BILLY
Bhoo had introduced me to Billy one day at a tube-station. A
cardigan and corduroy clad lad, spectacles of thick glass behind which
perhaps were a pair of eyes, hair parted at the middle. Face oval and
large, and whatever little could be seen of the two eyes, they seemed to
gleam with mischief. He had been scanning the advertisements on the
walls of the station with a bored expression on his features; as though
our chance meeting had saved him, his mouth began spouting a stream
of words. The placid hum of the platform was shattered, people with
startled expressions on their faces looked askance at him. “Oh, you’re
that friend of Bhoo? Oh, Bhoo has spoken so much about you! Whatever,
I’ve met you in the flesh today… By the way, what are you doing in
London?”
Our train arrived, we boarded and sat down. Rows and rows of
people seated in silence, features hidden behind books or newspapers.
Billy said, “Very interesting, isn’t it, travelling in a compartment filled
with Sphinxes? (Slight stir of newspaper screens, one or two faces peered
out from behind them). Whatever, you must know about me, Bhoo must
have told you everything.”
No, Bhoo had never mentioned his name, but Billy continued to
speak about himself in a loud, stentorian tone (“nineteen to the dozen,”
as it’s said in English). The entire compartment heard him --- Bhoo’s pal,
studies Chemistry in Battersea Polytechnic, his real name Liang U Nam.
His landlady had shortened it to Lee; afterwards English tongues had
affixed a B to it.
“These English tongues are strange, can’t taste anything but
Yorkshire pudding, can’t pronounce any other name but Thingummy
Jones. Just consider, I and a Swiss boy are sharing a two-room flat, his
name is Friedrich Dürrenmatt ah, you should see his face puff up when
the English pronounces his name. Do you know, after rolling around
from tongue to tongue, what his name is now?”
“What?”
“Fred Doormat --- doormat --- you know, that thing outside a door
upon which people wipe their shoes when entering the house.”
An elderly woman to the right of Billy dropped her book to her lap,
took off her spectacles and stared at him. Totally ignoring her, Billy
continued with his monologue. His family had been living in London for a
long while, his father had a laundry at Blackpool, he worked there during
his college vacations. Where did he actually come from? There actual
home, of course, was in China (though he was born here and had never
been to China) --- a village in Sichuan Province (or, maybe, Fukien).
Taking out a piece of paper with a negligent air he drew what appeared to
be a map of China and pencilled in his village. The elderly woman put on
her spectacles, peered at the map and said with a smile, “Young man,
this is a map of China?” Billy grew red up to his ears. I guessed that his
knowledge of China was the same as mine of Assam.
Billy grew brisk as the train pulled into his station. “Oh, didn’t give
you my address,” he shouted, as he was getting down, “Bayswater --have to get down at Queensway --- right, don’t need to --- Bhoo knows --you must certainly come --- have a lot to say to you ...” The Sphinxes
most probably heaved sighs of relief, but I could make out a varying
degree of amusement on their features. I asked Bhoo when had he ever
talked about me to this Chinese champion of the gab. Bhoo replied that
he had never mentioned my name to him.
2
After that I would meet Billy every now and again in the tube or
upon a bus, fleetingly. Always accompanied by a new girl, he didn’t have
time to talk much. One day Billy told me that he collected coins, didn’t I
have any Indian note or coin with me? I might have, I said. (Whatever
had been with Bhoo, he had taken away long back to add to his
collection). The very next day Billy was in my room. After rummaging
through my box, an old one-rupee note and an anna coin was found.
How excited had been Billy! I shut the box and was about to insert the
key to lock it, Billy stopped in his tracks. What was that on the key-ring?
Oh, this --- this is a pice coin with a hole in it, had been minted in our
country during wartime (due to the scarcity of copper). Interesting, said
Billy, he had never seen such a coin with a hole in his life, he must have
it.
African Zulus were supposed to use a type of ring-coin, and in
ancient China there had been a type of coin with a square hole which
could be threaded and hung, but he had not been able to acquire any of
those. He must have my coin.
