ‘No!’ It was his firm fighting voice. It stilled the crowd. ‘You people ain’t got no shame at all. Instead of Mr Harbans giving you anything more, you should be giving
him
something, for a change.’

The crowd was taken by surprise.

‘Most of you is Hindus. Mr Harbans is a Hindu. He win a election.
You
should be giving him something. You should be saying prayers for him.’

There was a murmur. Not of annoyance, but incomprehension.

‘Say a
kattha
for him. Get Pundit Dhaniram to read from the Hindu scriptures.’

The effect was wonderful. Even Rampiari’s husband was shamed.
He took off his hat and came a step or two nearer the case of whisky. ‘But Goldsmith, a
kattha
going to cost a lot of money.’

‘Course it going to cost money!’

Rampiari’s husband withdrew.

Harbans got up, cooing. ‘Ooh, Goldsmith. If they want to honour me with a
kattha,
we must let them honour me with a
kattha.
Ooh. Tell you what, eh, good people of Elvira. Make a little collection among yourself fust.’

The crowd was too astonished to protest.

Only Haq staggered up and said, ‘Why for we should make a collection for a Hindu
kattha?
We is Muslims.’

But no one heard him. Harbans was still speaking: ‘Make your collection fust.’ He flashed the false teeth again. ‘And for every dollar you collect, I go put a dollar, and with the money
all
of we put up, we go have the
kattha.’
Harbans had heard Haq though; so he turned to Foam, as a Muslim, for support ‘Eh, Foreman? You don’t think is the best idea?’