Collected Short Fiction

by V. S. Naipaul

  No place for us now. Change, change. It was fast and furious. Through mine-free, dangerless channels ships came from Europe and the United States to the island: some grey, some still with their wartime camouflage, but one or two already white: the first of the tourist boats.

  And on the base, where before there had been stern notices about a 5 mph speed limit and about the dangers to unauthorized persons, there now appeared a sign: TO BE SOLD BY PUBLIC AUCTION.

  The base was sold and a time was fixed for local possession. Until that time my authority still mattered. From house to house in the street I went. And in that no man’s time – between the last Retreat and the arrival of the local buyer who had put up a new board:

  To Be Erected Here Shortly

  THE FLORIDA SHIRT FACTORY

  – in that no man’s time, at dawn, through the open unguarded gates of the base the people of the street came in and took away whatever they could carry. They took away typewriters, they took away stoves, they took away bathtubs, wash-basins, refrigerators, cabinets. They took away doors and windows and panels of wire-netting.

  I saw the buildings bulldozed. I saw the quick tropical grass spreading into the cracks on the asphalted roads. I saw the flowers, the bougainvillaea, poinsettia, the hibiscus, grow straggly in the tropics we had created.

  In a house stuffed with refrigerators and wash-basins and stoves and typewriters I took my leave.

  ‘It is our way,’ Selma said. ‘Better this than that.’ She pointed to Henry’s, where Henry stood, miserable in his own doorway, Mrs Henry, you could feel, oppressive in the background. ‘That is how love and the big thing always ends.’

  Blackwhite was typing when I left.

  III

  In the doorway now stood the bouncer.

  ‘I’ve been keeping my eye on you.’

  ‘Me too. You are very pretty.’

  He made a gesture.

  ‘As pretty as a picture in a magazine. What are you advertising today? Bourbon?’

  ‘You can’t come in here.’

  ‘No, I don’t think bourbon. I think rice.’

  ‘Even with a tie I don’t think you could come in here.’

  ‘Bourbon, rice: I’m not interested. I’m turning the page over to the funnies.’

  ‘You can’t come in here.’

  ‘You’ve a nice place to break up.’

  It was lush inside, like the film set of an old musical. There were waiters dressed in fancy clothes which I took to be a type of folk costume. There were tourists at candlelit tables; there was a stage with a thatched roof. And sitting at a long table in the company of some expensively-dressed elderly men was Mr Blackwhite.

  ‘You can’t come in here without a tie.’

  I pulled hard at his.

  A voice said, ‘You better lend him yours before you hang yourself on it.’

  The voice was Henry’s. Poor Henry, in a suit and with a tie; his eyes red and impotent with drink; thinner than I had remembered, his face more sour.

  ‘Henry, what have they done to you?’

  ‘I think,’ another voice said, ‘I think that is a question he might more properly put to you.’

  It was Blackwhite. H. J. B. White, of the tormented winking writer’s-photograph face. Very ordinary now.

  ‘I have bought all your books.’

  ‘Hooray for you, as the saying was. Frank, it is awfully nice seeing you here again. But you frighten us a little.’

  ‘You frighten me too.’ I lifted my arms in mock terror. ‘Oh, I am frightened of you.’

  Henry said, ‘Do that more often and they will get you up on the stage.’ He nodded towards the back of the room.

  Blackwhite gave a swift, anxious look at the room. Some tourists, among them the happy team and the embittered team of the morning, were looking at me with alarm and shame. Letting down the side.

  Blackwhite said, ‘I don’t think you only frighten us, you know.’

  I was struggling with the tie the doorman had given me. Greasy.

  ‘Look,’ I said to Henry, pointing to the doorman. ‘This man hasn’t got a tie. Throw him out.’

  ‘You are in one of your moods,’ Blackwhite said. ‘I don’t think you can see that we have moved with the times.’

  ‘Oh, I am frightened of you.’

  ‘Drunkard,’ Blackwhite said.

  ‘It’s only sugar, remember?’

  ‘I believe, Frank, speaking as a friend, that you want another island. Another bunch of happy-go-lucky natives.’

  ‘So you went to Cambridge?’

  ‘A tedious place.’

  ‘Still, it shows.’

