Moses Ascending

by Sam Selvon

  I pick up the food and follow Paki. What else I could do, pray?

  We went to Bob room first, and dole out the women. I didn’t see which one pick up the mensing pads, Paki just left them on the table with the Cow and Gate.

  Then we went up to the others. Paki knock and say something that sound like opensesame, but it could of been my imagination. By the time the door open I dash straight in and went to the cupboard where I had my Memoirs. Praise the Lord – I mean Allah – it was intact. Only then I look around to see the state the rest of the penthouse was in, and the disposition of the occupants.

  Everything was push up to one wall, to make a big space wherein the adventurers were squatting, kneeling, or just downright sitting on the carpet. Three was facing East, salaaming Mecca. One was facing the opposite wall, as if he misbehave in class and the teacher put him there. Another was crouch up with his two hands clasp together as if he playing a mouth-organ, but on closer inspection he was smoking, putting the cigarette to his nostril and exhaling through his mouth. Another was standing on his head getting a worm’s eye view of things. (I tell you one thing – these orientals full of gimmicks, you see, it would not of surprised me to find one of them climbing up a piece of rope, or blowing a flute and bringing out a king cobra from a basket.) They did rig up a clothes line right across the room, and it was full up of saris, turbans, fezzes, dhotis, poshteens, lungis, shantungs, caftans, and other oriental items of dress what I had to look up in the dictionary afterwards. Nevertheless, I reckon things could of been much worse. I would have to wait until they evacuate to make a proper inventory, but from what I could see at the moment they did not run amok and cry havoc.

  Paki and F-and-C was having a argument over the food which was spread out on the table. The others desert their meditations and prayers and cluster around, inspecting the dishes as closely as they could without a microscope. Each one take his order and went off in a corner to eat by himself. I stop a chap who was taking the fish and chips.

  ‘That’s his,’ I say, pointing to F-and-C.

  But that worthy was already dipping his hands in the vindaloo. I went into the kitchen to make myself a ham sandwich, leaving Paki opening cans and bottles of beer. He followed me shortly, with his own can.

  ‘What will happen to these people once they leave this house?’ I ask.

  Paki take a swig and shrug. ‘We get them here. After that it’s up to them.’

  He sound more communicative than Faizull, so I follow up with: ‘How does the system work?’

  But I jump the gun. Paki smile and say, ‘Naughty, naughty. The less you know, the better off you are.’

  ‘You want a ham sandwich?’ I offer.

  ‘Okay,’ he say, sitting on the kitchen stool and swinging his legs.

  I made him a sandwich and he start eating with gusto.

  ‘Don’t you have any of them Musallam and Escalopes?’ I ask.

  ‘Don’t make me laugh,’ he say.

  ‘Have you ever met Farouk?’ I ask next, seeing that abrupt, random questions was in vogue.

  ‘Who’s he?’ he ask.

  ‘You know. Faizull’s friend who was staying here with him.’

  ‘Oh that.’ Paki give a big grin. ‘That was a good idea – I suppose I could tell you, now that operations are going to cease in this locality.’

  But he didn’t continue immediately. Drama isn’t the monopoly of Shakespeare’s people, as you have already seen. He fidget and shift his position, and then, casually, ‘Farouk doesn’t exist.’

  ‘He was a tenant in this house,’ I protest.

  ‘Faizull established two identities as a security measure,’ Paki say leisurely.

  I did not fall off a tree, as some nincompoops. ‘Say no more,’ I say, ‘I was taken for a sleigh ride in July.’

  ‘A man of your wit,’ he scoffed. ‘I thought you knew all the time. His full name is Faizull Farouk.’

  Well, though the disclosure took me down a peg or two, I will not make a song and dance about it, lest you think I am lying and pick holes in my story. If I lie I die.

  ‘There is no god but the god,’ I say staunchly. ‘How are the others getting on?’

  ‘Let’s go and see,’ he say, swinging off the stool.

