Moses Ascending

by Sam Selvon

  Faizull spread the palms of his hands out, as if the answer there. ‘Well, you were so persistent, and I don’t like to talk about another man’s shortcoming. You will need an interpreter to talk with him.’

  I decided to take the bull by the horns. ‘I’m going to stay in your room until the elusive Farouk turns up,’ I say.

  Faizull put on the traditional inscrutable oriental expression. ‘There is no telling when that will be.’

  ‘Do me a favour,’ I say. ‘When he comes, don’t tell him anything. Just nip upstairs and let me know, and I will come down.’

  ‘Okay,’ Faizull say.

  As it turn out, I had to go out for a short time that evening, but I hurried back in case I miss him. Sure enough, a soon as I got back Bob say, ‘Faizull was up here to see you a few minutes ago.’

  I dash downstairs and Faizull open the door with a look of regret.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I say, ‘Farouk was here but I just missed him.’

  ‘That’s not all,’ he say, ‘he took away most of his things and said he would not be back for some time.’

  ‘Ah well,’ I shrug. ‘Just forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Moses. I did my best.’ But he look elated.

  ‘Not to worry, Faizull,’ I say, and wanting to put him off his guard, ‘I shan’t be bothering you again.’

  And I left him with that. But I was like a cat on a hot tin roof. The mystery was deepening, and the plot was thickening. Some skull-duggery was going on and I was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  My chance came a few days later when a letter arrived for Farouk. I saw it on the little table in the hallway as I came in, and I impounded it and took it up to my room. I sit down on the sofa and had a good look at it. It had a Dutch stamp on it, and the address was type out.

  Once in the old days I had a au pair from Holland. That sound like a parabox but what I really mean is I was stroking it when she had time off from the English Mistress and Master in Hampstead. When she went back, she remember them days of wine and roses what she spend with me, sweeter than tulips in Amsterdam, and she used to write letters, and send postcards with Dutch girls wearing them funny white hats what curl up, and them heavy clobbers on their foot.

  First thought I had now – just to show you that I had no malicious intentions – was that old Farouk must of got himself a Dutch sleeper who went back to Holland, and drop him a line. I lift the letter up to the light to see if I could see inside, and I shake it in case it had money. But it was so flimsy, that was as if was only the envelope.

  I had no compunctions about steaming it open for the sake of my research, and whilst I was in the midst of this operation Bob stroll in.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he ask.

  I didn’t answer because he could well see what I was doing. I don’t think he approved, but he was curious. We see some trouble to open it, being as it was one of them thin envelopes like tissue paper, and I didn’t want to tear it. Inside had a small sheet of paper with some words type on it in capital letters, like when you get a telegram: FOUR ARRIVING SATURDAY SAME PLACE SAME TIME USUAL PROCEDURE.

  I feel my scalp prickle with excitement, as my hair couldn’t stand on end. ‘Listen to this Bob,’ I say, my voice trembling in a whisper, and I read it out for him. ‘All my suspicions are confirmed!’

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions,’ he say. ‘It could mean anything.’

  ‘Not to me,’ I say. ‘We are on the verge of exposing an international racket to smuggle Pakis into Brit’n! What else could it be?’

  ‘Maybe Farouk is in the import-export business,’ Bob say.

  ‘Yes, importing illegal immigrants!’

  ‘I won’t be too hasty if I were you,’ Bob say. ‘That letter could be quite innocent, and you may land yourself in trouble for tampering with someone’s mail. I should seal it and put it back and forget all about it.’

  ‘You expect the gang to write him and give details?’ I argue. ‘What else could it mean than Farouk is the contact man in London, and four Pakis are due from the Continent on Saturday.’

  ‘Don’t let your imagination run away with you,’ Bob say. ‘You are looking at too much telly.’

  But I wasn’t going to let Bob put me off the scent. I keep the letter, but I left a note in the hallway to say I had it, and if master Farouk want his mail, he could come and collect it in person, and we would have a showdown.

  Later that evening, whilst I was on tenterhooks, the door rap and Faizull come in. It look like he lose all his cool, very agitated.

