by Sam Selvon
Galahad light up a cigarette and put a empty matchbox next to him for ashtray.
Bob went out to pee and come back.
‘The toilet is blocked,’ he say, holding his nose.
‘Use a milk bottle,’ Galahad say, and turn to me. ‘Let’s hear the ballad.’
So I tell Galahad everything. I thought I might as well, because I didn’t think I could sleep again that night. At the end of my narrative, Galahad look thoughtful and say, ‘Twenty pounds a head, eh?’
‘It’s all your fault for criticizing my Memoirs,’ I say bitterly. ‘And now the matter has snowballed into its present state.’
‘Twenty pounds a head, eh?’ he say, ‘can you put me in touch with Farouk?’
‘I expect you to commiserate with me in this devilish predicament, not think of lining your own pockets,’ I say angrily.
‘I do, I do,’ Galahad say sincerely. ‘But seeing that you will be going out of business, as it were, couldn’t you recommend me to look after that house in the country for them?’ And he started to list off his qualifications, not least of which was that he was a militant and any move from the law to blockade the traffic would lead to blood and sand. ‘In fact,’ he concluded, ‘these Pakis do not know their arse from their elbow, not knowing the lingo. They need a man like me. I like that one about you asking if he speakee English and he say fuck you.’ And Galahad leaned back and laugh kiff-kiff, scratching his testicles again.
Sauce for the goose isn’t sauce for the gander, so I say to him that once that dirty dozen quit my premises, I will be through with the organization lock, stock and barrel.
‘You will still have Paki as a tenant, though,’ Galahad say.
‘I will endeavour to let him straggle after the others,’ I retorted.
‘Don’t act hastily,’ Galahad say, ‘he might be useful if you want to get in touch with the gang for any reason. Twenty pounds a head, eh?’ He couldn’t get the blood money out of his mind. ‘That means you have two hundred and fifty pounds on the hoof, in a manner of speaking.’ And he chuckle, as if he like the way he talk.
‘There’s a wee tot too,’ I say, trying my sarcasm, to no avail. ‘In a roundabout way, Galahad, you have caused this impasse.’
‘Don’t accuse me, I never told you anything about those bloody Pakis,’ he rejoined. ‘I meant Our People. If you had stuck to your own kind, you wouldn’t of been in this shit. Listen to me, Moses. I can give you enough ballad and episode to full ten books.’
‘I follow your advice once,’ I say, ‘and look where it got me.’
‘You got yourself there, boy,’ he chuckle. ‘Not through altruism either. Sterlingism, more likely. Twenty pounds a head is not to be sneezed at in these days of sugar shortage.’
‘We’ll never see eye-to-eye,’ I say wearily.
‘I tell you again,’ he say, ‘that if you want to pursue your so-called memoirs, you only have to interview the first black man you meet on the street.’
‘I will knock them in the Old Kent Road with my language alone,’ I boast. ‘My very usage of English will have them rolling in the aisles. Mark my words, Galahad.’
‘Shit,’ Galahad say shortly, and hawk into the fireplace. Lucky thing Bob was asleep. ‘You are living high off the hog’s back and it has addled your brains.’
Bob was snoring gently. Every time we stop talking, he stop snoring too; I don’t know if it was deliberate or not.
I felt I had to say something, so I say, ‘Judging that you have made no progress yourself, I don’t see what I can get from others of your ilk.’
‘Don’t mind me,’ he say. ‘I live menially because I give all my money to the cause, unlike some of us, who buy houses and aspire to live above their standards. I can switch you on to top level people as becomes your rank.’
I sort of stretch out on the edge of the bed, trying out a tentative position for sleep without touching Galahad. It was a single bed, and I remember it used to collapse with the weight of two people struggling on it, and I could never enjoy a stroke in comfort when I haul in a sleeper. Galahad, as if he read my thoughts, say, ‘I tussle on the ground, man, if I manage to haul a thing in,’ and he shift up to the wall to give me a little space.