I began scratching my head. The key-ring and the pice-coin had
sentimental value: back in my country I and an intimate friend had
purchased two small pencil-cutting knives from a shop on the footpath,
we had also purchased two key-rings to hold the knives. In those days we
did not have boxes (we lived at home then, ate home-cooked food and
studied, any secret possession was always kept under the mattress). But
my friend thought that having only a knife on the key-ring didn’t look
right, he had taken out two pice-coins with holes and fitted them on to
the rings. The friend by now had vanished; no one knew where he had
gone to.
I told him that the key-ring was like an amulet to me (which was
the truth), it was my “good-luck” charm, let it stay, I will have another
one brought to him. But he (clever boy) asked me whether such coins
were still in circulation. I admitted, no, not nowadays, and it was
extremely doubtful whether one would be found however hard we might
search.
“Look, I have a lovely cigarette-lighter,” Billy said. “Even a Ronson
is nothing compared to it. But the more important thing is, the world has
not seen a better “good-luck” lighter than the one I have. Have that in
your pocket, and you instantly find whatever coin you want wherever you
go, as easy as anything. Tell you what, I will give you that lighter, you
give me the pice-coin. A fair deal, what?”
“Where’s the lighter?”
“Haven’t brought it with me today,” Billy replied casually and
added, “See, how much trouble I’m having today collecting a mere coin
with a hole, just because that lighter isn’t with me.”
Would anyone leave a cigarette-lighter at home? I said, “Bring your
magic-lighter, I will consider after that.” Billy left with a frown. I met him
two days later.
“What about that lighter?” I asked.
“Oh, the lighter,” Billy unashamedly let out his mischievous laugh,
“Oh, I had almost forgotten --- I had to exchange it.”
Apparently, he had to give the lighter to someone in exchange for a
priceless, rare, seventh-century Brazilian coin; only God knows whether
there had been any coins in Brazil in the seventh century, but I didn’t
make a fuss over the issue.
3
Friedrich Dürrenmatt, Billy’s flat-mate, almost the same age as
Billy, a six foot tall, strapping, ruddy featured lad, worked in the Swiss
Embassy. Billy’s head reached only up to his shoulders, they looked like
Gulliver and Lilliputians. If one were to say that Fred was an Olympic
football player none would disbelieve it (only English imagination would
have invested the doormat sobriquet to this giant). Previously they had
lived separately at the same landlady’s house, but somehow it occurred
to them that it would not be a bad idea if they stayed together in one flat.
They had translated the thought into action, and thus this shared
existence.
However, the Chinese-Swiss relationship had not been a smooth
affair. Their life was somewhat undisciplined, especially the part
belonging to the Swiss, clothes and papers strewn all over the place, no
way of finding anything when required. Billy did not like the mess, morn
and eve they had spats over the issue. Fred was forever in a state of
thoughtful distraction, would leave his stuff everywhere, mindlessly use
Billy’s toothpaste, wipe his mouth afterwards with Billy’s towel, knot on
one of Billy’ ties and wear Billy’s coat, and leave the house with Billy’s
cigarettes, while Billy, not discovering his stuff, would rant and rave. One
day, rummaging through Billy’s drawer, Fred had discovered a book
which Billy had probably been reading in secret --- after that incident
Billy had stopped speaking with Fred for a whole week (the name of the
book was ‘Teach Yourself Chinese’). Both ate out in the afternoon, on the
evenings of Monday, Wednesday and Friday Billy did the cooking; on
Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday it was Fred’s turn, on Sunday no one
knew who went where. Fred made spaghetti and bought soft cheese; Billy
occasionally half ate these and went to the movies. Billy would prepare
beef-steaks with great care, Fred would screw up his mouth and either
complain that the steak was only half cooked and over-spicy, or that it
was double-burnt and over-spicy. Sometimes I took both of them out to
an Indian restaurant beside Euston Square to eat chicken biriyani; on
such occasions they would eat heartily without complaining or
quarrelling. Fred had a Swiss girlfriend, Rita Flav, works in the same
office with him --- large round face without much make-up, snub nose
and flat chin, stubby fingers and short, white hair --- Sometimes Rita
would come and discover the two of them seated on two chairs, backs
towards each other, cursing each other under their breaths, half empty
dishes on the table; she would scrounge this and that from the kitchen
and cook up a new meal, the tension in the room would slowly ease.