  I did not see any point in being finicky about mixing now that I was inside; after all, they would soon be citizens like myself and we would all have to integrade. Besides, if the women went I wanted to make sure the men went down to Bob’s room, and I told Paki this.

  They didn’t take kindly to the idea – sweetened up, I suppose, by the penthouse – F-and-C especially start up a harangue with Paki pointing to me and shaking his head.

  ‘What’s up?’ I ask Paki.

  ‘They won’t go to Bob’s room,’ Paki explain. ‘They think he is a skinhead, and they would be bashed.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ I cry. ‘Bob is with us.’

  ‘This chap,’ Paki point to F-and-C, ‘wants to know if you are a Christian?’

  ‘Tell him I am of the Faith,’ I say, ‘and that I am bloody well staying put now that I am in here. If it is any consolation to them, I am going into my bedroom and will stay there until Faizull comes.’

  And speaking my piece as the landlord, I stormed out of their presence, and ensconced myself in the bedroom.

  Faizull pull up in front of the house in the selfsame big removal van, earlier than I expected. It was the rush hour, in fact. I did think he would wait for nightfall to shift them, but he explained that there was less danger moving around at that hour, when everybody was hustling to get home and the traffics snarl-up.

  ‘There is a change of plan,’ he say. ‘I will have to take the lot.’

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is goodbye, then?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘There is no god but Mohammed,’ I say fervently, ‘and Allah is his prophet.’

  ‘There’s hope for you yet,’ Faizull say approvingly.

  I cannot express my feelings as my guests folded their bundles, wrapped their belongings, donned their turbans and saris, gave the tot a double dose of Cow and Gate, and made other preparations for the evacuation. Was it sadness or gladness? Did I long to learn a trick or two from them, like eating a bottle which I saw F-and-C do for his dessert? Did I yearn to learn a few phrases of their exotic language, so that if the tables were ever turned and Britons were immigrating to Pakistan, and I had to be amongst them, I could tell my host to fuck off in Urdu? Was I, perhaps, subconsciously forsaking Christianity to answer the call of the muezzin? All I know is that I experienced a welter of emotions as I moved among them, helping to tie a parcel here, tucking in a turban there. In the midst of all this Bob returned from some casual labour.

  ‘Ah,’ he beamed, ‘we’re getting rid of the lot, eh?’

  ‘How can you be so heartless?’ I say. ‘Their worries are now beginning when they are let loose on the British public.’

  Faizull came to us. ‘I wish Bob would go away,’ he say. ‘They cannot get it out of their minds that he is a skinhead and liable to bash them.’

  ‘I wish I had thought of that before,’ Bob say regretfully.

  ‘Go out in the road Bob,’ I tell him, ‘and stay there and make sure the coast is clear as they leave the house.’

  Faizull did a last round-up and five-thirty –I mean seventeen-thirty – precisely, the first batch of three went out to the van, and thereafter, at intervals of three minutes, the others followed.

  I stood by the window of the penthouse, observing the exodus, a lump in my throat. Those of you who take up your cudgels against these poor unfortunates, who lobby the House of Commons and write letters to Members of Parliament, who march in protest waving banners and shouting imprecations on their heads, cannot understand my mixed emotions. I stood there counting them as they entered the van. Twenty pounds, forty, sixty – and when I turned away, there was a tear in my eye.

  The last to leave was F-and-C, a
nd I could not bear the thought that he might be going with enmity in his heart against me, and I would never see him again once he was swallowed up in the London jungle.

  I dashed downstairs and caught him just as he was entering the van.

  ‘Let’s be friends,’ I say proffering my hand, ‘I wish you the best of British luck during your stay in our country.’

  He shook my hand warmly and say, ‘Fuck off.’

  Only one day in Brit’n, and he was already picking up the language.

  Bob and me clean up the place as best we could. To tell you the truth it was not in such a bad state. There was a lingering smell of incense we could not dispel with any of the aero sprays, and one of Bob’s sheets had bloodstains on it. But it could of been worse, I tell him, let us count our blessings, and our ill-gotten gains.

