The Chip-Chip Gatherers

by Shiva Naipaul

  She had come a long way from their meetings in the Settlement when everything had seemed to be contained in the hour they spent together in the Hollow. Julian had been placed in proper perspective and she could stand back and view him – and herself – dispassionately. It had not been achieved overnight. She had had to teach and train herself to be dispassionate; she had been compelled into perfecting yet another technique of self-preservation. The diary had been her chief instrument.

  By writing down everything that happened between them, she was able to distance herself. Filling in her diary became a soothing and necessary exercise which she performed nightly before going to bed. She wrote down their conversations word for word and read them over to herself. She might have been writing about two people who were strangers to her; on whom she had eavesdropped. The Sita represented in the diary was not the Sita who wrote the diary. To further assist her detachment, she enumerated Julian’s ‘faults’ as she perceived them: his arrogance; his callousness; his irresponsibility. These too she read and reread. The diary was a powerful charm: her guarantee against temptation.

  However, it was not purely a defensive operation against Julian. There was her own declared intention of never marrying to be taken into account. This had nothing to do with Julian, predating his appearance at the Library Van. Thus, who Julian eventually chose to marry could never be of much concern to her. It was a problem whose solution she would follow from afar and with a passing curiosity. The equation was precisely balanced. She had removed herself, by fiat almost, well beyond the reach of pain and betrayal.

  Blissfully free from false hope, there could be no harm whatsoever in their meetings and she could immerse herself in their friendship without fear of the consequences. It was his very ‘faults’ which attracted her. Julian possessed a freedom which circumstance and nature had conspired to deny her. He would always be blown with the prevailing winds of time and place. As if by design, the stark colours in which her character had been painted and its brittle, fatal strengths which permitted her scant room for manoeuvre, contrasted with the softer colours of Julian’s character. Herself defiantly visible, she admired his accommodating flexibility and talent for camouflage.

  There was only one fact she had not succeeded in taming: Julian’s eventual departure from the island. Somehow, it was built differently from the other ‘facts’ which she had pains-takingly enumerated in her diary, refusing to yield to the potent charms she had devised. It was like a raw and tender spot on the skin. Let it be and it might heal itself. Rub it and it might grow inflamed. Sita had elected to ignore it but Julian would not allow her to do so. Detecting the fright lurking behind her reticence on the subject, he wilfully probed and prodded the tender spot.

  ‘When I’m in England,’ he had said, ‘I shall imagine you sitting by yourself here in the verandah and reading. How will you imagine me when I’m over there?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’ She frowned. ‘I’ll probably imagine you imagining me sitting by myself in the verandah and reading.’

  ‘How will you spend your time when I’m not here?’

  ‘I will lie down and pine to death.’

  ‘There you go! Losing your temper with me again.’

  ‘I wouldn’t lose my temper if you didn’t keep asking me such stupid questions.’

  Julian simulated bafflement. ‘I don’t understand you at all. All I did was ask a simple question.’

  Another time he had said: ‘Do you realize how time is flying? Every day that passes is one day less till I leave. Every minute is one minute less.’ He glanced at his watch.

  ‘Well?’ she replied irritably. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I was only stating a simple fact.’

  ‘Simple facts shouldn’t need stating,’ she said. ‘You behave as if you’re leaving tomorrow.’

  His departure, despite her best efforts, remained an unresolved threat.

  3

  Sushila’s condition worsened rapidly. Sita did her best to keep out of her way but that was impossible: Sushila would not let her.

  ‘Why you always quarrelling with Sita for?’ Egbert Ramsaran asked. ‘This place is like a madhouse. Not a hour does pass …’

  ‘I going to murder she. I going to take one of them guns you have and shoot she down dead. Is only when she dead I’ll be happy.’

  Egbert Ramsaran was amused. ‘If you reach under the bed,’ he said, ‘you will find the gun. Only don’t make too much noise.’

  ‘This is no laughing matter. I really mean it. I going to shoot she down dead.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Just reach under the bed and you will find it.’

  ‘Two scrawny legs and breasts don’t make a woman.’

  Egbert Ramsaran laughed. ‘Like you jealous of she?’

  Sushila reacted violently. ‘Why should I be jealous of that scrawny little bitch? What she have that I got to be jealous of?’