  The band began to tune up. Blackwhite became restless, anxious to get back to his guests. ‘Come, Frankie, why don’t you go down to the kitchen with Henry and have a drink and talk over old times? You can see we have some very distinguished guests from various foundations tonight. Very important negotiations on hand, boy. And we mustn’t give them a wrong idea of the place, must we? Don’t waste your time. Take a tip. Start looking for another island.’ He looked at me; he softened. ‘Though I don’t think there is any place for you now except home. Take him down, Henry. And Henry, look, when Pablo and those other idlers come, clean them up a little bit in the kitchen first before you send them up, eh?’

  Men and women in fancy costumes which were like the waiters’ costumes came out on to the stage and began doing a fancy folk dance. They symbolically picked cotton, symbolically cut cane, symbolically carried water. They squatted and swayed on the floor and moaned a dirge. From time to time a figure with a white mask over his face ran among them, cracking a whip; and they lifted their hands in pretty fear.

  ‘You see how us niggers suffered,’ Henry said, leading me to a door marked STAFF ONLY. ‘Is all Blackwhite doing, you know. He say it was you who give him the idea. You make him stop writing all those books about lords and ladies in England. You ask him to write about black people. You know, Frankie, come to think of it, you did interfere a damn lot, you know. Is a wonder you didn’t try to marry me off: Is a wonder? Is a pity. Remember what you did use to say about what you would do if you had a million dollars? What you would do for the island, for the street?’

  ‘A million dollars.’

  Footsteps behind me. I turned.

  ‘Frankie.’

  ‘Leonard.’

  ‘Frankie, I am glad I found you. I was really worried about you. But goodness, isn’t this a terrific place? Did you see that last dance?’

  From where we were we could hear the cracking of whips, orchestrated wails, the stamp and scuttling of feet. Then it came: muted, measured applause.

  ‘Leonard, you’d better get back,’ I said. ‘There are some people from various foundations upstairs who have seized Mr White. If you aren’t careful you will lose him.’

  ‘Oh, is that who they were? Thanks for telling me. I will run up straight away. I don’t know how I will make myself known to him. People just don’t believe me …’

  ‘You will think of something. Henry, where is the telephone?’

  ‘You still play this telephone game. One day the police are going to catch up with you.’

  I dialled. The telephone rang. I waited. A booming male voice shouted, ‘Frankie. Stay away.’ So loud that even Henry could hear.

  ‘Priest,’ I said. ‘Gary Priestland. How do you think he knew?’

  Henry said, ‘From the way you’ve been getting on, I don’t imagine there is a single person in town who doesn’t know. You know you broke up the British Council lecture on Shakespeare or something?’

  ‘My God.’ I remembered the room. Six people, a man in khaki trousers swinging jolly, friendly legs over a table.

  ‘You thought it was a bar.’

  ‘But, Henry, what’s happened to the place? You mean they’ve actually begun to give you culture now? Shakespeare and all the rest of it?’

  ‘They give we, we give them. A two-way process, as old Blackwhite always saying. And they alway
s saying how much they have to learn from us. I don’t know how the thing catch on so sudden. You see the place is like a little New York now. I imagine that’s why they like it. Everybody feel at home. Ice-cubes in the fridge, and at the same time they getting the exotic old culture. The old Coconut Grove even have a board of governors. I think, you know, the next thing is they going to ask me to run for the City Council. They already make me a MBE, you know.’

  ‘MBE?’

  ‘Member of the Order of the British Empire. Something they give singers and people in culture. Frankie, you don’t even care about the MBE. Forget the telephone. Forget Selma. Sometimes you want the world to end. You can’t go back and do things again. They begin just like that, they get good. The only thing is you never know they good until they finish. I wish the hurricane would come and blow away all this. I feel the world need this sort of thing every now and then. A clean break, a fresh start. But the damn world don’t end. And we don’t dead at the right time.’

  ‘What about Selma?’

  ‘You really want to know?’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I hear she buy a mixmaster the other day.’

  ‘Now this is what I really call news.’

  ‘I don’t know what else to tell you. I went the other day to the Hilton. Barbecue night. I see Selma there, picking and choosing with the rest. Everybody moving with the times, Frankie. Only you and me moving backwards.’

