A House for Mr. Biswas

Myna and Kamla, resenting the challenge of Vidiadhar, who was now openly eating prunes, began to claim astounding scholastic achievements for Anand.

“My brother read more books than all of all-you put together.”

“Hear you. But all right. If Anand read so much, let him tell me who is the author of Singing Guns.” This from a young Tuttle.

“Tell him, Anand. Tell him who is the author of Singing Guns.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah-ah-ah!”

“But how you could expect him to know that?” Myna said. “He does only read books of common sense.”

“Okay. Anand does read a lot of books. But my brother write a book. A whole book. And he writing another right now.”

The writer had indeed done that. He was the eldest Tuttle boy. He had impressed his parents by a constant demand for exercise books and by a continuous show of writing. He said he was making notes. In fact, he had copied out every word of Nelson’s West Indian Geography, by Captain Cutteridge, Director of Education, author of Nelson’s West Indian Readers and Nelson’s West Indian Arithmetics. He had completed the Geography in more than a dozen exercise books, and was at the moment engaged on the first volume of Nelson’s West Indian History, by Captain Daniel, Assistant Director of Education.

With the exhibition examination less than two months away, Anand lived a life of pure work. Private lessons were given in the morning for half an hour before school; private lessons were given in the afternoon for an hour after school; private lessons were given for the whole of Saturday morning. Then in addition to all these private lessons from his class teacher, Anand began to take private lessons from the headmaster, at the headmaster’s house, from five to six. He went from school to the Dairies to school again; then he went to the headmaster’s, where Savi waited for him with sandwiches and lukewarm Ovaltine. Leaving home at seven in the morning, he returned at half past six. He ate. Then he did his school homework; then he prepared for all his private lessons.

All the boys in the star section of the exhibition class endured almost similar privation, but they strove to maintain the fiction that they were schoolboys given to pranks, enjoying the most carefree days of their lives. There were a few anxious boys who talked of nothing but work. But most talked of the football season just begi

The talk turned one Monday lunchtime to films, and it appeared that nearly every boy who lived in Port of Spain had been to see the double programme at the London Theatre over the week-end: Jesse James and The Return of Frank James.

“What a double!” the boys exclaimed. “A major double!”

Anand, whose championship of Whitstable had established him as the holder of the perverse opinion, said he didn’t care for it.

The boys rounded on him.

Anand, who had not seen the double, repeated that he didn’t care for it. “Give me When the Daltons Rode and The Daltons Ride Again. Any day, old man.”

It was just his luck for one boy to say then, “I bet you he didn’t go to see it! You could see that old crammer going to a theatre?”

“You are a hypocritical little thug,” Anand said, using two words he had got from his father. “You are a bigger crammer than me.”

The boy wished to shift the conversation: he was a tremendous crammer. He repeated, less warmly, “I bet you didn’t go.” By now, however, the other boys had prepared to listen, and the accuser, gaining confidence, said, “All right-all right. He went. Just let him tell me what happened when Henry Fonda-”

Anand said, “I don’t like Henry Fonda.”

This created a minor diversion.

“How you mean, you don’t like Fonda. Anybody would think that you never see Fonda walk.”

“That is walk, old man.”

“All right-all right,” the accuser went on. “What happened when Henry Fonda and Brian Donlevy-”

“I don’t like him either,” Anand said. And, to his great relief, the bell rang.

He could tell from the a

“I have no money,” Shama said. “You will have to ask your father.”

Mr. Biswas said, “When you get to my age you wouldn’t care for Westerns.”

Anand lost his temper. “When I get to your age I don’t want to be like you.”

He regretted what he had said. He was, indeed, fatigued; and Mr. Biswas’s dismissing ma

Mr. Biswas said, “I haven’t got a red cent on me. I don’t get pay till the day after tomorrow. Right now I am dipping into the Deserving Destees’ petty cash at the office. Go and ask your mother.”

As usual, it turned out that she did have some money. “How much you want?”

Anand calculated. Adult, twelve cents, children, half price. Just to make sure, however, he said, “Thirty-six cents.” He would return the change afterwards.

“Thirty-six cents. Well, boy, you clean me out. Look.”

All he saw in her purse were a few coppers. But she always managed. And pay day was the day after tomorrow.

The evening show began at half past eight. Mr. Biswas and Anand left the house at about eight. Not far from the cinema there was a Chinese cafй. Something had to be bought there; it was part of the cinema ritual. They had eighteen cents to spend. They bought peanuts, cha