Rita’s hands would automatically reach out to fix her hair (as though
someone was watching how she did her hair) and she would say, “Billy,
aren’t you going to bring out your collection today? Got anything new?”
Her words arouse mixed emotions in Billy --- a collector’s pride in
showing off his stuff and another anxiety, but he finally takes out the
coins. The anxiety was in regards to Rita. She would say with
enthusiasm: “Ah, Billy, how I love looking at so many new and old coins!
How romantic, isn’t it? Oh, how I love it! Ah, Fred, if only I had such a
beautiful collection!” Till then her ‘collection’ had been a few French
francs, two Austrian schillings, one German mark.
Fred would just shrug his shoulders --- the whole thing seemed
stupid to him, silly. But Billy’s heart would tremble with fear --- if one
day she said without thinking, “Ah, Billy, why don’t you give this one to
me?” Then? What would he do then? “You can’t say no to a girl, you
know, whatever might happen ---- if she ever expresses her desire to
have my coins, then it’s all over for me, then I’m in a fix.”
However, Rita had never opened her mouth to ask, only sat hour
after hour with thirsty, spell-bound eyes gazing at the coins (“Like a cat
watching a bird on a tree, you know” --- Billy). Gold coins and silver
coins, tin coins and copper coins, flat or tumid, round or oval or eggshaped, coins with animals engraved upon them, kings and queens,
coins cut in the shape of weapons. He never allowed anyone to touch the
coins (a rule propounded by Mi Fei), but slowly his mouth would open,
the avid collector within him would reveal itself --- this coin was from
Egypt, of such century, had to trick someone from parting with it; this
was a Greek coin, minted during some king’s reign, he had to spend that
many pounds acquiring it; this coin was from Mandhata and this one
was from the days of Methuselah, and to get this extraordinary coin he
had to circle the Camden Town area for two full days in search of a man
from Cyprus. (But the prize coin that had eluded him was my pice with a
hole in it; Rita’s eyes had begun to gleam, she quickly ran a finger
through her hair and said, “Oh, how quaint!”). I said, “Rather than
uselessly hoard so much gold and silver you can melt and…”
“Barbarian,” Billy said.
Where did he get this collecting fever from, I wished to know. It was
an old Chinese habit, he said with pride. Such a fever was in the blood of
every Chinese. His father had been a collector of old Japanese and
Chinese paintings, his mother of a variety of fans from all over the world;
perhaps he got the fever from them.
“It’s a Chinese habit, you know,” Billy said.
“Oh, is it?”
“Yes --- ask Kowalski.”
Kowalski was a friend from Billy’s coin-club, a refugee from Poland.
He was an aficionado of all things Chinese and was well conversant
regarding Chinese food. He ran a second-hand book-shop at Tottenham
Court Road and, during leisure time, went to the British Museum to
study about China. He had no regrets being away from his native land,
“Fortunately, my exile is at London,” he has supposedly been heard
saying, “and London has everything and all nations. Can you find a
better place to pursue a hobby?” Billy took me and Bhoo to a Chinese
restaurant in the Soho area to eat chop-suey and bird-nest soup, and
introduced us to a thick-set, pipe-smoking middle-aged gentleman seated
at a secluded table.
“Mr. so and so, Mr. so and so, Mr. Anton Kowalski. Here you are.
Apply here for anything Chinese.”
So, seizing the opportunity, I pumped Kowalski for information.