  ‘If she have nothing for you to be jealous of, why get so worked up about it?’

  ‘You taking me for granted,’ Sushila shouted. ‘But take care. You will be sorry.’

  Sushila’s fears spiralled, feeding on each other until they gained a complete stranglehold over her. She could not depend on her judgement for it told her terrible things. Her need to be reassured that her beauty had been preserved intact and undiminished, that she was not being ‘taken for granted’, assumed the dimensions of a mania. The void within her had to be filled somehow. And who but Egbert Ramsaran could provide the answers she sought? She fell on him frenziedly. But even his reassurances were not sufficient to quieten her. Away from the sound of his voice and the direct and immediate gaze of his eyes, the slit of doubt and mistrust was deposited anew, smothering the fleeting tranquillity she had gained. She was compelled to return to him and demand a fresh spate of words to wash the silt away. Sushila was a glutton whose voracious appetite for praise could never be sated.

  ‘You think I pretty?’

  ‘Yes,’ Egbert Ramsaran replied, not looking up from the detective novel he was reading.

  ‘How you could tell if you have your nose bury inside a book?’

  ‘Because I see you a million times before. Today is not the first time.’ Wetting the tip of his index finger, he turned a page and continued reading.

  Sushila strolled aimlessly to the window, stuck her head outside and came back to the centre of the room. ‘How pretty exactly?’

  ‘You not letting me read my book in peace. I’ll discuss it with you later.’

  She sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Let’s discuss it now. I very pretty – or only so-so?’ She was whining.

  Egbert Ramsaran turned another page.

  ‘You not even looking at me!’ She leapt forward and seized the book from him, holding it behind her back. ‘Look at me!’

  He looked at her, frowning.

  ‘Well? How pretty?’

  ‘Very pretty. Now give me back my book and let me read in peace.’

  ‘You don’t really mean it. You only saying so. I know you.’

  ‘The book!’ His voice whistled.’ Give me back my book.’

  ‘Here! You could eat your damn book for all I care.’ She flung the book at him and left the room, slamming the door.

  She accused him of having designs on a succession of women. ‘I notice how your eyes does follow them,’ she said. ‘You tired of me. I not blind. You planning to throw me away as if I was a old paper bag.’

  ‘What is this? You never tired telling me that you is not a prisoner. That you free to come and go as you please. But it seem that you want to make me a prisoner. I can’t even use my eyes these days without asking your permission.’

  Sushila did not hesitate to include Sita in the list of her potential rivals. ‘You making up to she. You planning to throw me out and put she in my place?’

  ‘This is going too far, Sushila. Sita is a young girl. Young enough to be my granddaughter.’

  ‘That don’t make no difference. In fact …’


  ‘Not another word!’

  ‘Who you think is the prettier?’ Sushila persisted. ‘Me – or she with she two scrawny …’

  ‘Stop all this nonsense. I going to lose my patience with you soon. What’s wrong with you?’

  Sushila was not short of excuses for her behaviour. She complained that she had too much to do about the house and that this was giving her headaches and causing her to sleep badly; and, there was Sita to cope with. ‘That bitch don’t lift a finger to help me,’ she muttered. ‘Always saying she have home lesson to do. Home lesson! What you sending she to school for? What use that going to be to she? You should take she out of that convent …’

  ‘All in good time,’ Egbert Ramsaran said. ‘I’ll decide what to do with Sita.’ He grinned at her. ‘You sure you not having a baby?’

  ‘You could set your mind at rest on that score. Is exhaustion I suffering from and Sita is the cause of it.’

  ‘The sea air is what you need,’ Egbert Ramsaran said. ‘We could spend two weeks in the beach house. I could do with a holiday myself.’

  The proposition did not appeal to Sushila: the charms of the seaside had worn thin recently. ‘I tired of the beach house,’ she replied. ‘I want to go somewhere I never been before. Somewhere new. Is as if I can’t breathe properly any more.’

  Egbert Ramsaran exploded. ‘What you think I buy the beach house for? Who do you think I buy the beach house for? Don’t forget it was you who make me buy it and now …’

  ‘I didn’t make you buy it. You wouldn’t have buy it if you didn’t want to.’ She gazed at him sullenly. ‘I want to go abroad for a change.’