  Later, sitting down with cans of chilled beer – they didn’t touch one thing in the fridge, and Bob say they must of been afraid of contamination, but I prefer to think it was the goodness of their hearts – I try to inveigle Bob to come with me to the Black Power meeting.

  ‘Good lord,’ he say, ‘haven’t you had enough? We have just been through a harrowing experience. You must have sufficient notes to fill your book.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I say. ‘Gentle readers might be disappointed that I did not hop in the van and go along to record their further adventures. If I do some circulation among the blacks, it will mitigate their disappointment.’

  ‘You have allowed Galahad to influence you,’ Bob accuse.

  ‘That’s true,’ I admit, ‘but I can’t continue as I started.’

  ‘I don’t know where you’re getting this sudden energy from,’ he grumble. ‘Hitherto you were content to recline here and take it easy. Can’t you work with Brenda in the basement and make your notes?’

  ‘That is too prosaic,’ I say. ‘I have to get out there in London, where the action is. I must be on the spot when blood flow.’

  ‘It might be your blood. Remember what happened in Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘I have to take risks. According to Galahad there is a vast store of materials just waiting to be tapped by someone like me. Come on, Bob, I will share my royalties with you.’

  Thus persuaded, Bob decide to come along with me to this place in North Kensington. It was not a healthy neighbourhood to be in, especially at night, and I was glad of his company.

  When we get there the first one we see is Galahad.

  ‘Well come and welcome,’ he say, giving me a wink. ‘Brenda has cautioned me that you want to join the ranks.’

  ‘I only want to reconnoitre the set-up,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll see about joining up later.’

  ‘That’s prudent,’ Galahad say. ‘Cool your heels, the meeting will start in a few minutes.’

  Bob and me had a chance to look around, but it don’t have much to describe. I always find these community centres and club rooms and church halls depressing. It’s always some stale building, with a lot of space and second-hand furniture strewn about, and a ping-pong table with a collapsing net, and obvious attempts to slap on a heavy coat of paint to cover flaws in the walls, and a notice board with forthcoming events and reminders to pay your sub. You get the feeling that it’s just a desperate alternative to roaming the streets.

  By the time the meeting was about to start, it had about fifty people there, not including the circulating Party members, nor those already ensconced on the platform with the Black Panther. And some more was still coming in. I must say I was favourably impressed to see so many. You might not think it’s a lot, but unless it have free food and drinks and raggae music, it’s hard to amass a black crowd.

  Galahad say, when I mention this, ‘Sometimes we have even more. You see how conscious people are becoming of the struggle?’

  ‘I note some whites in our midst,’ I say.

  ‘Friends of the Party,’ he say. ‘Staunch supporters.’

  Me and Bob take a back seat, near to the exit in case the gathering get too restive and enthusiastic. Besides, Bob had a flask of whisky in his jacket pocket, from which he was taking surreptitious sips. He was half-charge already, and was reaching the mellow stage where he couldn’t care less if he was in the Albert Hall or Galahad basement room.

  Galahad call the meeting to order, and say how proud and happy the committee was that they was able to bring the Black Panther to the people of North Kensington, all the more reason since BP was a very busy man, and during his short stay in Brit’n would be travelling all over the country with a two-fold purpose; A, to meet the brothers and sisters and inform them that the American contingent was looking on with an approving eye on how the black people of Brit’n was pulling their weight; and B, to spread the gospel to the white heathens, as he, BP, was also a man of God, and he had come to the conclusion that the crux of the matter was that not enough black missionaries like himself infiltrated the white jungles, ‘and I will now call upon Sister Brenda to say a few words about our activities in this zone, before our august visitor takes the floor.’