  Mrs Henry came into the room. She didn’t have to say that she didn’t like me. Henry cringed.

  She said, ‘I don’t know, Henry. Leave you in charge in front for five minutes, and the place start going to pieces. I just had to sack the doorman. He didn’t have no tie or anything. And Mr White did ask you to take special care this evening.’

  I fingered the doorman’s tie. When Mrs Henry left Henry sprayed the door with an imaginary tommy gun. I was aware of the room. We were among flowers. Hundreds of plastic blooms.

  ‘You looking,’ Henry said. ‘Is not my doing. I like a flowers, but I don’t like a flowers so bad.’

  The back door was pushed open again. Henry cringed, lowered his voice. But it wasn’t Mrs Henry.

  ‘I is Pablo,’ an angry man said. ‘What that fat woman mean, telling we to come round by the back?’

  ‘That was no woman,’ Henry said. ‘That was my wife.’

  Pablo was one of three angry men. Three men of the people: freshly washed hair, freshly oiled, freshly suited. They looked like triplets.

  Pablo said, ‘Mr White sent for us specially. He send for me. He send for he.’ He pointed to one of his friends.

  The friend said, ‘I is Sandro.’

  ‘He send for he.’

  ‘I is Pedro.’

  ‘Pablo, Sandro, Pedro,’ Henry said, ‘cool down.’

  ‘Mr White won’t like it,’ Pablo said.

  ‘Making guests and artisses come through the back,’ said Sandro.

  ‘When they get invite to a little supper,’ said Pedro.

  Henry sized them up. ‘Guests and artisses. A lil supper. Well, all-you look all right, I suppose. Making, as they say, the best of a bad job. Go up. Mr White waiting for you.’

  They left, mollified. Determination to deter further insult was in their walk. Henry, following them, seemed to sag.

  I noticed an angry face behind the window. It was the sacked doorman. I could scarcely recognize him without his tie. He made threatening gestures; he seemed about to climb in. I straightened his tie around my collar and hurried after Henry into the main hall.

  At the long table the little supper seemed about to begin. Blackwhite rose to meet Pablo, Sandro and Pedro. The three expensively-suited men with Blackwhite rose to be introduced. Leonard and Sinclair were hanging around uncertainly.

  Blackwhite eyed Leonard. Leonard flinched. He saw me and ran over.

  ‘I don’t have the courage,’ he whispered.

  ‘I’ll introduce you.’

  I led him to the table.

  ‘I’ll introduce you,’ I said again. ‘Blackwhite is an old friend.’

  I pulled up two chairs from another table. I put one chair on Blackwhite’s right. For Leonard. One chair on Blackwhite’s left. For me. Astonishment on the faces of the foundation men; anxiety on Blackwhite’s; a mixture of assessment and sympathy on the faces of Pablo, Sandro and Pedro, uncomfortable among the crystal and linen, the flowers and the candles.

  A waiter passed around menus. I tried to take one. He pulled it back. He looked at Blackwhite, questioning. Blackwhite looked at me. He looked down at Leonard. Leonard gave a little smile and a little wave and looked down at the table at a space between settings. He drew forks from his right and knives from his left.

  ‘Yes,’ Blackwhite said. ‘I suppose. Feed them.’

  They hurried up with knives and forks and spoons.

  Pablo and Sandro and Pedro were lip-reading the menus.

  Pablo said, ‘Steak Chatto Brian for me.’

  ‘But, sir,’ the waiter said. ‘That’s for two.’

  Pablo said, ‘You didn’t hear me? Chatto Brian.’

  ‘Chatto Brian,’ Sandro said.

  ‘Chatto Brian,’ Pedro said.

  ‘Oysters,’ I said. ‘Fifty. No, a hundred.’

  ‘As a starter?’

  ‘And ender.’

  ‘Prawns for me,’ Leonard said. ‘You know. Boiled. And with the shells. I like peeling them.’

  ‘He is a great admirer of yours, Blackwhite,’ I said. ‘His name is Leonard. He is a patron of the arts.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Leonard said. ‘Mr White, this is a great pleasure. I think Hate is wonderful. It is – it is – a most endearing work.’

  ‘It was not meant to be an endearing work,’ Blackwhite said.

