by Sam Selvon
‘H’mm,’ she say. ‘Of course, the brutal attack and the arrests is our lead story. I have in mind a full-face picture of a fierce Alsatian.’
‘I see your point,’ I say. ‘Maybe you could have both the Alsatian and Bob?’
‘H’mm,’ she say, ‘h’mm. It’s subtle. The subtlety is more likely to be appreciated by a white readership than a black one, though.’
‘You are the last person I expect to underestimate the intelligence of Our People,’ I say.
I could see she was toying with the idea. ‘I will put it up to the committee,’ she say. ‘It has appeal. I suppose you will want credit for it?’
‘You can have all the praise,’ I say. ‘My only motive is to see fair play for Bob. After all, half the bail money was his.’
‘We’ll see,’ she say. ‘But while you’re here, could you think up a gripping headline?’
‘H’mm,’ I say, thinking.
‘Something that would sell the paper by the headline alone.’
‘Alsatians Savage Innocent Immigrants?’
‘Nothing new in that.’
‘Slaughter in North Kensington?’
‘Come on, think man.’
‘People Panic as Police Pounce?’
She ignore that one.
‘How about Brutal Babylon Batter Blacks?’
‘Stop making up alliterations. Concentrate on something thoughtful, terse, taut and telling.’
I was beginning to realize what bona fide writers like myself mean when they have to belittle themselves doing hack jobs for the press and TV to pay the mortgage while their magnus opus suffer.
‘Listen Brenda,’ I say impatiently, ‘I can’t be bothered with your cheap journalese. I am not that sort of writer, who is only after sensations and scandals. I am writing Literature.’
She burst out in one of those scandalous kya-kya barrackyard laughs what women from the Caribbean are notorious for. ‘You sit down upstairs polishing homilies and belabouring clichés, face-lifting wornout phrases, and you say you are writing literature?’
I stiffened. ‘Don’t make an ass of yourself,’ I say. ‘You haven’t even seen my manuscript.’
‘That’s what you think,’ she sneer.
‘I have it under lock and key, and the key is always in my pocket.’ I feel for it and clutch it tightly in my fingers.
‘Locks can be picked,’ she smirked.
‘I believe you are trying to tell me something,’ I say uneasily.
‘The other day,’ she say, ‘when you were out, I went upstairs. Bob was there, and I gave him a little bit of crumpet, and afterwards he was like putty in my hands. “Where is this opus I hear Moses is writing?” I ask. “Why do you think of that now?” he asked, feeling for my left tit as he tried to muster his strength for another rounds. “Because I would like to have a look at it,” I say. “You’ll be lucky,” he says, “he keeps it locked up in the cupboard, and keeps the key in his pocket.” “Go on, Bob,” I say, “you can pick the lock.” “I do not want to be disloyal to Moses,” he says. “Oh,” I say, “in that case you cannot have another go.” I would say this much for him, that it was a difficult decision, but he didn’t waste much time in jumping out of bed and returning with your precious emmess. And while he was fanning the fire to get his reward, I had a jolly good read.’
I could well imagine the scene, oh yes. I could see that bastard helping Brenda to my drinks, and then taking her to my room, and dirtying up my sheets. I knew he would do anything to get a piece of black pussy, and not for the slightest moment did I entertain any doubt that Brenda spoke the truth. Of all the images that came to my mind, though, the one that was like the last twist of the knife was of her spreadeagled there, chuckling and guffawing over my Memoirs, whilst Bob titillated her to reciprocate to his disgusting lust.
I got up from the chair I was sitting in. ‘So!’ I cried. ‘So!’ Bob, like the nobles and statesmen who hold the keys of the kingdom in their hands, had succumbed to the call of the flesh. What a shattering discovery when you put your faith in people, to find that they are only human and err.
‘The only sentence you know, Moses,’ Brenda went on, delighting in my discomfiture and misery, ‘is what criminals get. Your conjunctions and your hyperboles are all mixed up with your syntax, and your figures of speech only fall between 10 and 20. Where you have punctuation you should have allegory and predicates, so that the pronouns appear in the correct context. In other words, you should stick to oral communication and leave the written word to them what knows their business.’