Each to his own taste! Kowalski pushed aside the bowls before him,
carefully lit his pipe, and began a longish lecture. Billy was right, he said.
From what he had read, the collecting ‘hobby’ fully developed in china, in
the first century B.C., during the reign of the Han dynasty. His pipe went
out while he was talking; dragging upon the unlit pipe with relish
Kowalski by and by came to the eleventh century. As legend would have
it, in the eleventh century there was a keen and famous and punctilious
collector by the name of Mi Fei, who first established certain rules and
regulations to the collecting process. Do you know who first framed the
rules and techniques of collection which now prevail in the West; where
were they imported from? You got it right; all were Mi Fei’s rules, etc. etc.
Kowalski paused to light his pipe and Bhoo, offering some pretext or the
other, took his leave. “But, of course,” Kowalski laid aside his pipe to
concentrate once more on his food, “it would be wrong to call it solely a
Chinese custom. It is an inbuilt religion in every human being. Everyone
collects something or the other. The psychology behind it is probably that
the sense of ownership satisfies our ego. Perhaps it was to satisfy the ego
that the Sultans had collected one girl after another to set up their
harems. Perhaps the thousand love-affairs of Don Juan stemmed from
the same impulse. What can I say, you know very well, our youthful
friend Billy is accompanied by a new girlfriend every week (Billy looked
askance at me and then turned his face towards the wall with a patently
artificial smile of shame) --- boys collecting stuff to fill their pocket,
perhaps which too is a juvenile, immature display of such a collecting
trait.”
I could make out that Kowalski was in his elements today, yet I
raised an objection. I do not collect anything, I pointed out to him --- no
Japanese paintings, no postal stamps, no old shoe-boxes, kites,
gramophone records, no tops, no cigarette packets.
“Perhaps books? No? Ah, my friend,” Kowalski said as though pleased,
“perhaps you do not collect anything consciously. But a collected item
need not necessarily have to be an object perceptible to the senses.
Perhaps you collect friendship, or experience or memory --- just recall
your famous pice with a hole and that friend from your country. So,
there you are.”
Shaking his chopstick Kowalski struck a pose, as if after such an
example there could be no more objections.
“Oh --- if one were to look at it like that, of course” --- I began.
“Kowalski has reminded me of something,” Billy said, as though he
had just remembered it, “What happened to your pice with a hole?”
I laughed and shook my head. Without feeling in the least let down
Billy said, “Have a beer.” I drank. Billy said, “You know, if I don’t have
that coin my collection would remain incomplete --- all my efforts for so
long would remain unrewarded --- what, do you want that?” I said --“Have a beer. I shall send you one when I go to my country.” He said,
“You can’t conceive, how valuable a mere coin, a mere postal stamp, can
be for a collector.” “I know it very well,” I said. “It might mean an end to
our friendship,” he said. “That might very well happen,” I said. He lost
his patience, rose from his chair and said, “Good night. Sorry, Mr.
Kowalski, I have another appointment now.” “Good night,” I said and
picked up my glass. Billy waited. “I said, good night,” he said again.
“Good night,” I also said and, picking up his overcoat from the chair,
handed it to him. Giving me a fiery glare, Billy walked out into the fog.
Kowalski leant back upon the chair and looked towards me with an
amused smile. “Why be so serious about a mere coin?” I said, a bit
irritated. “Ah, my friend,” Kowalski said, “you don’t understand a thing.
Billy too asks, what does Fred see in Rita? Why be so serious about a
mere girl? Your question and Billy’s question are the same. The answer
too is the same: Fred is in love with Rita. Billy is in love with his
collection, and it’s said that there is nothing a man won’t do for the sake
of love. Both exhibit the same feelings, joy, anxiety, despair, deep desire,
satisfaction, passion. Don’t imagine that I am not tempted by that
extraordinary coin of yours, and my craving is no less powerful than that
of Billy. But I am no longer a young man, I can look at things
dispassionately, I will not pester you like Billy does. Billy is young,
infatuated with his collection, and for the sake of love a person … let me
tell you a true story. There was a book-collector named Richard Heber.
