Moses Ascending

by Sam Selvon

  ‘If he did not catch me by surprise,’ she say, ‘you might have seen a memorable demonstration of kung-fu. I’d have had him splattered against the wall. But you just sat there and did nothing when he attacked me?’

  ‘You didn’t cry for help.’

  ‘You thought I was enjoying it?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe you was. Were.’

  ‘I can get a man any time.’

  ‘I don’t doubt.’

  ‘And you’d better don’t try anything yourself, or you’ll get a dose of the same medicine.’

  But all the same, as the dialogue went on, her tone of voice indicated that she was aroused, and England expects every man to do his duty. ‘I wouldn’t do anything without asking first,’ I say.

  But even as I was saying that, my hand accidentally stop brushing the maxi and start to brush her thighs, and she wasn’t pushing me away, rather sitting back and shutting her eyes.

  An old salt like me, what spend time with damsel, frauline, senorita, child, chick, bird, dolly, debuntante and madam-moozel, was not to be carfuffled by a new breed of Briton. During the years of my sojourn in Brit’n, if memory does not fail me, I have fucked more than a hundred white women, give or take a few, and though I cannot keep pace with them Arabian oil tycoons who boast of having a fresh one out of the harem every night for forty-fifty years. I am proud of my average. (Never mind the quantity feel the width.) Blonde blue-eyed Scandinavian, fair English rose, vivacious Latin – all have come, and see, and I conquered.

  I would qualify for being laid off for redundancy if I continue to describe the scene. Suffice it to say, that that night I learn a lesson. Kind and gentle R, you will know by now that I am not given to flights of the imagination, nor can I ever be accused of prejudice or discrimination. Witness how I take in poor Bob, and make him my footman, when he was destitute and had no place to go to when he land in London. I create a home for him, giving him the joys and comfort of a warm hearth in winter, and a fridge with ice and orange quash in the summer. Witness too that I did not even prevaricate when he assaulted the sister, but left the matter in the hands of the gods.

  So that when I say to you, that there is no business like black business, you know that I am not talking through my hat.

  I will leave it at that, lest it begin to look as if I am curry-favouring for Our People. A word to the wise is sufficient, and Solomon say we must not gild the lily.

  One thing lead to another. I begin to think now of the advantages of having a regular woman about the house. I am not getting any younger, and cannot hustle pussy and scout the streets of London as in days of yore. I get tired walking, and many times I left Bob to his own resources in the Dilly or the Arch, and come home to sleep or work on these Memoirs. I see some chaps who are older than I still carrying on the routine, and all I can say is good luck to them. Since I acquire my property I does just like to come home and cool it. Sometimes I look at the television for a while, or have the odd beer, until I work up inspiration. After that glorious salutatory stroke with Brenda, I got to thinking that in for a penny, in for a pound, and that it might not be a bad idea to have she available on the spot. Strokes aside, there was several duties she could perform, helping poor Bob with all the jobs he had to do apart from going out to work. There is nothing like a woman’s touch about the house. A vase of flowers here, a straightening of the bed sheet there – I don’t have to elaborate.

  It so happen that I – or rather Bob – had the basement free around this time, and I offer it to Brenda in return for household and other duties. She agree on condition that I did not mind her business nor she mine, and a few days later she move in, lock, stock and barrel.

  Galahad was elated with this development, falsely construing it as my acquiescence to back the cause.

  ‘There are more ways than one of serving,’ he say.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I tell him. ‘I consider my deal with Brenda to be a good investment. I expect her to earn her keep with certain performances.’

  ‘You have given the sister a roof,’ Galahad say, ‘and quarters from where she could conduct the affairs of the Party. It’s a noble gesture to your true, inner feelings.’

  I didn’t bother to correct any misconceptions he had. In fact, I never bothered to even go in the basement, as she would come up to the penthouse if and when required, and of course I left all the household paraphernalia to she and Bob, who was back in grace and hitting one when I wasn’t batting.