  ‘Goodness, I hope I haven’t said the wrong thing.’

  ‘You can’t, Leonard,’ I said. ‘Leonard has got some money to give away.’

  Blackwhite adjusted the nature of his gaze. Pablo, Sandro and Pedro looked up. The men from the foundations stared.

  ‘Do you know him, Chippy?’

  ‘Can’t say I do. I’ll ask Bippy.’

  ‘I don’t know him, Tippy.’

  ‘Leonard,’ Chippy said. ‘I’ve never heard of that name in Foundationland.’

  ‘This is possible,’ Blackwhite said. ‘But Leonard has the right idea.’

  ‘Mr White,’ Bippy said, affronted.

  ‘We have never let you down,’ said Tippy.

  ‘You won’t want to run out on us now, will you, Mr White?’ Chippy asked.

  ‘What about you, Mr White?’ asked the waiter.

  Blackwhite considered the menu. ‘I think I’ll start with the Avocado Lucullus.’

  ‘Avocado Lucullus.’ The waiter made an approving note.

  ‘What do you mean by the right idea, Mr White?’

  ‘Then I think I’ll try a sole. What’s the bonne femme like tonight? The right idea?’

  The waiter brought his thumb and index finger together to make a circle.

  ‘Well, let’s say the sole bonne femme. With a little spinach. Gentlemen, I’ll tell you straight. The artist in the post-colonial era is in a position of peculiar difficulty.’

  ‘How would you like the spinach, Mr White?’

  ‘En branches. And the way you or anyone else can help him is with – money. There it is, gentlemen. The way you can help Pablo here—’

  ‘The wine list, Mr White.’

  ‘Go on. We are listening.’

  ‘The way to help Pablo – ah, sommelier. But let’s ask our hosts.’

  ‘No, no. We leave that to you, Mr White.’

  ‘Is with – money. Shall we break some rules? Pablo, would you and your boys mind a hock? Or would you absolutely insist on a burgundy to go with your Chateaubriand?’

  ‘Anything you say, Mr White.’

  ‘I think the hock. Tell me, do you have any of that nice Rudesheimer left?’

  ‘Indeed, Mr White. Chilled.’

&n
bsp; ‘All right, gentlemen? A trifle sweet. But still.’

  ‘Sure. Waiter, bring a couple of bottles of what Mr White just said. How do we help Pablo?’

  ‘Pablo? You give Pablo ten thousand dollars. And let him get on with the job.’

  ‘What does he do?’ asked Bippy.

  ‘That’s a detail,’ Blackwhite said. ‘So far as my present argument goes.’

  ‘I entirely agree,’ Chippy said.

  ‘Waiter,’ Blackwhite called. ‘I believe you have forgotten our hosts.’

  ‘Sorry, gentlemen. For you?’

  ‘But if you are interested, Pablo and his boys are a painting group. They work together at the same time on one canvas.’

  ‘Steak tartare. Like the Italians. Or the Dutch.’

  ‘Steak tartare. One man painting the face.’

  ‘Steak tartare. The other painting the scenery. Steak tartare. What am I saying? Just a salad.’

  ‘Not quite,’ Blackwhite said. ‘This is more an experiment in recovering the tribal subconscious.’

  ‘Shall we say, en vinaigrette?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know about Jung and the racial memory.’

  ‘With vinegar.’

  ‘That’s just about how I feel.’

  ‘They have produced some very interesting results. A sort of artistic stream-of-consciousness relay. But in paint. A sort of continuous mutual interference.’

  ‘This sounds very interesting, Mr White,’ Bippy said.

  ‘We don’t want to offend Pablo,’ Tippy said.

  ‘Or Sandro or Pedro,’ Chippy added.

  ‘But we have to be sure, Mr White.’

  ‘Foundationland has its own rules, Mr White.’

  ‘Mr White, we have to write reports.’

  ‘Mr White, help us.’

  ‘Mr White, we have made this journey to see you.’

  ‘I don’t know, gentlemen. We can’t just brush off Pablo and his boys just like that. An appropriate word, don’t you think? Let us see how they feel.’

  Bippy, Tippy and Chippy looked at Pablo, Sandro and Pedro.

  ‘Ask them,’ Blackwhite said. ‘Go on, ask them.’