He tried to acquire from a lady a lovely book belonging to the medieval
period --- Book of St. Albans --- used every trick to make her part with it,
but failed. Do you know what Richard Heber finally did? He proposed
marriage to her. Do you know, had you been a girl, Billy too may have
proposed to you, so that he gets your piece with the hole along with you.”
I thanked God that He had not made me a girl and said, “But it
appears that even as he is collecting coins from others, his own collection
might slip out of his hands. Miss Rita Flav…”
Kowalski had heard of this possible danger from Billy himself. He
smiled knowingly and said, “Let me tell you another true story. You may
have heard of Sir Robert Cotton, the famous bibliophile. The library he
had so painstakingly built up was his soul. But due to certain political
conspiracies he lost favour with the king and was punished. Charles the
First was England’s king then --- after great deliberation he meted out a
punishment he knew would be the greatest tragedy for Sir Robert --- he
was forbidden from entering his own library! Like a lover separated from
the object of his love, the grief-stricken Sir Robert began to wilt day by
day, his health began to fail and he finally died. My friend, the possibility
of Billy’s collection falling into Rita’s hands is remote. If he has to give up
his collection, he would no longer remain Billy.” Kowalski shook his
head, “No, the possibility of Rita’s girlish desires making any impact on
our Billy….”
“Is little, very little. Almost zero. I too am certain about this.” I
narrated to Kowalski a small experience I had a few days previously.
4
A small experience. I had been conversing with Fred and Billy in
their flat in the evening, observed that Fred was constantly looking at his
watch, was growing impatient by the minute. Suddenly he spoke up,
“Billy, you were supposed to go and see ‘South Pacific,’ it’s time to leave if
you’re going.” Billy was astonished, was about to say something but
checked himself. Then he said to me, “Oh, let’s go and see ‘South Pacific,’
the programme will change tomorrow, if we want to see it we’ve to go all
the way to West End.”
“I’ve seen it long ago,” I said.
Billy got up hastily and pulled me by the arm, “So what? Everyone
says it’s a wonderful film, you can easily see it twice, and do you think I’ll
go alone? I need a companion. Fred? No, Fred has already seen it thrice,
isn’t that so, Fred? (I was surprised, for I had been given to understand
that Fred doesn’t go to the cinema). Come, come, if we’re late we would
have to stand in a huge queue.” --- Even before I could comprehend what
was happening he almost dragged me to the threshold.
“Just a minute, just a minute,” I protested. “What’s all this?”
“Let’s go, let’s go, if we stand here arguing we’re sure to miss the
last show --- no, wait a minute,” --- Billy said and quickly pulled at the
drawer where he kept his collection to check if it was locked or not. “Oh,
it’s alright. Fred, the loan I gave you this morning?”
Without a word Fred dipped into his pocket and handed over two
half-crowns. Did Billy buy tickets for ‘South Pacific’ with that money?
“South Pacific, my foot!” Billy said the moment we were on the road. “Do
you think Doormat is giving me money to see a movie? He wouldn’t have
the least objection if I buy potassium cyanide with it and kill myself. The
main thing is, he wants us to let him have the house all to himself.”
“But why?”
“Why else! Doormat’s latest nuisance,” Billy said in an irritated
tone. “He is supposed to have some supremely important things to say to
Rita this evening, supremely intimate. Supremely intimate words from
Doormat, what an idea! Whatever, I have kept the drawer locked, so
there’s no chance of Rita fiddling with my collection. My real fear is that
she will touch it … Have to leave my own house, what a situation!”
Having said this Billy made a beeline for the nearest pub, his
humaneness returning the moment he touched the pub’s door. “What’s
to be done, there’s no alternative, the poor, amateur Swiss Romeo. He’s
head over heels in love with that impossible woman, how can I not
extend to them a helping hand… Anyway, we must make good use of
Doormat’s money, come, this is a proper pub, here….”