  Sister Brenda say that she know that the audience didn’t come here tonight to hear she nor Galahad rap, but BP, but she just wanted to remind them how the Party was growing from strength to strength, that when they first started they had nothing at all but belief and determination, and now they had an office and was going to start up a newspaper what would tell the people the truth and not no pack of lies you read in the English press nor see and hear on the television, but they desperately needed the support of the community, because words and ideals was useless unless everyone put their hands in their pockets, and she didn’t mean to scratch their balls, but to take them out with currency (laughter), and she could go on and on and tell us of all the things the Party had done, but she won’t, as she knew that everyone was sitting on the edges of their seats to hear BP, who was not only the active President of the American brigade, but also a messenger of God, ‘so without further ado, brothers and sisters, I give you BP.’

  I will say this much for our visitor from the States, that he wasn’t dress up in Black Power paraphernalia nor armoury, but in a nice dark gaberdine suit. He was a tall panther, with a little beard, and every now and then, whilst he speaking, he lift up his chin to show us the beard. First, he blow into the microphone, and then adjust it to his height.

  ‘Brothers and sisters,’ he begin, ‘let us pray.’ He went on to say that we was not praying for ourselves so much, because the ears of God was already deaf with the black man’s supplications, but he was directing his appeal for the other side, because if our enemies were converted to the ways of Christ, he was sure they would act as human beings. Nevertheless, he say, if we can’t get justice and humanity through Christianity, we would have to resort to the sword, and he was sorry to say it, but that white blood would flow like water ere we attained our rightful desires. He tell us what the panthers doing in America, and how they appreciate the participation of their English brothers and sisters. One of the audience interrupt to say that we was not English, nor treated as such, nor recognized as such. Galahad, on guard against hecklers, hastily explained that what brother BP had in mind was a terminology only, and nothing personal was intended. BP continued to say how words were fine, but he reckoned action was better, and the Party was a good example of getting things done, you cats really know how to get moving.

  I did not know how all this was going to help my Memoirs, but I was scribbling away like mad. Bob finish the flask, hiccup gently and put it down on the floor and give it a quiet kick to slide it under the chair in front of him.

  BP was now working himself up for the big crescendo to electrify and whip the audience into a frenzy, which all black politicians love to do when they have the chance. I don’t rightly recollect the context leading up to it, but suddenly he was screaming out to kill all the whites and burn down the City of London, and as far as the pigs were concerned, hang one up in the doorway of every police station.

  He was now cooking with gas an
d the crowd begin to stamp and cheer and make the sign of the fist in the air, and shout and sing We Shall Overcome, Black is Beautiful, and Onward Christian Soldiers, and some of them already on their feet to go into battle instantaneously.

  BP wipe sweat off his forehead with a white handkerchief, and was about to sit down when Galahad whisper something in his ear. He went back to the mike and raise his hands calling for order. When the crowd begin to quieten down, he say that he was sure we would all show our true colours by donating something to the Party, and he for one was going to speak to the Treasurer of the Black Panthers of America as soon as he got back, and see that something substantial cross the Atlantic to help the strugglers on this side. Furthermore, he was going to set the ball a-rolling right now, cats, and so saying, he take out a crumpled American dollar from his pocket, and look at it thoughtfully for a few moments, keeping everybody in suspense. Then he smooth it out and with much pomp and pageantry, to the blast of imagined trumpets and bugles, he hand it to Sister Brenda as if he handing over the rights to Fort Knox. (I questioned Galahad about this magnaminous gift some time later, and he explained that BP did not want to embarrass the audience by making a great show of American Aid by flashing notes of greater denomination, for fear that they would be abashed to contribute their new pence.)

  Brenda and Galahad come off the platform and start to circulate amongst the audience taking the collection, making facetious remarks like every bit helps as the actress said to the bishop, and that they have change if anybody want to change a fiver.

  When Brenda come by me I try to make a deferred payment like BP, but she stand up there until I put my hand in my pocket and give her ten pee. At least I thought it was ten pee, but Brenda look at it and exclaim, ‘Fifty pee! Can you afford it?’

  ‘Hold on,’ I say, ‘I thought it was ten pee. Give me some change.’ But she only laugh and pass on. Since this new currency come to Brit’n, it was the first time that my fingers ever mistake a fifty pee for a ten pee. The only consolation I had was that it was better it went to the brotherhood rather than in some white man pocket.