  All this time Brenda was settling down to some serious work for the Party, unbeknownst to me. The basement stockup with all kinds of Black literature, Lamming and Salkey and Baldwin, and photos of famous Black men whatever their fields of endeavour, pin-up on the walls, and advertisements and notices of various publications and forthcoming and forthgoing meetings, parties, dances, lectures, miscellany for sale and wanted, and all that jazz. Worse yet, the clan was gathering in my basement to plot and plan the overthrow of the White Race and the Uprising of the Blacks, by fair means or foul.

  It is said that tenants live in a house and do not know or see one another, but it has never been said until now that landlord live on the premises and don’t have a clue what going on in his own house.

  Then one Sunday morning, whilst I was sitting by my front window reading the News of the World before tackling the Times and Observer, and Bob was browsing with his comic books, I happen to glance out and notice a set of black people cluster up in the road, with placards and pieces of cardboard what have writing on them. The people have these things hoist up high in the air, wiggling them, and they chanting a refrain. Now I know that Our People like their little fetes and jump-up, and it occur to me that this crowd was getting in a little practice for a Carnival or some such prank. When I look good, though, I notice what written on the placards: KILL ALL WHITE PIGS, BLOOD AND SAND, TOO LATE SHALL BE THE CRY, and REMEMBER PEARL HARBOUR. It didn’t look like the names of any Carnival bands to me. And listen to the chant: ‘Power. What Power? Black Power.’

  And in the vanguard of this mob was nobody but Miss Brenda and Sir Galahad.

  Well, I buy a house, I didn’t buy the street, and if nothing else I am democratic about the rights of the masses to express their frustrations in demonstrations, if it so please them. But as the crowd moving down the road, I notice that the people who bringing up the rearguard emanating from my basement.

  I push open the window and poke my head out. ‘Brenda!’ I yell, ‘what the arse happening down there?’

  Brenda look up to the penthouse wiggling a placard on a tall pole as if she want to chook me with it.

  ‘Moses!’ she scream. ‘Come and join us! We are going to demonstrate in Trafalgar Square!’

  And Galahad: ‘Come on, Moses! Swell the ranks of the righteous!’

  ‘What I want to know is why the arse those people coming out of my basement,’ I yell.

  But by this time she and Galahad was out of earshot, and some of the militants looking up at me in disgust, as much as if to say that I had the gumption to worry about trivia like a old basement when they were setting out to revolutionize the country.

  But my basement was no trivia. I went downstairs to see what was going on, only to meet a tall, bearded member wearing a leather jacket and a wool cap, sitting down sorting out a pile of newspapers on the floor.

  ‘Peace brother,’ he greet me, looking up. ‘You are late. The others have gone.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I demanded.

  ‘If you hurry you could catch up with them,’ he say.

  ‘Did you hear my question?’ I ask.

  ‘I am clipping some newspaper reports for the sister,’ he say.

  ‘I am the landlord,’ I say, mustering some dignity to put him in his place.

  ‘That’s cool,’ he say. ‘Sister Brenda is not here.’ And he went back to his job as if dismissing me.

  Well I really had to laugh. Long ago if the landlord come in my room I jump to attention and salute.
It look as if I should of been saluting my boy instead.

  As I look around I notice all sorts of boxes and cartons. The basement wasn’t only plastered and decorated with pictures and notices, but it look like the Black Army headquarters.

  ‘What’s been going on down here?’ I ask.

  ‘You don’t know about the demonstration?’ he say.

  ‘That doesn’t interest me,’ I say.

  ‘Oh-h-h,’ he say, slapping his forehead. ‘You’re Moses!’ And he nod his head a few times, as if that explain everything. ‘The Sister said to tell you nothing if you came. She said if you have any questions she will answer them herself.’

  ‘You best hads clear out from my house,’ I say, ‘I don’t like strangers on the premises.’

  ‘Cool it brother,’ he say. ‘I hear you have some funny ideas, but we all hope you will see the light.’

  ‘I don’t want to have a rap,’ I say, ‘I just want you to go.’

