Free Guerrillas by V.S. Naipaul Page B

reading the newspapers every day, and Bryant was copying Stephens. Stephens read newspapers in his own way. He especially read the evening paper. Stephens didn’t pay much attention to the foreign news or the big stories about politics; he concentrated on the police items, which were longer in the evening paper, fresher, and with those casual details, usually edited out of the same stories in the morning paper, that he looked for. Stephens could tell, from the names of districts, from the description of an incident by police and eye witnesses, from the places where motorcars were stolen and where they were later found, what his friends and enemies were up to. This was how Stephens read the evening paper, like a private circular. And this was how Bryant tried to read the paper, going through the finely printed paragraphs of little facts, half hoping that in this way he might get some news about Stephens.
    Now that he had stopped writing, now that he had broken the mood and was aware only of the desolation outside, Jimmy felt enervated by his writing. He considered Bryant, the twisted face, the little pigtails, the lips working as they shaped the words, the thin legs in their old blue jeans; and Jimmy was as sad for Bryant as he was for himself.
    He got up. He walked about the blue carpet. He went to the bedroom and stood near the telephone on the chest of drawers. He hesitated. Then he dialed, and waited.
    Adela said, “Roche residence.”
    He didn’t speak.
    “Roche residence.”
    He put the telephone down. He went back to the living room and sat at the desk.
    This man possesses me. He’s a loner; I can see that. Over here they’re jealous of him, cut him down to size, that’s their motto, it’s all they know, leave him in the bush to rot, and in England too they tried to destroy him, talking of rape and assault, he became too famous for them to stomach, they thought he was just a stud, that’s how they wanted to keep him, send him back to rot. But he’s a man not easily destroyed, he’s surprised them I bet, he’s a man once seen never forgotten
.
    And then one day scanning the paper as usual for news of his doings I see that he’s going to address a big gathering of the Lions, local and foreign big shots, everybody of course wants to know what he has to say about the issues of the day. He’s addressing this meeting at the Prince Albert Hotel one lunchtime and I make it my business to be there at the appointed hour
.
    I see his name and photo on a board in the lobby and I notice that everybody is in a state of suppressed excitement, the waiters themselves are congregating in hushed groups outside the room where he’s addressing the assembly. In the end I heard one set of applause, it seemed there would be no end to the acclamations, and one of the waiters cried out “But that is man,” and then he comes out with all those big shots local and foreign hanging on to his every word, they’re in their suits, he’s so casual in his well-creased trousers and his Mao shirt, but very respectable and polite, with a kind and relevant word for everyone, casual his clothes might be but they reveal the lines of his lithe, pantherlike body
.
    My heart is in my mouth, I don’t know whether he will recognize me and whether it will be right for me to accost him, but then he said, “But isn’t it Clarissa,” and I said, “So you remember me.” The big shots fall back and I’m very proud indeed to be seen in the company of this famous man who is so essentially modest. He said, “Of course I remember you, I owe you a dollar.”
    A little smile comes in his eyes and I’m amazed, because nothing is hidden from this man’s gaze, he must have seen how frightened I was that day at the Grange and I suppose that even
now when he’s talking to me he can see the terror in my light-colored eyes, because when I’m with him I feel like a mesmerized rabbit, I just want to give up and when I revive he will bring water in his own