A visit to Biswas House (part 2)

Part four of KEITH JARDIM’s engaging story involving the childhood home of

VS Naipaul.

On the staircase in Biswas House there were photographs of Shiva Naipaul at various ages: as a boy with a dog, then as a man with his nephew, his face always a gentle and respectful curiosity. In the library upstairs there was a fetching photo of VS Naipaul, his wife and young relatives and another of VS receiving the Nobel Prize for literature in 2001.

I pointed out the infamous bathroom (no longer so), and then the master bedroom, its silvery-grey glare fenestration blocking the dark-grey glare of the weather beyond – still no rain.

There was a thin crack on one pane facing north and I announced that these were the same windows from when the house was first occupied by the family.

The Naipaul scholars nodded.

“The bedroom was partitioned here for VS when he began studying for exams,” I said, a little stentorious, standing where I’d seen the Professor indicate the divide months before. I looked down at my feet and around.

“Not much room for books, as you can see.”

“Partitioned?” Franz said.

“Yes, divided,” I said quickly, recalling Rajasthan’s closeness to Pakistan. “He really wanted to be separate.”

“But that didn’t occur until he went to England,” Polly said.

“Precisely. And much more so then.”

I was guiding myself off guiding, I thought.

They took pictures of the bedroom with their phones, enthusiastic, and I stood away, thinking those who leave always show the desire for it well in advance. VS had done that.

I liked Polly and Franz, even if they’d lied about their names; I liked, too, their intact, cool demeanours and the way they spoke, their seeming honesty, which is all you can hope for from people these days. We went downstairs, glancing again at the photos of Shiva, whose early death I’ve never overcome. Their faces lit up anew when they saw the dining room and kitchen, the Morris chairs and other décor. There were many other lovely photos too, and they captured a certain regal quality of the family.

The Naipaul sisters exuded such poise and charm, such beauty and intelligence, that we paused, admiring longer than usual. I recalled Boscoe Holder saying to me once that the best women, the real ones, came from their time. It was a time of style and class, he asserted, a time when style, real style, could be cultivated. Not like today! And he’d waved his hand dismissively then at an entire culture being demeaned by the banality of social media.

I didn’t say all that to Polly and Franz. The part about style and regal grace, yes, it was so apparent and invited our consideration in those classic photos. Franz stood a good while looking at the photos, and Polly too, she keeping a wary eye on him occasionally.

Then they both looked at me intently, keen on my words. Now I was starting to think I had a future as a guide, now I was starting to believe I had hope for steady employment. “What is it you really do?” Polly asked.

• Keith Jardim is the author of Near Open Water: Stories.

He will resume teaching fiction workshops at the Naipaul House in September.