Kowalski was satisfied when he heard about the incident; he slowly
finished his beer, refilled his pipe and lit it and said, “There you are. Billy
would if required leave his house for his Romeo friend, but before leaving
would lock the drawer in which he keeps his collection. I too am a
collector --- of a sort --- I understand the psychology of a collector … Ah,
but my luck’s like that, I had thrown my line and hooked the wrong fish,
searched around for a Chinese and found one whose name was Billy,
whose place of birth was England, who relishes beef-steak and roast-beef
even as he curses the English, and whose knowledge of the Chinese
language differs from mine isn’t --- no, let’s change the subject, what do
you say?”
5
One day the telephone rang and Billy said that he had passed, and
his boy and girl friends were planning to make it an excuse for partying
in his room. That was why I hastened to catch a bus to Bayswater with a
bottle of Dubonnet under my armpit. Their flat was crammed with people
and thick with cigarette smoke, Bhoo and someone else had brought the
latest pop-dance records for the radiogram, a couple of Chinese lanterns
had been strung up, Rita and another girl were making sandwiches. His
invaluable coin collection had been laid out on the table at the centre of
the room; standing beside it Billy in a black, ‘civilised’ suit was talking
nineteen to the dozen, Rita was every now and again quickly
straightening her hair and gazing with hungry eyes at the centre-table.
Billy pulled me to one side to tell me that Fred and Rita were
engaged, and he would take the opportunity towards the end of the party
to announce this ‘startling’ news. Mr. Kowalski had not come to the
party, all young boys and girls ( but there was some uncertainty about
how close Billy was to which girl), Billy introduced those who did not
know each other one by one: Ron Padge and Barbara Mallowan (studentcouple), Betty something (works in an office), Hildegarde Hagenheimer
(had come from Germany to ‘learn English’), Abdel Khalek (Egyptian
student), Ings Onstad (a Norwegian 420) and --- this time Billy added a
‘Mr.’ --- Mr. Mott. Mr. Mott was over fifty years of age, an obese
individual. He shook hands and explained that though he did not quite
fit into this party of young people there was a reason for it: he and Billy
belonged to the same caste, both being collectors. Yes, I thought, Billy
was a collector in the truest sense of the term; he was good at collecting
people too. What does Mr. Mott collect? Mr. Mott laughed mysteriously
and said, “Come with Billy one day, you’ll find out then. I own a pub at
Chelsea.”
6
Pushing aside the London fog Billy took me to Chelsea one evening;
that area reputedly had a writer and an artist to every square yard! We
finally reached Mr. Mott’s pub, it’s name ‘The End of the World’, and
within it one got the impression that Armageddon was upon us and the
earth was about to be annihilated by earthquakes --- the lights a smoky
blue, the place filled with writers and painters and musicians with their
trademark beards and sporting coats with leather-stitched elbows, pipes
in mouths, ‘The New Statesman and Nation’ in their pockets, eyes red
and puffy, excited, cut and thrust discussions and noisy debates ranging
from pin-up girls and starlets to Jean Paul Sartre, someone playing upon
a mandolin, a group throwing darts, upon the spaces between tables
some were dancing what appeared to be a version of ‘Jitterbug’, beer
after beer at every table, and a screen of smoke draped Mr. Mott
presiding over the bar and a white apron wearing Mrs. Mott.