  The brother shake his head and smile tolerantly, and went on with the clippings.

  Things have come to a pretty pass in Brit’n when a landlord ask a stranger to leave and the stranger laugh. It is not that he and me both black, no sir, it is these new laws in the land which give tenants more rights than landlords themselves. Can you imagine the audacity of this man, sitting down in my basement as if he own it, not only refusing to budge, but furthermore ignoring my presence?

  The whole thing come as a joke. I wanted to laugh. ‘Do you mind, sir,’ I say sarcastically, ‘if I have a look around?’

  ‘The sister wouldn’t like that,’ he say. ‘You’d better come back when she returns.’

  Well, well, well. I was mad to go and call a policeman to throw this man out. And then I begin to think that suppose the law come and discover subversive literature, or even a cache of arms and ammunition in my house? My blood run cold.

  I went back upstairs in a evil, brooding mood. It is always your own people who let you down in the end. I will not deny that I had ulterior motives for housing Brenda, but that was no reason for her to carry on Black Power activities on my premises.

  I was barely back in the penthouse before the front door-bell ring and Bob went down to see who it was, and come back to say that a policeman was asking for the landlord.

  ‘Shall I tell him that you are not here?’ he say.

  I don’t know about you, but when you are a black man, even though you abide by the laws you are always wary of the police. It does not occur to you that there could be any casual contact, or innocent, or even self-beneficial. It got angelic saints who would be standing up talking about God and Jesus Christ in reverential tones, and they see a policeman in the offing, and the meeting break up, evaporate without a trace. A tale is told of Jasper, who was a law-abiding citizen, a God-fearing man, a very paragon of virtue, who found the police on his track. Jasper run. Jasper hide. Jasper run and hide whenever and wherever he see a policeman, although he could produce recommendations and letters of credentials, testimonials of innocence and faith, bona fide documents to show that butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. Jasper grow haggard and lose weight – lose friends too who tired hiding him, lose job too when he start turning up at irregular hours. At last the policeman run him to earth sleeping on a bench on the Embankment near Charing Cross.

  ‘Jasper?’ the policeman say.

  Jasper was speechless.

  ‘We have been trying to get you for weeks,’ the policeman say.

  Jasper nearly faint.

  ‘A relation of yours has died and left you a large sum of money,’ the policeman say.

  ‘I don’t want it,’Jasper say. ‘Please donate it to the Benevolent Fund for Policemen.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you,’ the policeman say.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Jasper say.

  As soon as Bob tell me I start to think of all the crimes and violations of the law that I committed, was committing, or was contemplating committing. It does seem to a black man that though he is as pure and white as the driven snow – if you will pardon the expression – that it got something, somewhere, sometime, what he do wrong, and that even if it don’t exist, the police would invent one to trap him.

  I was prepared for anything as I descended the stairs and went to see my visitor.

  ‘You the landlord?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got a club here or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on. A band of demonstrators started off from here this morning.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything until I see my lawyer,’ I say.

  He take out his notebook. He want to know name, address, next of kin, birthday, birthmark, birthplace, mother’s maiden name, great grandfather’s Christian name, date of arrival in Brit’n, hopeful date of departure, and et cetera, et cetera.

  After I answer all these questions, the policeman as if he vex that he couldn’t pin something on me immediately, and mad to bust a case in my arse for breathing.

  ‘We are keeping an eye on this house,’ he say. ‘There have been suspicious characters coming in and going out. Watch your step.’

  I went back upstairs and call a conference with my lackey.

  ‘What sort of nefarious activities have been going on in this house?’ I ask him.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Bob say.

  ‘You know I’ve been leaving everything to you,’ I say, ‘you are my sub-landlord, but if you are not capable I will send you back to the Black Country.’

  Bob was cool. He was surrounded by Spiderman, The Human Torch, Mr Fantastic and all his heroes. Maybe he had the idea that he was invincible in such company.

  ‘When you gave me that position,’ he says, ‘you told me you didn’t care what I did as long as you got the rent.’