‘Say no more!’ I cry, covering my ears from the slander and insults. ‘Your envy and enmity is not unexpected. The moment a black man lifts his head, his very own kind are the first to drag him down.’
‘So you see,’ she went on sweetly, ‘you are not even capable of thinking up a good headline.’
‘How can I think now?’ I say, and I was almost in tears, but fighting them back valiantly. ‘A masterpiece was coming to me, but your vicious assessment of my work has stultified my brains.’
‘Well, think about it when you cool off, after you burn that manuscript. You should be ashamed to be the author of such an ignorant, unschooled piece of work. Really, I thought better of you.’
I left Brenda with a heavy heart. Woe is me. I had barely recovered from Galahad’s criticisms when this had to happen. I wince as I thought about it. First he condemn my material, which was one thing, but now Brenda had ridiculed the very foundation and structure, hurling contempt and defamation on my usage of the Queen’s language, which had always been my forte, as I have tried to show.
I plod dejectedly up the basement steps, weighed down with the double-barrel barrage she had fire at me. My burden was not only her spitefulness and calcumny which Time would heal – I have been sorely pressed by vicissitudes ere this and am an old hand at turning the other cheek – but there was the crushing blow of Bob’s treachery. I don’t know which was the harder to bear; I didn’t know how to face him. I felt I could never look him in the eye again. I was not angry. I was sad. That’s the most hurtful part of it. I couldn’t fly into a rage and storm upstairs and accuse him wrathfully for having deceived me. I could only feel melancholia.
And to think that I did went downstairs with good intentions for him!
He was still sitting down, but he had advanced from beer to whisky on the rocks, and he was looking at some photograph album which he had originally brought with him along with his stock of comic books.
I heaved a great sigh and sit down on the sofa so that I didn’t have to face him direct.
‘Well?’ he rattle the ice in his glass, like a man absorbed drawing attention to his absorbability.
‘Brenda thinks it is a good idea,’ I manage lifelessly. ‘She will put it up to the committee.’
‘Good show. I was just scanning some photographs that I have,’ he say, probably scanning them all over again, lifting them up to the light and squinting, ‘but none of them do me justice.’
‘Justice!’ I spat out the word. ‘It got no justice. They say the world is round, but a donkey shit square.’
He was too engrossed in looking at his own physiognomy to listen. ‘What do you think of this one?’ he shove the album at me.
‘It’s okay,’ I say, without looking.
‘It’s old, though. I took it out years ago. You think the Party has enough funds to send a photographer around to snap me?’
‘Don’t ask me no bloody thing,’ I say, getting even more irritable that he couldn’t notice the mood I was in.
‘I shouldn’t have to give them a picture, anyway, they must have a cameraman if they’re running a newspaper. You never saw this album before, have you?’
‘How could I?’ I began listlessly, but gathered tone. ‘You never showed it to me. And I honour your privacy, you know. I don’t go prying into your things, unlike some people I know. One in particular.’
‘It reminds me of my life up north, before I came
to London.’ I might as well of not spoken. He was holding the album close to me, thinking that I was watching as he slowly turn the pages. He laugh and give me a dig with his elbow. ‘Look at this family group. That’s Mum and Dad at the back, and me and my two brothers and sister in the front. My sister got married to a Welshman who gives her a hard time. They have two children. I’ve got a picture of them together somewhere,’ and he turn the page. ‘Ah, here. I took this one out myself.’
‘It’s time you paid them a visit, isn’t it? Why don’t you pack up and return to the Black Country?’ Once again I threw all the sarcasm and bitterness I could into my tone, but it was lost. It look as if as far as I concern it’s easy to take insults, but an art I don’t know is to insult other people, apparently.
Bob laugh wistfully. ‘Maybe I will. I haven’t seen them for years. And my holidays are due.’
‘The time’s ripe now,’ I say. ‘Might as well enjoy all that blood money you got from hoarding them Pakis.’
‘Yeah.’
‘When you think of going, that’s the time to go. Maybe you’ll like it up there and stay,’ I add hopefully.