Mr. Mott favoured us with a modest smile through the haze and
said, “Good evening, good evening. Mr. so and so, my wife. If you don’t
mind --- one minute---,” and, before I could even realise what was
happening, Mrs. Mott pulled out a pair of scissors from inside her apron
and snipped off the tail of my tie. What sort of prank was this? Mrs. Mott
put on a solemn expression on her face and explained --- they collected a
piece of a tie of every new patron. This has been the custom for thirty
years, a bit of history. Please don’t mind (no one minded). She pinned my
piece of tie upon a board behind the counter, I could see thousand and
thousand pieces of unfortunate ties like mine creating multiple patterns
on the board. “Cheer up, cheer up,” Mr. Mott urged, “have a beer, it’s on
the house,” and I began giggling like an idiot. Billy dragged me towards a
corner table, around which sat some “serious”-minded individuals --- one
of them was bald and one distinctly non-British (Anton Kowalski!),
sipping beer away from the noise around them, and calmly discussing
something between them, one could note a suppressed excitement in
their gestures. Billy introduced me. They were from different professional
backgrounds (office-worker, teacher, businessman, journalist) and each
of them collected something or the other --- handkerchiefs, bus-tickets,
dolls, time-tables, theatre-programmes, ceramic bowls, snails, snuffboxes, masks, handcuffs… They were engaged in exchanging items; “A
has received a letter bearing an African postal-stamp, but he collected
only sea-shells, and B’s aunt had recently gone to the sea-shore and
brought back some sea-shells but he was only a philatelist, so A was
bartering his African stamp for a sea-shell from B. Deals of that kind.
Have I come from India? The entire group alighted upon me as though
vultures upon a carcass: Ah, don’t you have dolls hand-crafted in India,
by any chance? Can’t you have some brought here? I’m sure you keep
receiving letters with Indian stamps on them? Who knows, perhaps
among your stuff there’s a Bombay or Calcutta bus-ticket? Give us your
address --- have a beer --- what’s your phone number --- one more beer?
I somehow pulled myself away from this omnivorous group and sat
exhausted at the counter, Mrs. Mott smiled sympathetically at me while
wiping the glasses with a towel. Apparently Billy had told no one about
my pice with a hole, for no one mentioned it. O, he was being careful! Mr.
Kowalski came up and sat besides me and smiled knowingly.
“Bored, weren’t you?”
“Not exactly bored,” I replied. “Flabbergasted, rather. Wow, is there
a thing that human beings don’t collect!”
“True, ain’t it?” Mr. Mott said, “You name it --- in working order or
not, new or old, insect-bug-elephant-horse, anything under the sun,
you’ll get a collector.” “Perhaps the world is the limit,” I said. “No, I don’t
think so,” Mrs. Mott said, “Perhaps there are people who wants to put
the entire world in their bags. Just look at this Labour Government, how
they are putting one thing after another in their bag --- factories first,
then the railways, then coal and medical service after that.” Mr. Mott
said, “Ah, Maggie! Why’re you dragging the nationalisation policy into
this?” (Mr. Mott was a Labour supporter). “Oh, well,” Mrs. Mott said,
“thank God there are very few people who want to appropriate the entire
world for their own.” “Whatever you say,” Mr. Moss said. “And you, Mr.
Mott,” I said, “Your bar is the meeting place of collectors, you are a
collector of collectors! Hats off!” “Collector of collectors,” Mr. Mott was
euphoric. “A good one, that! Thank you, thank you. Have another?”
“Thank you.”
Billy came and sat next to us.
“Where’ve you left your Swiss friend?” asked Mrs. Mott.
“He’s busy discussing plans for the wedding with Rita. They are
getting married next month.”
“Oh, that’s very good,” Mrs. Mott said. “How nice!”
“Not that nice for me,” Billy said. “My collection is a goner.”
The glass almost dropped from my hands and Kowalski’s pipe
suddenly went out. Mr. and Mrs. Mott looked dumbfounded at him.
“The obligation of friendship. I shall have to gift the collection to
Rita; otherwise I can’t bear the oppression of her yearning glance.” As
though he was very thirsty --- as though his throat was dry --- Billy took
long sips of beer. “She has not, of course, actually said she wants it, but
she hasn’t forgotten to convey it through her glance, her gestures. What,
can I disappoint a girl --- what can I do, perhaps this is life!”
Billy let out a long sigh.
“Have you made up your mind?” finally Kowalski asked.