  ‘You have a letter for Farouk?’ he ask.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, and then histrionically, ‘from Amsterdam.’

  ‘I will see that he gets it,’ Faizull say. He stand up near the table, and I could see he was itching to snatch up the letter.

  ‘Let him come for it himself,’ I say, playing my ace.

  ‘He told me to collect it for him. It is very important.’

  ‘I will deliver it to the addressee and no one else,’ I say.

  Faizull look at me silent for a few moments. ‘I thought you had given up the idea of meeting him.’

  ‘No. I am more than ever determined to meet him vis-à-vis.’

  ‘I see.’ He went into a brown study again. ‘I will make a deal with you. Give me the letter, and I will arrange a meeting.’

  I ponder this. It sound good. It sound as if I might get right into the heart of things.

  ‘How, when and where?’ I ask.

  Faizull pick up the letter as if the deal conclude. ‘You know the Marble Arch station?’

  I give him a wan smile. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Meet me there tomorrow at six, punctually, near the ticket booth. I will bring Farouk with me.’

  I didn’t like the way things was going, as if he giving all the orders and I have to obey, even though I had the upper hand.

  ‘Can’t you bring him here?’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say, and then to show him I mean business, ‘this is the last chance I’m giving you. If he doesn’t turn up,’ I add darkly, ‘we shall see what we shall see.’

  Who you think was at Marble Arch at the stroke of six precisely next evening, with notebook and pencil poised? Who you think wait there like a poor-me-one till seven o’clock, then had was to catch the tube and come home in a fiery mood of destruction? Enough of all this fiddle-faddle, I vow, I would have a confrontation with Faizull and put my cards on the table, and something bound to pan out one way or t’other.

  But Faizull wasn’t at home. Instead, it had a telegram for Farouk, and I give it the same treatment as the letter. After I steam it open I read: IF LANDLORD NOSY EXTERMINATE HIM.

  It was time indeed for sober reflection, to weigh the pros and cons and see if I was pro or con. I am aware that so far the whole thing sound as if I making it up, as if after Galahad’s caustic comments I am fabricating a cock and bull story to augment my Memoirs. You are at liberty to think what you will: for my part, it was plain as the colour of my skin what that telegram signify. It didn’t sound as if Messrs Farouk and Co. was going to throw a banquet with me as the honoured guest. If the landlord fucking up a time, exterminate him. It could not of been couched in more simple terms.

  In this life you always feel safe when something happen to other people and nothing happen to you, but whatever your station or race, colour or creed, your turn got to come, and mine was here, now. How would they bring about my demise? Weigh me down with cement and fling me in the Thames? Knock me down with a bus 88 as I crossing the zebra crossing? Line me up in Horse Guard Parade and make a execution? Maybe all them things was too grandiose: killing a black man easy as kissing hand, like swatting a blue-arse fly what get in the house in the summer.

  Time, too, to rue the day that I first become involve with my tenants. Even if to say my Asian brothers was mixed up in a smuggling racket, why the arse should I interfere with them and stick my neck out? It was
all on account of that bloody Galahad, who make me feel I was going wrong and needed topicality and subjects of interest. First he left my arse in jail; now he have me in danger of extinction for not minding my own business.

  When you read other scribes, or see them television films, at this stage the hero will gird his lions, and after a series of breathtaking adventures, successfully overcome the forces of evil. If you think I was about to ditto, you are sadly mistaken. I was shaky like a aspen leaf; if a basin of water and a towel was handy, I would of wash my hands like Pontius Pilate, and call it a day.

  But what should happen as I sit there with the telegram vibrating in my twitching hands than the door open and Faizull walk in. Praise God, by then I did seal it back up, though that was cold comfort.

  ‘I was expecting a telegram,’ he say without preamble. ‘Is that it?’

  Instead of saying ‘No, it’s from my aunt in Tobago’ I was so frighten I blurt out, ‘It just arrive this moment.’

  Faizull snatch it out of my hand. ‘What are you doing with it?’

  ‘I was holding it safe for Farouk. Telegrams is important, not like ordinary letters.’