  ‘Abroad! You better knock that idea out of your head once and for all. Abroad!’ He snorted.

  Sushila resorted to veiled threat. ‘Well something going to have to happen – and soon. It have other people who wouldn’t mind taking me abroad. They would jump at the opportunity.’

  ‘Let them take you then.’ Egbert Ramsaran was nonchalant. He was accustomed to Sushila’s threats. If she had not gone by now, she would never go. He was confident of that and he had ceased to entertain it even as a possibility.

  To lend substance to her threats, Sushila would slip away from the house and not return for many hours. When called to account she was provocatively vague as to the nature and purpose of these escapades. In fact, they were innocent expeditions to Port-of-Spain and San Fernando and amounted to no more than surreptitious window shopping: she did not have the courage to look up old friends. But Sushila implied there was more to it than this. To a certain extent, her strategy succeeded. She had jolted Egbert Ramsaran out of his complacency; and that was a prize too valuable to be surrendered lightly. Sushila revelled in conjuring up the shadows of a non-existent intrigue.

  ‘Who you been seeing?’ Egbert Ramsaran asked. ‘Is it a man?’ He knitted his brows.

  ‘What difference that make to you? It could be a man. It could be a woman. Or it could be neither. What I does do in my spare time is my affair. I does only work here. Remember?’ She propped her hands on her hips.

  ‘Don’t give me any fancy backchat.’ He grabbed her arm and shook her. ‘Is some man you been going to see?’

  ‘What if it is a man?’

  ‘So you admit it! What does this man do for you?’ He shook her.

  ‘He don’t take me for granted.’

  Egbert Ramsaran slapped her. ‘Who is the man? Tell me his name.’

  ‘I not going to tell you that,’ Sushila laughed. ‘Is only one thing I will tell you and that is that he don’t take me for granted.’

  He slapped her. ‘Is that Farouk, not so?’

  ‘I not going to tell you who it is.’

  ‘If is Farouk I’ll …’

  Sushila was alarmed. ‘Is not Farouk,’ she conceded.

  ‘You lying!’

  ‘To see Farouk I would have to go to the Settlement. And I haven’t been there.’

  ‘Where you been?’

  ‘Port-of-Spain, San Fernando …’

  Egbert Ramsaran let her go. ‘Watch your step, Sushila. Don’t trifle with me. I not going to stand for any nonsense from you.’

  ‘Look,’ Sushila said, ‘you like it?’

  Egbert Ramsaran examined her morosely. She was showing him a frilly new dress she had bought that day in Port-of-Spain and for which she had paid a great deal. The dress would have been more becoming to a girl of eighteen. It was ludicrous on Sushila. Powder and rouge encased her face like a mask. She tripped in front of him, a macabre sight.

  ‘You like it?’ Sushila repeated.

  ‘No,’ Egbert Ramsaran said. ‘It don’t suit you.’

  Sushila stared at herself in the mirror. ‘You talking stupid-ness. This dress suit me down to the ground. The man who sell it to me say so.’

  ‘They would say anything to get a sale. Give it to Sita. It will suit her much better.’

  ‘To Sita!’ The mask contorted. ‘Why should I give it to Sita? Is for myself I buy it.’

  ‘You not as young as you used to be and you should bear that in mind when you waste my money buying clothes. You not going to fool anybody by dressing as if you just step out of the cradle. If you not careful you will make yourself look ridiculous. A real laughing stock. Give it to Sita.’ He folded his arms across his chest.

  ‘Even if you don’t like it, it have other people …’

  ‘Other people must be blind.’

  The mask was blank.

  Egbert Ramsaran smiled, twirling his moustache. ‘You know something? I don’t believe it have any man. I believe you making all that up. If you really had another man you wouldn’t be hanging around here.’ He watched her narrowly.

  Sushila’s confidence sagged. ‘You could believe anything you want.’

  ‘Name him.’

  ‘I not going to name anybody for you.’

  ‘That is because you don’t have anybody to name.’ He was convinced of it now.

  ‘Farouk!’ she called out defiantly, seizing on the first name that came into her head. ‘Yes! Farouk! Is him I does go to see.’