“Yes,” Billy replied tersely.
“A gallant lad,” Mrs. Mott said.
“Bravo!” Mr. Mott said.
“Such gallantry, such a sacrifice, shall be written in golden letters
in the annals of collectorship. Billy, I laud you. This calls for a
celebration. Mr. Mott, another round of beer, please --- or, anything
else?”
“No, beer would be fine, thank you.”
Everyone gravely touched glasses in a toast to Billy, while Billy
silently sipped at his beer --- Suddenly, as if he had woken up from a
trance, he asked, “However, it’s good that Doormat and Rita are getting
married next month, but do you really want me to gift my collection in its
current state?” What kind of a question was this? He said, “It’s a very
important matter. Do you or don’t you?” “Certainly. In this state or that,
how does it matter to me?” “Then there’s no problem,” he said. “I shall
but have a small regret…” “Regret? What regret?”
“I’d wanted to give the collection in a supremely beautiful state,
but that hasn’t happened ---! That’s alright --- I shall give her the
collection --- but it will remain an incomplete collection. The collection
will remind Rita everyday about my defeat as a collector,” he said, and
heaved yet another enormous sigh and looked pitifully at me.
I prised my pice with a hole from the key-chain and handed it over
to him. He put it lovingly into his bag. “Just don’t think,” I said in an
angry tone, “that I’m giving you this because Rita is getting married, or
that I’m concerned about your reputation. Nothing of the sort. The truth
is, I am running out of patience, I’m fed up.” On Billy’s face gleamed his
famous, attractive, mischievous smile, and he said, “That’s like a nice
boy! How pleased Rita is going to be --- such a wondrous, hollow coin….
Of course, it’s also true that Rita knows what my collection means to me,
she had rather die than accept such a gift from me… Ah, it’s late in the
night, forgive me, I’ve an urgent appointment, almost forgot, goodnight,
goodnight….”
Without giving anyone the opportunity to open their mouths Billy
put on his overcoat, pushed open the door and hastily scampered out.
Kowalski looked at my face with a smile that was a mixture of sympathy
and amusement.
“A typical Mi-Fei-technique,” he commented.
`
“What do you mean?” I asked bewildered.
“Perhaps you don’t know --- perhaps Billy too doesn’t know --- that
the technique he just used had been invented by that Chinese collectorspecialist Mi-Fei, about whom I had told you. This is what happened --one day, mid-stream upon a boat on a river, a friend showed Mi-Fei a
manuscript, hand-written by the famous fourth-century writer Wang
Chui Chi. Mi Fei was greatly tempted on seeing it. He requested his
friend to give it to him. Pleaded. Entreated. But the friend did not agree
to part with it. Then Mi-Fi said that if he could not have the manuscript
he would jump into the river that very moment and drown. He began
preparations to jump in such a way that the friend was compelled …. Are
you getting angry?”
Mr. Mott, hand on the lever of the beer-dispenser, was listening
avidly, Mrs. Mott leaned on the counter upon her elbows and gazed
towards me. Though disconcerted, I painfully managed a smile and said,
“No, I’m not angry. To tell you the truth, I’m only lauding
Billy.”
“Right,” Mrs. Mott said, “can anyone be angry with Billy?”
“You’ve never spoken a truer word,” said Mr. Kowalski, looking
admiringly at Mrs. Mott as if she had just enunciated a profound truth,
and began lighting his pipe once more.
“Is it possible to detest Billy from the heart? Look, Fred gives Billy
so much trouble, yet Billy though unwillingly tolerates his indiscipline,
afflictions, tantrums. Why? Because Fred is in love. There is another
name for collectors like Billy, ‘amateur’ --- ‘amatore’ the meaning of
which is ‘lover.’ They’re in love with their collections. And who doesn’t
love a lover? Ah, my friend, you might be irritated with him, his actions
might provoke you into anger, or laughter, but how can you dislike him?
--- Oh, Mrs. Mott, one more round, if you please.”