  ‘Yes,’ he say, starting to open it. ‘Maybe I should read it in case it’s something urgent.’

  ‘What happen this evening?’ I ask quickly to distract him and postpone the inevitable. ‘I was waiting in Marble Arch more than an hour.’

  ‘There was a change in plans,’ he say.

  You’re telling me, I thought gloomily. ‘Listen Faizull,’ I say. ‘I have made up my mind. I couldn’t care less about meeting Farouk. As far as I am concerned, he doesn’t exist. Nor you for that matter.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that now,’ he say grimly. ‘It’s no longer a question of your wanting to meet Farouk. Farouk wants to meet you.’

  My blood run cold. ‘What for?’

  ‘The answer may be in this telegram.’ And before I could stop him he was reading it.

  I start to trimble. One of the thoughts that come to my head, just to show you my state of terror, was to forsake the writing of my Memoirs. I do not have to say more. You will understand, gentle R, my utter collapse to come to such a heart-rending decision. I shut my eyes because I didn’t want to see how Faizull would operate. Maybe he had a revolver with a silencer in his pocket; maybe he would just catch a hold of me and strangle me; maybe he might push me out of the penthouse window and pitch me down in the backyard where they already murder a sheep. In the jungle down there my body could lay undiscovered for weeks.

  ‘Mr Moses.’ Faizull voice sound cold. ‘Are you listening?’

  ‘No,’ I say.

  ‘May I sit down?’

  I open my eyes. ‘Yes, yes! You want a cup of coffee? Anything to eat? Bob isn’t here but I’ll attend to you myself!’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He sit down. ‘The telegram has some bad news.’

  I almost laugh. Bad news, he call it. My death warrant, more likely.

  ‘I am going to take you into my confidence. Farouk might not like it, but I feel you might be useful to us.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me nothing, Faizull,’ I say rapidly. ‘I don’t want to know nothing about nothing.’

  ‘Are you working for the police?’

  ‘Me? Work for the police? Ha ha.’

  ‘I thought not. But you suspect I am an illegal immigrant?’

  I burst out laughing till the tears stream down my face. ‘What on earth gives you that crazy idea? Come to think of it, I was in Heathrow one day and I saw you coming through Customs, with your passport in your hand.’

  ‘I came by private plane from Amsterdam, together with Farouk.’

  I wanted to crouch up like that proverbial monkey what put his hands over his face and see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing. ‘Anything you say, Faizull.’

  ‘Listen. We have a good business going, and you can make some money if you are interested.’

  ‘I don’t want no money, I don’t want anything, honestly.’

  ‘That’s a great pity, Mr Moses. I am taking it upon myself to make you this offer, because I do not like the alternative.’

  Death, extermination, killing, alternative – call it what you like, it’s the same thing.

  ‘Let me hasten to add,’ I hasten to add, ‘I am not averse to your affairs, whatever they are. In fact, if you blow up Buckingham Palace I would turn a deaf ear, because I do not want to be alternatived.’

  ‘Good. We need some place in London where we can house newcomers for a few days until other arrangements are made. You see what I’m getting at?’

  ‘No,’ I say, though I had a pretty shrewd idea. ‘You mean something like a deserted building in the East End?’

  ‘Or a house like this in Shepherd’s Bush.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘What a shame I’m full up.’

  ‘Chicken feed,’ Faizull say. ‘Get rid of them. You will make more in a week than a year with them.’

  ‘It’s a tempting preposition,’ I say, making a pretence of rubbing my chin thoughtfully.

  ‘It is more than that. It is your only salvation.’

  I was trying hard to make my dialogue original, and not copy the cops and robbers, but all I could say was, ‘You going to give me some time to think about it?’

  ‘Not much,’ Faizull say, getting up. ‘What shall I tell Farouk?’

  ‘One thing is liable to lead to another,’ I stall. ‘You only want to annex my property now, but later you might want me to go to the airstrip in the country to welcome your brothers, or go to Amsterdam or gay Paree on company business. You might even want me to alternative some poor unfortunate.’ And I shuddered visibly.