  ‘That was a manner of speaking, of course,’ I tell him. ‘I thought I could trust you. Now it appears that you are turning a blind eye because of a bit of black pussy.’

  He laugh uneasy. ‘You know me better than that.’

  ‘When it comes to pussy even the high and the mighty bite the dust,’ I say. ‘Look what happen to lords and statesmen of the land who rise to the zenith, and lo, they crumble like ordinary mortals and succumb to the call of the flesh, and left old Brittania to paddle she own canoe.’

  ‘Brenda is fighting for the cause,’ Bob say stoutly, as if he is Black Citizen No. i. ‘She has to use the basement to hold meetings and conduct the affairs of the Party.’

  ‘I see,’ I say, although I didn’t see at all. ‘We will have to put some order in the chaos. I want you to keep a log in future.’

  ‘A log?’

  ‘Yes. I want a weekly report on everything what happen in my house. I want a list of all the tenants, their nationality, their profession, and what criterions you use before accepting them. You will have to pull your socks up.’

  ‘Balderdash,’ Bob say.

  ‘Yeah?’ I say. ‘Let us begin now, from the basement upwards. Who is occupying the ground floor?’

  ‘Three tenants.’

  ‘Names, occupations – one by one.’

  ‘Flo. A woman from Barbados.’

  ‘Occupation?’

  ‘I believe she works in the station buffet in Waterloo.’

  ‘Next.’

  ‘Alfonso. From Cyprus. Electrician.’

  ‘Next.’

  ‘Ojo. African. Conductor.’

  ‘Africa is a big country.’

  ‘Bangla-desh or one of them new States.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Macpherson, Australian. I don’t know what his occupation is.’

  ‘It looks like you clutter up the house with a lot of foreigners,’ I say. ‘Have we no genuine English stock?’

  ‘You’re not interested in the tenants,’ he sneer. ‘You only want your money.’

  ‘Don’t be insubordinate. Go on.’

  ‘Two Pakis. Faizull and Farouk.’

  ‘Hello!’ This was disturbing. ‘Did you check their credentials
?’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Man, they might of landed in Brit’n by fishing boat!’

  ‘They pay their rent regularly.’

  ‘Black Power in the basement,’ I muse, ‘and Pakis in residence – no wonder my house is under surveillance!’

  ‘All is well,’ Bob say.

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ I retort. ‘We had better go on a tour of inspection. I want to see the condition you have the house in.’

  ‘You shouldn’t disturb the tenants,’ Bob object, ‘especially on a Sunday.’

  ‘Come on,’ I say. ‘Lead the way.’

  We went out on the stairway. Bob wave his hand around. ‘Everything’s spick and span here,’ he say.

  ‘Sure,’ I say. I knew that naturally he would make certain that the carpet hoover down, and the wallpaper not peeling off, and the paint fresh and shiny, so that when I enter and ascend the stairs, everything would look all right. But what was things like under this facade? What cracks and holes lurked under the camouflage? What was the state of my Chippendale furniture, and Wedgwood crockery, albeit third hand, with which I had furnished the rooms? How was the warp and woof of my Axeminister carpets, and so on, and so on. I have not told you, dear R, how Bob and me fix up the rooms, how Bob only splashing paint all over the walls, and slowing down in the corners (because I have to do a bit of stippling here, Moses, you do not know anything about decorating); how he was slapping on Woolworths wallpaper, pasting it on the floor first (I hope you going to clean up all the mess, Bob); how we went scouting in the Portobello road and in Praed street near Paddington to get secondhand furniture, nor how I had him toting armchair and dumbwaiter on his back like a safari porter (Moses, we should buy everything in bulk from one shop, and let them deliver by van. How are we going to get these things to Shepherd’s Bush); nor how Bob got some of his outside mates to come in and do the plumbing and gas fixtures (you will have to pay them, Bob, seeing that you are incompetent yourself). All those are minor details with which I did not want to bore you, but now that I was checking up on the human elements, I decided to look into the conditions of my materials too.