Smelling them basement smells as they combine with Galahad sour sweat, remind me of the fable that English people broadcast that we smell more than them. I agree that black people have an odour, but I contend that it is an earthy aroma because of their constant toil against the odds. It is that rank sweatiness you get when the labourer comes in from the fields, having done an honest day’s work. As to the smell of white people in general, and the English in particular, I cannot say the same. I must say that I have had to encourage, goad, and even order Bob to have a bath. What he used to do was have a dry-clean – as he humorously tried to call his uncleanliness –using a dirty washing rag rub up in soap under the neck, behind the ears, under the arms, and finish off with a dash of Woolworths talcum powder. I found it disgusting, and told him so, but that was the way he was brought up. You only have to smell some of these temporary and permanent secretaries and typists in the rush hour in the tube to know what I mean. You get a whiff of them frowsy English girls what look sharp on the outside but ain’t changed their panties and bras for weeks, and only cover up the day-before perspiration with another layer of talcum and a quick splash of water on their face. Once, in this selfsame basement room, I haul in a posh sleeper who say she was doing a big work in the Houses of Parliament, but that she was out for kicks, and that was why she pretended to allow me to lead her to Bayswater. Well, to cut a long story short, while I was sucking her nipples, I find something crunchy in my mouth. ‘What’s this?’ I ask her with disgust, spitting it out. She giggled. ‘I didn’t wash today,’ she say, as if that make her more desirable. When I investigated the flakes I spat out, I found it was vintage talcum which had calcified that she was hoarding as if a shortage was threatened. That was the upper regions; I will not disgust you further by my encounter with the lower regions. Suffice it to say that I forgot her real name but always thought of it as ‘Crusty.’
I look around the room – it barely have space to swivel your eyeballs – at the wallpaper falling off and bringing down bits of ancient plaster with it, and splatter up with grease and food stains near the fireplace; on the table a dirty cup and saucer, with cigarette butts and ashes in the saucer, and a plate and spoon with coagulated stew gravy and a few grains of rice. I didn’t think I could sleep even if I wanted to. I was trying hard to avoid any physical contact with Galahad’s sweating body; I myself was beginning to feel moist under the armpits. He was smoking again and muttering to himself, ‘Twenty pounds a head eh,’ as if he doing some heavy mental calculations, though he had a finger on the wall writing invisible figures to help him. I could see he was planning to hire the Queen Mary and transport the entire population of Pakistan to the shores of Brit’n.
All these things was like another nightmare. You does find yourself wondering if white people does live like this, and have similar experiences. When I was a little boy in Trinidad, the old ones use to tell the children to try and live and behave like white people, and I used to imagine that white people live in Paradise, and it was so nice there that they didn’t want no black people to enter and muddy up the water, because they wouldn’t know how to comport themselves and appreciate the goodies. Now, Galahad was taking a turn in my arse for trying to better my living conditions. I know fully well what he was after. You know how some people feel guilty with their wealth and always donating something to charity to salve their conscience? That’s what Galahad was after – to make me feel unhappy with my hard-earned money, so I would throw something in the kitty for the Party. But I had no qualms about my worldly possessions. I did start off in this selfsame basement room he was living in now. No one should begrudge me a few creature comforts, least of all Galahad, who witnessed my days of depression and despair. So I didn’t bother with him. Mark you, appertaining to my Memoirs, per
haps a little scouting amongst the black citizens might prove fruitful, and I had it at the back of my mind to undertake same as soon as I got the Pakis off my hands.
None of this narrative is fiction: if I lie I die. It might sound so, but I can’t help if people in this city does live in a dream world and refuse to believe or accept the things that happen under their very noses. When the mark bust they are shocked and dismayed to discover what is going on, but pass it over with alacrity to resume their traditional and comforting equanimity and poise.
That’s what I had in mind, too: but easier said than done. When I went back home the next day, I couldn’t even get into the penthouse. The occupants lock the door from the inside, and wouldn’t open up.
I went to see Paki.
‘Look man,’ I say, ‘I can’t even get into my own room.’
‘They are very suspicious and frightened,’ Paki say. ‘Faizull told them not to open the door to anyone but myself, and to hear is to obey.’
