Collected Short Fiction Read Online Free Page A

think of Bogart as having mother or father; and he never brought a woman to his little room. This little room of his was called the servant-room but no servant to the people in the main house ever lived there. It was just an architectural convention.
    It is still something of a miracle to me that Bogart managed to make friends. Yet he did make many friends; he was at one time quite the most popular man in the street. I used to see him squatting on the pavement with all the big men of the street. And while Hat or Edward or Eddoes was talking, Bogart would just look down and draw rings with his fingers on the pavement. He never laughed audibly. He never told a story. Yet whenever there was a fête or something like that, everybody would say, ‘We must have Bogart. He smart like hell, that man.’ In a way he gave them great solace and comfort, I suppose.
    And so every morning, as I told you, Hat would shout, very loudly, ‘What happening there, Bogart?’
    And he would wait for the indeterminate grumble which was Bogart saying, ‘What happening there, Hat?’
    But one morning, when Hat shouted, there was no reply. Something which had appeared unalterable was missing.
    Bogart had vanished; had left us without a word.
    The men in the street were silent and sorrowful for two whole days. They assembled in Bogart’s little room. Hat lifted up the deck of cards that lay on Bogart’s table and dropped two or three cards at a time reflectively.
    Hat said, ‘You think he gone Venezuela?’
    But no one knew. Bogart told them so little.
    And the next morning Hat got up and lit a cigarette and wentto his back verandah and was on the point of shouting, when he remembered. He milked the cows earlier than usual that morning, and the cows didn’t like it.
    A month passed; then another month. Bogart didn’t return.
    Hat and his friends began using Bogart’s room as their club house. They played
wappee
and drank rum and smoked, and sometimes brought the odd stray woman to the room. Hat was presently involved with the police for gambling and sponsoring cock-fighting; and he had to spend a lot of money to bribe his way out of trouble.
    It was as if Bogart had never come to Miguel Street. And after all Bogart had been living in the street only for four years or so. He had come one day with a single suitcase, looking for a room, and he had spoken to Hat who was squatting outside his gate, smoking a cigarette and reading the cricket scores in the evening paper. Even then he hadn’t said much. All he said – that was Hat’s story – was, ‘You know any rooms?’ and Hat had led him to the next yard where there was this furnished servant-room going for eight dollars a month. He had installed himself there immediately, brought out a pack of cards, and begun playing patience.
    This impressed Hat.
    For the rest he had always remained a man of mystery. He became Patience.
    When Hat and everybody else had forgotten or nearly forgotten Bogart, he returned. He turned up one morning just about seven and found Eddoes and a woman on his bed. The woman jumped up and screamed. Eddoes jumped up, not so much afraid as embarrassed.
    Bogart said, ‘Move over. I tired and I want to sleep.’
    He slept until five that afternoon, and when he woke up he found his room full of the old gang. Eddoes was being very loud and noisy to cover up his embarrassment. Hat had brought a bottle of rum.
    Hat said, ‘What happening there, Bogart?’
    And he rejoiced when he found his cue taken up. ‘What happening there, Hat?’
    Hat opened the bottle of rum, and shouted to Boyee to go buy a bottle of soda water.
    Bogart asked, ‘How the cows, Hat?’
    ‘They all right.’
    ‘And Boyee?’
    ‘He all right too. Ain’t you just hear me call him?’
    ‘And Errol?’
    ‘He all right too. But what happening, Bogart?
You
all right?’
    Bogart nodded, and drank a long Madrassi shot of rum. Then another, and another; and they had presently finished the bottle.
    ‘Don’t