‘Perhaps after my picture appears in the newspapers,’ he say, ‘it’ll be something to talk about. Look at this one of me with a tart from my home town.’
‘You could visit her too,’ I say without looking.
The wistful note crept back into his voice. ‘Man, she was hard to lay, you know? I had to spend a lot of money before I got her in the mood. But it was worth it. Yes siree.’ And he laugh reminiscently.
‘You’d do anything for a bit of pussy, won’t you?’ I say bitterly, ‘even deceive your friends?’
It was coming out, I had it all pent-up, and I suppose I couldn’t hold it back any longer.
‘Eh?’ he say. ‘What’s that?’
‘You know bloody well what I mean,’ I say, warming now. ‘You would sneak and beg and crawl and creep. Nothing is below you to get a bird beneath you. Like Brenda for instance.’
‘I had Brenda many times,’ he brag.
‘I refer to one particular night. When you picked the lock and showed her my Memoirs, even though you know how sensitive I am about it.’
He look up from the photograph album for the first time. But he didn’t have the guts to look me in the eye. He just lift his head and glance around the penthouse, giving himself time to think, to fabricate some hollow excuse for his despicable behaviour.
‘She told you?’ he say.
‘Truth will out,’ I say, and I taunted him. ‘Go on, make your feeble excuses, as I know you will.’
‘You know how it is when you are in heat, Moses,’ he put down the album and pick up his whisky. His hand was shaking. ‘I did not stop to think.’
‘No doubt you must have read it time and again yourself,’ I say with such rancour as I could manage in my wretchedness. ‘Have you no caustic comment to make about the juxtaposition of my adjectives?’
‘I never read a word. I swear that.’
‘Bah!’ I spat. ‘Don’t add hypocrisy to your sins, spare me your lies, at least own up like a man and stand the bounce.’
‘I tell you, Moses, I have never set eyes on it, knowing how delicate your feelings are.’
I gagged. I almost puked. In my disconcernment I snatched his glass and had a swig of whisky, the first time strong drink ever passed my lips. When I was a little boy in Trinidad my mother had to force a little brandy pass my throat when I had a fresh-cold – to kill the germs, she said.
‘The damage it done,’ I say quietly. ‘What’s the use of talking?’
‘I’ve done worse things and you never reacted like this,’ he rebuke.
‘You won’t understand,’ I say. ‘What do you know of the deep maelstroms churning inside an author, or how touchous he could be concerning his work?’
‘I can see that’s one fuck I’ll live to regret,’ Bob say thoughtfully.
‘Aye,’ I say, ‘right on. Swinging. You may consider the incident forgotten, but not forgiven. I still await a formal apology.’
‘Don’t be so bloody fussy,’ he say, ‘I’ve as much as said I’m sorry.’
‘You haven’t couched it in the proper words or manner,’ I say stubbornly. Maybe I was pushing it too far, but I could still feel a nasty taste in my mouth from Brenda’s virulence.
Bob capsize his drink and finish it, and get up. ‘I’m going to bed. We’ll talk tomorrow, when you are in a better mood.’
I didn’t say anything, just let him go, leaving his photograph album on the table. I don’t know how long I sat there after he left, calming myself thinking of sandy beaches and waving coconut palms in my beloved homeland, remembering little joys and pleasures to soothe my mind. Familiarity breeds contempt, and the thought was coming to me that Bob should really have a vacation, and get out of my sight and hearing until such time as I convalesced.
I took up the photograph album and began to look at the pictures randomly. Some of them was loose, and as I turn the one what had him and that blowsy wench, I notice an address on the back: JEANNIE DANIELS, CHEZ NOUS, MOSCOW AVENUE, ASHBY-DE-LA-ZOUCH, LEICESTERSHIRE. And underneath that, these words: COME BACK TO JEANNIE, BOBBIE!