  ‘As long as you keep your nose clean, and don’t snoop around like you’ve been doing, there is no reason why things should not be honkeydory. And don’t forget, I am here, even if Farouk isn’t around much.’

  And with that Faizull left me to my thoughts, and I don’t have to tell you what them was. First Black Army headquarters, now sanctuary for illegal birds of passage.

  When you crooked you bend, as we say in Trinidad, meaning when you are in the shit you sink down deeper, and monkey smoke your pipe.

  There is no god but the god, and Mohammed is his prophet. A man must go where the winds of fortune blow him, willy-nilly, for his Destiny is writ in the stars, nor all thy tears wash out one word of it.

  The first batch of Asians turn up at dead of night one night, and I had was to shift Bob into my flat to make room for them. Naturally I had to appraise him of the lay of the land, and the position we were in. He wanted to blame himself for taking Faizull and Farouk as tenants in the first instance, but there was no sense in chastising ourselves for anything. Kay sir rah, sir rah, as the Japanese say.

  It was a motley trio that Faizull shepherd into the house. I have seen bewitched, bothered and bewildered adventurers land in Waterloo from the Caribbean with all their incongruous paraphernalia and myriad expressions of amazement and shock, but this Asian threesome beat them hands down. Their miens bore that inscrutability they so famous for, as if they see you and at the same time don’t see you. They seem poor subjects for integration to me: it look as if you can’t penetrate them at all, they have you baffled from the start. Still, it takes all kinds to make the world, and who was me to pass judgement?

  ‘No luggage?’ I ask Faizull.

  ‘That will come later,’ he say, and then, as if they was recalcitrant children, ‘Just give them a cup of tea and send them to bed.’

  Bob went to put the kettle on.

  ‘How long are they staying?’ I ask.

  ‘Not long,’ Faizull say. ‘We have to keep them moving.’

  ‘Listen,’ I say, ‘I hope they are not going to slaughter any sheep on the premises, nor stink up the house with curry.’

  ‘They have to stay in their room and don’t go out at all,’ Faizull instruct. ‘I will take them away in a few days.’ He sit down and haul out a wad of money. ‘Twenty po
unds,’ he say, counting it out. ‘All right?’

  I laugh mirthlessly. ‘I risk my respectability and integrity for that? These chaps must have paid you hundreds of pounds to bring them in. You expect me to shelter them for that paltry sum?’

  ‘That’s what Farouk says you’re to get.’

  ‘It isn’t worth my while,’ I say. ‘I mad to report you to the police and finish with this whole business.’

  ‘Each,’ he say.

  ‘What?’ I say.

  ‘Twenty pounds for each of them,’ he say, counting more money.

  ‘What about my man Bob?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t know about him. That’s your responsibility.’

  ‘He’s liable to squeal if you don’t treat him right. Don’t forget he is English, and loyal to Queen and Country.’

  ‘That’s your baby. You know what will happen if there is any trouble.’ Faizull put the money on the table and went out.

  Bob come back from the kitchen. ‘Where’s Faizull?’ he ask. ‘I made a cup for him.’

  ‘He’s gone. You’d better give the guests the whole pot and let them sort it out themselves.’

  ‘You think they can manage?’ he ask dubiously.

  ‘Come come,’ I say, ‘they may look a little dishevelled and unkempt, but they are not children.’

  Bob went down with the tea, but come back up with everything.

  ‘They have locked and barricaded themselves in the room,’ he announced. ‘They won’t open up.’

  ‘Put it outside the door,’ I tell him, ‘they will take it when the coast is clear.’

  When he come back from doing that he moan, ‘I hope they do not shit and piss in my room.’

  ‘Here is your cut,’ I say to comfort him, and hand him a tenner.

  ‘We are really in a sticky position, Moses. What are we going to do?’ But all the same, he fold the tenner and pocket it unobtrusively.

  ‘I don’t know, Bob. What the arse can we do? Faizull has commandeered the house and our hands are tied.’

  ‘We can’t go on like this. We are aiding and abetting this illegal traffic, and will get in trouble with the law.’

  ‘Which would you rather risk, the law or being alternatived?’