I wandered about the house trying doors. All the other tenants gone to work, and Bob wasn’t here, and he had the spare set of keys. I went down to the basement. If the Pakis usurp me, at least I had Our People in the basement, and might be able to raise a cup of tea with Brenda.
But down there I find I was only in the way as Sister Brenda and her assistants conducted their affairs. She busy on a old Remington typewriter, and the two chaps with she was sorting out a pile of circulars.
I didn’t get so much as the time of day until Brenda happen to glance up and see me standing there.
‘Hello Moses,’ she say grudgingly, ‘what can I do for you?’
‘You can clear out of my house with your militant Black Power friends,’ I imagine myself saying. But what I say is: ‘I want to see you.’
‘We are very busy, Moses. Let me finish this letter. Grab a seat.’
I sit down gratefully. I feel as if I was in one of them scruffy office you find all over London, when two or three chaps open up a company to beat the Income Tax. But you couldn’t mistake this one for anything but what it was. It had pictures of Joe Louis, Marcus Garvey, Louis Armstrong, Malcolm X, Malcolm Z, and a host of other black heroes. And slogans stick up all over: FIGHT THE GOOD FIGHT and I AM A BLACK MAN. WHO ARE YOU?
‘Why don’t you assist the boys while you’re waiting?’ Brenda suggest. ‘Put some of those circulars into envelopes.’
‘How much you paying?’ I ask.
She look shock. ‘Everything is voluntary here,’ she say. ‘Those who work do so because they are aware of the Winds of Change, and Third World potentialities.’
‘Third World,’ I say mournfully. ‘It hard enough to live in one, and you-all making three.’
‘Apathy is our greatest enemy,’ Brenda say, forgetting the typing to rap about her heart’s delight. ‘If you don’t stand up and be counted, you will be swept away.’
She put the letter in a envelope and lick the flap.
‘You’d better go and post this now,’ she say to one of the auxiliaries. ‘I want to catch the midday post.’
She put another sheet of paper in the machine. I feel like a prisoner in my own house. I didn’t know if I was better off twiddling my thumbs in the basement, or lurking in the hallway upstairs to see if one of the refugees would come out and give me a chance to put my foot in the doorway. It look as if Fate had me shuttling ‘tween Pakis and blacks, and I thought that while I was down here I might as well avail myself of the opportunity to do some research.
‘Sister,’ I say earnestly to Brenda, ‘how does the struggle fare? Are we really making any headway against the fuzz and the pigs from Babylon?’
Brenda look up and smile pitifully. ‘You mean the police?’
‘Yes. Why you call them Babylon?’
‘Read your Bible and you’ll find out.’
I wait until she type a few words then I heave a great sigh. ‘I have not been pulling my weight,’ I say. ‘I would like to make amends.’
‘You’re seeing the light of day?’ she ask.
‘Yes. What qualifications do I have to have in order to join the Party?’
‘Your blackness entitles you to membership,’ she say, stopping the typing. ‘It is a universal struggle, Moses. As long as you are black, no matter what part of the world you are in, you belong to the brotherhood.’
‘It got no white people in the Party, then?’
‘Sure we’ve got some well-wishers and do-gooders, but not many.’ She look at me. ‘You really want to join?’
‘But you just said I am already a member.’
‘Ah, yes, but you do nothing. You have expressed views of indifference and withdrawal. You do not even attend a meeting.’
‘When is the next one?’
‘There’s a speaker from the Black Panthers of America at the youth centre tonight.’
‘Get a ticket for me.’
‘You don’t need no bloody ticket, man! You just come along, like any interested black citizen.’
‘I suppose there will be a collection?’
‘I knew you’d come to that,’ she say disgustedly. ‘Those who have give. Right at this moment we are trying to raise money to defend a brother who has wrongfully been accused of possessing drugs. I don’t suppose you care to make a donation as an earnest of your intentions?’
‘Give me some time to acquaint myself with the Party’s activities,’ I say. ‘When I am satisfied that all is bona fide, I will come big.’
‘You are full of words, Moses,’ she say, ‘but I like you.’
Right then the door knock and Paki look in.
