Myna and Kamla, resenting the challenge of Vidiadhar, who was now openly eating prunes, began to claim astounding scholastic achievements for Anand.

“My brother read more books than all of all-you put together.”

“Hear you. But all right. If Anand read so much, let him tell me who is the author of Singing Guns.” This from a young Tuttle.

“Tell him, Anand. Tell him who is the author of Singing Guns.”

“I don’t know.”

“Ah-ah-ah!”

“But how you could expect him to know that?” Myna said. “He does only read books of common sense.”

“Okay. Anand does read a lot of books. But my brother write a book. A whole book. And he writing another right now.”

The writer had indeed done that. He was the eldest Tuttle boy. He had impressed his parents by a constant demand for exercise books and by a continuous show of writing. He said he was making notes. In fact, he had copied out every word of Nelson’s West Indian Geography, by Captain Cutteridge, Director of Education, author of Nelson’s West Indian Readers and Nelson’s West Indian Arithmetics. He had completed the Geography in more than a dozen exercise books, and was at the moment engaged on the first volume of Nelson’s West Indian History, by Captain Daniel, Assistant Director of Education.

With the exhibition examination less than two months away, Anand lived a life of pure work. Private lessons were given in the morning for half an hour before school; private lessons were given in the afternoon for an hour after school; private lessons were given for the whole of Saturday morning. Then in addition to all these private lessons from his class teacher, Anand began to take private lessons from the headmaster, at the headmaster’s house, from five to six. He went from school to the Dairies to school again; then he went to the headmaster’s, where Savi waited for him with sandwiches and lukewarm Ovaltine. Leaving home at seven in the morning, he returned at half past six. He ate. Then he did his school homework; then he prepared for all his private lessons.

All the boys in the star section of the exhibition class endured almost similar privation, but they strove to maintain the fiction that they were schoolboys given to pranks, enjoying the most carefree days of their lives. There were a few anxious boys who talked of nothing but work. But most talked of the football season just beginning, the Santa Rosa race meeting just concluded, giving one another to understand that their Daddies had taken them to the races in cars with laden hampers and that they had proceeded to bet, and lose, vast sums on the pari mutuel. They discussed the prospects of Brown Bomber and Jetsam at the Christmas meeting (the examination was in early November and this was a means of looking beyond it). Anand was not the most backward in these conversations. Though horseracing bored him to a degree, he had made it his special subject. He knew, for example, that Jetsam was by Flotsam out of Hope of the Valley; he claimed to have seen all three horses and spread a racetrack story that the young Jetsam used to eat clothes left out to dry. Retailing some more racetrack gossip, he maintained (and began to be known for this) that, in spite of a career of almost unmitigated disaster, Whitstable was the finest horse in the colony; it was a pity he was so erratic, but then these greys were temperamental.

The talk turned one Monday lunchtime to films, and it appeared that nearly every boy who lived in Port of Spain had been to see the double programme at the London Theatre over the week-end: Jesse James and The Return of Frank James.

“What a double!” the boys exclaimed. “A major double!”

Anand, whose championship of Whitstable had established him as the holder of the perverse opinion, said he didn’t care for it.

The boys rounded on him.

Anand, who had not seen the double, repeated that he didn’t care for it. “Give me When the Daltons Rode and The Daltons Ride Again. Any day, old man.”

It was just his luck for one boy to say then, “I bet you he didn’t go to see it! You could see that old crammer going to a theatre?”

“You are a hypocritical little thug,” Anand said, using two words he had got from his father. “You are a bigger crammer than me.”

The boy wished to shift the conversation: he was a tremendous crammer. He repeated, less warmly, “I bet you didn’t go.” By now, however, the other boys had prepared to listen, and the accuser, gaining confidence, said, “All right-all right. He went. Just let him tell me what happened when Henry Fonda-”

Anand said, “I don’t like Henry Fonda.”

This created a minor diversion.

“How you mean, you don’t like Fonda. Anybody would think that you never see Fonda walk.”

“That is walk, old man.”

“All right-all right,” the accuser went on. “What happened when Henry Fonda and Brian Donlevy-”

“I don’t like him either,” Anand said. And, to his great relief, the bell rang.

He could tell from the annoyance of his accuser that the cross-examination would be continued. He went straight after school to the Dairies; when he came back it was time for private lessons; and after private lessons he managed to slip away to the headmaster’s. When he got home he said he could do no work that evening and wanted to go to the London Theatre, to give his brain a rest.

“I have no money,” Shama said. “You will have to ask your father.”

Mr. Biswas said, “When you get to my age you wouldn’t care for Westerns.”

Anand lost his temper. “When I get to your age I don’t want to be like you.”

He regretted what he had said. He was, indeed, fatigued; and Mr. Biswas’s dismissing manner had seemed to him callous. But he made no apology. He talked instead about the headaches he was getting and said he was sure he was suffering from brainfag and brainfever, crammer’s afflictions, which his rivals at school had often prophesied for him.

Mr. Biswas said, “I haven’t got a red cent on me. I don’t get pay till the day after tomorrow. Right now I am dipping into the Deserving Destees’ petty cash at the office. Go and ask your mother.”

As usual, it turned out that she did have some money. “How much you want?”

Anand calculated. Adult, twelve cents, children, half price. Just to make sure, however, he said, “Thirty-six cents.” He would return the change afterwards.

“Thirty-six cents. Well, boy, you clean me out. Look.”

All he saw in her purse were a few coppers. But she always managed. And pay day was the day after tomorrow.

The evening show began at half past eight. Mr. Biswas and Anand left the house at about eight. Not far from the cinema there was a Chinese cafй. Something had to be bought there; it was part of the cinema ritual. They had eighteen cents to spend. They bought peanuts, channa and some mint sweets, six cents in all.

The entrance to the London pit was through a narrow tunnel, as to a dungeon of romance. It allowed not more than one person to advance at a time and enabled the ticket-collector, who sat at the end with a stout stick laid across the arms of his chair, to repel gate-crashers. Mr. Biswas and Anand arrived to find the mouth of the tunnel blocked by a turbulent, unaccommodating mob. They stood hesitantly at the edge of the mob, and in an instant, driven from behind, found themselves part of it. They lost control of their hands and feet. Anand, wedged between tall men, shut off from light and air, could only allow himself to be carried along. Cries of frustration and anguish ran through the mob: the film had started: they could hear the opening music. The pressure on Anand increased; he feared he would be crushed against the angle of wall and tunnel; Mr. Biswas called to him in a voice that seemed to come from far; he could not answer; he could not look up or down. There was only the thought that at the end of this lay Henry Fonda and Brian Donlevy and Tyrone Power, all of whom, despite what he had said at school, commanded Anand’s highest esteem. He heard men crying for tickets; they were getting near. Through a small, semicircular, lighted hole in the wall of the tunnel money was being pushed in, tickets out, and the hands of the ticketseller occasionally flashed: a woman’s hands, fat and cool.