I sit down at the table and write a letter: Dear Jeannie, I hope you will not think me presumptious, but I got your address from a photograph which Bobbie keeps in his wallet (close to his heart) during the day, and under his pillow at night. Bobbie has been staying with me since he came to London, and I cannot tell you how much he misses you, and calls your name day and night. I don’t know how he bears being seperated from you for such a long time. He has been working so hard that he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown, and is really in need of a break to get away from the hurly-burly polluted atmosphere of London. He has told me of those pleasant walks together with you down an English lane gathering lilacs, and I feel a change of air would do him a world of good, and being with you would be a tonic in itself. I am taking it upon myself to write this letter as a surprise for him, hoping that you will invite him to come and visit you. You can reply to this address because, as I say, he is here with me, and he is really in bad shape.
Nothing venture nothing gain. Two days after I post the letter a reply come for Bob. I steam it open: Dearest Bobbie! You promised to write when you went to London but I never heard a word from you. It is only through the kindnest of your friend that I got the address. My darling I miss you from the day you left. You must come right away before you get any worst in London, and we will have some good times like we did. I am writing immideatly so that you can come from this very weekend, because Mum is going away for a few weeks (to her sister in Scotland) and we will be by our selves. Don’t get too many ideas, though. I close with all my love for you alone, Bobbie, XXX, Jeannie. (PS Can you bring me a bra, cup C, and a few pairs of nylons, as I cannot get good ones here, and leave it up to you to decide what colour.)
I gloated over the success of my enterprise by having a scotch on the rocks. (It just goes to show you how you go downhill once you get started on the Demon drink.) When Bob come home I had one waiting for him too.
‘What’s this,’ he say, ‘you’ve come to your senses?’
I hadn’t said a word to him since that night.
‘There’s a letter for you,’ I say.
‘For me?’ he look astounded.
‘Yes.’
‘Oh. See what it is,’ he say, and move to the sideboard to put more ice in his drink.
I read the letter loud, and he stay right over there listening, as if the acoustics was better there. When I finish I explain what I had done.
‘I hope you’re not annoyed,’ I say. ‘It’s just that you seem homesick and sentimental the other night, and I acted on the spur of the moment.’
‘I’m tempted,’ he say musingly, ‘but can you manage on your own?’
I wave my hand in the air. ‘It won’t be easy. But I’ll get Brenda to come up and lend a hand when she could.’
‘J
eannie,’ he say softly.
‘With the light brown hair,’ I egg, singing the line.
‘Pity we can’t both go,’ he say.
‘One of us has got to hold the fort,’ I say.
‘I’ll try to be gone only for a week or two,’ he say.
‘Don’t hurry back,’ I say. ‘Stay as long as you like. In fact, the way things are going here, it won’t surprise me if you decide you are better off in the Black Country.’
‘You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you,’ he say with a twinkle in his eye.
‘God forbid,’ I say, ‘but I don’t want to stand in your way. There doesn’t appear to be any future for you in London. How will you travel, by coach or train?’
‘I may fly,’ he said, ‘and land up there in style. Jeannie is impressed by little things like that.’
‘Have a good time,’ I say, ‘and don’t worry about me, I’ll be all right.’
The better part of the Friday night he spend hoovering, spitting and polishing the penthouse until it got on my nerves.
‘That’ll do Bob, you don’t want to tire yourself out for Jeannie.’
‘You sure you’ll be okay on your own? You know where everything is?’
‘Yeah, yeah. Go to bed, you have an early flight in the morning.’
So he left the Saturday, taking a suitcase with some clothes, and a stock of comic books to browse on the flight.
A peace descend on the penthouse after Bob gone. In the lull, I congratulated myself for getting rid of him. At last I had a chance to size up the way things was going, to recover my equilibrium and equanimity. I started to make plans about the house. I thought of selling up and retreating to Cornwall or the Chilterns. I did tell Bob that he had no future in London, but what the arse had I? Who would buy a house with a short lease that the LCC was going to knock down soon? Then I thought of Brenda and her insults, and Galahad and Black Power, and the pending trial, and how I was so stupid to put up bail for them. I tried to work on the book, but when I sit down to write, all these depressing thoughts keep humbugging me. I start to take a closer look at my phraseology and my spelling, and if I could find any grammatical errors or incorrect punctuations, but I didn’t see any, it look just as good as anything Shakespeare or Billy Wordsworth ever write; that black bitch Brenda was only green with envy, not even a comma or a common noun was askew.