‘I want to see you, Moses,’ he say.
‘I will be with you in a tick,’ I say.
‘Tell me something,’ Brenda say when he went away, ‘have you got Indian blood?’
‘Not that I know of,’ I say.
‘I’ve noticed a predominance of orientals in the house of late.’
‘They come and go,’ I say truthfully.
‘Oh, they don’t bother me,’ she say, ‘I just wondered.’
I left Brenda and went up to Paki. ‘Can I enter my room now?’ I ask.
‘You’ll get a chance when I go up to feed them,’ he say. ‘I need a hand.’
I didn’t live and work in Brit’n all these years for nothing. I smile. ‘I belong to a union,’ I say, ‘that’s not part of my duties.’
‘I can’t leave them alone,’ Paki say. ‘I want you to be here while I go out to the take-away restaurant and bring back the food. Unless you go for the food yourself?’
I debate in my mind which was the lesser of two evils. ‘I think I’ll go for the food.’
‘You’re sure?’ Paki say doubtfully. ‘It’s a rather mixed order. Some of them are vegetarians. Some don’t eat meat. Some eat meat but not pork. Some eat pork but no beef. And you’ve got to get each item in a separate bag. Have a look at this list,’ and he hand me a piece of paper.
This is what I see:
1) Mughlai Biryani
2) Yakhni Pulao
3) Murgh Musallam
4) Mutton do Pyaza
5) Sanitary napkins (cheap ones)
6) Hussaini Curry
7) Roghan Josh
8) Chicken Vindaloo
9) One tin Cow and Gate Milk
10) Shami Kabab
11) Bengali Machher Jhol
12) Escalopes de Veau à l’Oseille
13) Toad in the Hole
14) Fish and Chips
‘What’s fish and chips?’ I ask.
‘That’s what I mean,’ he say. ‘You won’t understand. I’d better go. I won’t be long.’
While he was away I took the opportunity to look around the room, but there was no incriminating evidence about. I was taking a look at my notes and making some changes when there was a timid knock at the door. I open it and see one standing there. This was a predicament I had not foreseen. He bend and look around me to see if Paki was in the room. Then he straighten up and look at me with a
poker face.
‘Speakee English?’ I venture warily, remembering Paki’s pungent retort that other time.
‘Fish and chips,’ he say.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask.
‘Fish and chips,’ he say.
It look like he wanted to play a game. ‘Egg and bacon?’ I crack.
‘Fish and chips,’ he say.
‘Oh come off it,’ I say. Then it dawn on me that he wanted to find out what was happening to the food. ‘Paki’s gone to get it.’
He gave me a walloping thump in the chest. ‘Fish and chips,’ he say. God alone knows how long Paki had been starving the poor souls. He must of been diverting some of the funds Faizull left him as expenses. I had that thought as I straighten up after his wallop.
‘Is that all you can say,’ I snarled. ‘I told you. Paki will be back in a few minutes.’
He shake his head sympathetically, like when you trying to explain something to a foreigner and he can’t understand. ‘Chips and fish,’ he said slowly, permutating the phrase.
‘Oh fuck off,’ I say, paying him back in Paki’s coin.
His eyes narrowed. He was a big burly chap, and he had on a turban what make him look taller still, and a hair-net over his beard which stop it from bristling. He held my shoulders and gave me a shake. I don’t know what would of happened if Paki didn’t return at that moment. He say something angrily to F-and-C, and he let hold of me and went back upstairs.
‘Sorry about that,’ Paki tell me. ‘I had to go to more than one restaurant to get the food.’ He put down about six big plastic carriers on the table carefully, though some of them already had the telltale, yellow signs of curry. ‘Faizull is taking away a few this evening.’ I don’t know if he was consoling himself or me. ‘Women and children first. I will try to squeeze what’s left into Bob’s room, so you can get your place.’
‘I don’t see why you can’t accommodate them here,’ I say.
Paki look at me as if I mad. ‘There is no god but Allah,’ he say. ‘I would rather die. Bad enough that I have to look after them.’ He pick some bags off the table. ‘Help me to take these upstairs.’