  Egbert Ramsaran regarded her unperturbedly. ‘Okay. You could leave this house today self and go and live with Farouk. I not going to stop you.’ He laughed. ‘Pack your suitcase and leave.’

  The muscles on her powdered jaw twitched.

  ‘What you waiting for?’ he asked calmly. ‘Mind you, I don’t blame you for not taking up the offer. Just to make sure I checked up on Farouk the other day and he say he hadn’t …’ Egbert Ramsaran clucked his tongue. ‘You should have thought of another name.’

  ‘Lies!’

  Egbert Ramsaran shrugged. ‘You don’t have no other man, Sushila. The only man who would have you now is me. I is all you have left and don’t be too sure that I wouldn’t … throw you away like a old paper bag if you continue with this nonsense. If I was to throw you out of here, nobody else would have you. Nobody!’

  His savagery stunned her. ‘It was you who robbed me of my beauty,’ she said softly.

  ‘I didn’t rob you of anything.’

  ‘Lies! Lies!’ she screamed suddenly. ‘I don’t want to listen to your lies any more. I’m tired of your lies. Night after night you robbed me of my beauty. I was so beautiful. So pretty. And you robbed me of everything.’ The mask whimpered.

  ‘I didn’t rob you of anything. I took what you had to give. What you offered me. That was all I did. You should have remember the worms was going to catch up with you one day.’

  ‘Lies! Lies! It was you who robbed me. I was so beautiful. So pretty.’ She caressed her fleshy arms. ‘It didn’t have a man who would say otherwise. They all wanted me. They was prepared to leave they wife and children for me.’ She began to weep, burying her face in her hands, the cheap scent exhaling from her skin. ‘You can’t rob a person of their beauty and not pay for it. It was all I had … all I had.’

  Egbert Ramsaran sneered. ‘You think a policeman going to come here and arrest me? You think it’s against
the law like breaking and entering a house? “What’s the charge, Sarge?” And you expect him to say, “You are charged with robbing a certain Sushila of her beauty. A most serious crime.”’ Egbert Ramsaran guffawed.

  ‘That’s right,’ Sushila screamed back at him. ‘That’s exactly how it should be. It should be against the law and they should take you away and afterwards let the dogs eat you up.’

  ‘That is one thing they not going to do,’ he said flatly. ‘Now go and do your crying somewhere else.’

  ‘I going. Don’t worry your head about that. I going all right.’ She stripped off the dress and bundled it under her arm. Sushila stood there in her petticoat.

  ‘Take my advice and give it to Sita,’ he said.

  ‘You … you devil!’ The mask was grotesque. Sushila ran headlong out of the room.

  Neither Wilbert nor Sita had bothered to bestow a more than passing attention on what was taking place in the front room. In their different ways they had learned to ignore these tableaux; and though its intensity surprised them, they did not allow themselves to be unduly disturbed by this latest enactment. They were misguided. That night Sushila disappeared from the house in Victoria. But she had not embarked on merely another escapade of surreptitious window shopping. This time, Sushila had gone for good.

  They found her room in a shambles the next morning. Sushila could not have taken much with her. Most of her belongings had been scattered on the floor and trampled on: an assortment of dresses, skirts, blouses and shoes were heaped together in the middle of the room. The battered brown suitcase – the same which Farouk had carried on his head the day she had first walked so boldly into the yard swinging her hips and twirling a hat on the tips of her fingers – had been flung upside down. She had obviously started to pack it and then changed her mind. All the drawers in her dressing-table had been pulled right out and their contents ransacked and emptied on the bed as if she had been searching for something specific and not found it. Brushes, combs, powder puffs, bottles of scent and other odd pieces of bric-à-brac had been wantonly broken and abandoned. Her jewellery had suffered a similar fate: brooches, necklaces, hair clips, bangles and ear-rings had been thrown any and everywhere in dazzling disarray. The glossy photographs of the Hollywood film stars had been torn from the wall and crumpled into balls. In the midst of it all, crowning the destruction and havoc, was the frilly dress she had bought. It had been ripped into shreds; and nestling in the tattered folds was a pair of scissors. A malevolent spirit might have been at work in the silent hours of the night. Sita surveyed the wreckage in silence with Wilbert standing beside her in the doorway.