Read Online Collected Short Fiction by V. S. Naipaul - Free Book Online

women wept and flung bits of sand and gravel at his feet.
    Man-man groaned and said, ‘Father, forgive them. They ain’t know what they doing.’ Then he screamed out, ‘Stone me, brethren!’
    A pebble the size of an egg struck him on the chest.
    Man-man cried, ‘Stone,
stone
, STONE me, brethren! I forgive you.’
    Edward said, ‘The man really brave.’
    People began flinging really big stones at Man-man, aiming at his face and chest.
    Man-man looked hurt and surprised. He shouted, ‘What the hell is this? What the hell you people think you doing? Look, get me down from this thing quick, let me down quick, and I go settle with that son of a bitch who pelt a stone at me.’
    From where Edward and Hat and the rest of us stood, it sounded like a cry of agony.
    A bigger stone struck Man-man; the women flung the sand and gravel at him.
    We heard Man-man’s shout, clear and loud, ‘Cut this stupidness out. Cut it out, I tell you. I finish with this arseness, you hear.’ And then he began cursing so loudly and coarsely that the people stopped in surprise.
    The police took away Man-man.
    The authorities kept him for observation. Then for good.

6 B. WORDSWORTH
    THREE BEGGARS CALLED punctually every day at the hospitable houses in Miguel Street. At about ten an Indian came in his dhoti and white jacket, and we poured a tin of rice into the sack he carried on his back. At twelve an old woman smoking a clay pipe came and she got a cent. At two a blind man led by a boy called for his penny.
    Sometimes we had a rogue. One day a man called and said he was hungry. We gave him a meal. He asked for a cigarette and wouldn’t go until we had lit it for him. That man never came again.
    The strangest caller came one afternoon at about four o’clock. I had come back from school and was in my home-clothes. The man said to me, ‘Sonny, may I come inside your yard?’
    He was a small man and he was tidily dressed. He wore a hat, a white shirt and black trousers.
    I asked, ‘What you want?’
    He said, ‘I want to watch your bees.’
    We had four small gru-gru palm trees and they were full of uninvited bees.
    I ran up the steps and shouted, ‘Ma, it have a man outside here. He say he want to watch the bees.’
    My mother came out, looked at the man and asked in an unfriendly way, ‘What you want?’
    The man said, ‘I want to watch your bees.’
    His English was so good it didn’t sound natural, and I could see my mother was worried.
    She said to me, ‘Stay here and watch him while he watch the bees.’
    The man said, ‘Thank you, Madam. You have done a good deed today.’
    He spoke very slowly and very correctly, as though every word was costing him money.
    We watched the bees, this man and I, for about an hour, squatting near the palm trees.
    The man said, ‘I like watching bees. Sonny, do you like watching bees?’
    I said, ‘I ain’t have the time.’
    He shook his head sadly. He said, ‘That’s what I do, I just watch. I can watch ants for days. Have you ever watched ants? And scorpions, and centipedes, and
congorees –
have you watched those?’
    I shook my head.
    I said, ‘What you does do, mister?’
    He got up and said, ‘I am a poet.’
    I said, ‘A good poet?’
    He said, ‘The greatest in the world.’
    ‘What your name, mister?’
    ‘B. Wordsworth.’
    ‘B for Bill?’
    ‘Black. Black Wordsworth. White Wordsworth was my brother. We share one heart. I can watch a small flower like the morning glory and cry.’
    I said, ‘Why you does cry?’
    ‘Why, boy? Why? You will know when you grow up. You’re a poet, too, you know. And when you’re a poet you can cry for everything.’
    I couldn’t laugh.
    He said, ‘You like your mother?’
    ‘When she not beating me.’
    He pulled out a printed sheet from his hip pocket and said, ‘On this paper is the greatest poem about mothers and I’m going to sell it to you at a bargain price. For four cents.’
    I went inside and I said, ‘Ma, you want to buy a