Moth Smoke (13 page)

When he asked, people thought he was crazy. ‘What do you mean ACs make hot air?’ they would say. ‘They make cold air. Everyone knows that. That’s the way it is: ACs make cold air. That’s what they’re for.’

‘Do you have an AC?’ he would ask. ‘No,’ they all had to admit. No one had an AC. The other beggars, the vendors, the runners at paan shops, the ne’er-do-wells: none of them had an AC. But they all knew ACs made cold air, everyone knew that. That’s what ACs were for.

One day Manucci met an AC repairman. ‘You don’t seem to be doing a very good job,’ Manucci told him. ‘All the ACs around here are making hot air.’

‘You’re crazy, boy,’ the AC repairman said.

Manucci realized what all this had to mean. It meant people thought what he called hot air was cold air. So whenever he walked down the street past the back of a protruding AC, he would smile and say, ‘What cold air it makes. Wonderful.’

And people would shake their heads.

But Manucci knew they would call him crazy if he said this air was hot, so he always said it was cold. And when they shook their heads at him he shook his head right back.

It was not until the day that Darashikoh’s mother grabbed Manucci by the ear as he was trying to slip her wallet out of her purse and, deciding what Manucci needed was a home and some discipline, brought him back to her house, it was not until that day that Manucci finally went inside a building that had an AC. When it was turned on, he felt cold air blowing right into his face. And that is why he said, without blinking an eye, ‘This air is hot.’

He was very pleased with this statement.

But Darashikoh, just in the door from his first college boxing practice, was surprised, and strangely unsettled.

The ashtray’s full, I haven’t brushed my teeth, and there’s no place for me to spit out the dry paste that’s on my tongue.

My temples throb. Slow, sweaty throb-throbs. Joints have started giving me a headache rather than a buzz. Their smoke lingers in my sinuses, in my nasal cavities, air trapped in pockets between irritated membranes, drums reverberating with my heartbeat. I rub the ridges above my eyes with my fingers, the rooted hair of my eyebrows slipping over hard, impenetrable bone, swollen flesh over dead skull over incessant pain. Maybe I’m dehydrated. Maybe it’s the heat. But I’m getting sick of sitting at home with nothing to do but wonder whom I can convince to lend me some more money.

It would be nice if Murad Badshah really were hardcore, if we really could take his gun and walk up to some rich little bastard, some nineteen-year-old in a Pajero with a mobile phone and nothing to do but order around men twice his age. A kid like that would have a few thousand in his wallet. Ten thousand, maybe. I could use some nice, new, thousand-rupee notes, like the notes Mumtaz pulled out of her pocket at the party when she bought us the ex.
But Murad Badshah’s just a big talker. And when I think of the boy Ozi killed, of his flattened head like a half-cracked egg, the shell shattered but its shards still clinging together, keeping the wet stuff inside, I know I don’t have what it takes to use a gun.

But you get no respect unless you have cash. The next time I meet someone who’s heard I’ve been fired and he raises his chin that one extra degree which means he thinks he’s better than me, I’m going to put my fist through his face.

I yell for Manucci.

‘Yes, saab?’ he says, coming in. His face has begun sprouting fluff like a caterpillar spinning a cocoon. I’d better teach him how to use a razor before he takes on the fundo look.

‘I need to spit,’ I tell him.

He looks at me expectantly. When I don’t say more, he ventures another ‘Yes, saab?’

‘Bring me a tissue.’

He goes off to the kitchen and reappears carrying a trash bin. ‘We’re out of tissue, saab. You can spit here.’

‘Good thinking.’ I spit into the bin, scrape the paste off my tongue with my upper front teeth, and spit again. No more tissue. No more meat. Soon no more toilet paper, no more shampoo, no more deodorant. It’ll be rock salt, soap, and a lota for me, like it is for Manucci.

Which reminds me, I haven’t paid him this month.

A car honks outside, and after emptying the ashtray into
the bin, Manucci goes to see who it is. I wipe the sweat from my face, dry my hand on my jeans, and run my fingers through my hair. The front door opens and Mumtaz steps in, wearing track pants, expensive-looking running shoes, a T-shirt, and big shades. She’s followed by a very curious Manucci, grinning sheepishly.

It’s been three weeks since the party, and I’ve thought of her every day. But I haven’t wanted to meet Ozi, and I couldn’t come up with a reasonable excuse for me to get in touch.

‘Hi,’ she says. ‘I thought I’d drop by and say hello.’

I stand up, flash my most charming smile, and almost step forward to give her a kiss, but think better of it, because my breath probably smells. ‘I’m glad you’ve come,’ I say, motioning for her to sit. ‘Can I offer you some lunch?’

‘No thanks,’ she says, sitting down and lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m on my way to the gym. But I’d love a glass of water.’

‘Bring one for me as well,’ I tell Manucci.

Mumtaz takes off her shades and hangs them from the neck of her T-shirt, between her breasts. She has broad shoulders, not thick but wide, and she lounges in her exercise clothes with the relaxed physical confidence of an athlete. ‘It’s hot in here,’ she says. ‘Load-shedding?’

I almost say yes, almost lie instead of saying that I’m out of cash and have no electricity and owe money to half the city. But I decide not to. I’m a bad liar. I don’t have
the memory for it. And I feel like telling her the truth.

‘I’m broke,’ I say. ‘The power’s been disconnected.’

She smiles at me for a moment as though I’m making fun of her. Then she flicks the ash of her cigarette and says, ‘Really?’

I nod.

‘Why don’t you take some money from us?’ she asks. ‘Ozi will give you as much as you need.’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t want any money from Ozi.’ The words come out more forcefully than I’d intended.

She raises her chin at my tone, but looks concerned rather than offended. ‘Why? Are you upset with him?’

I almost say, Because he killed a boy and doesn’t give a shit and I don’t want any of his corrupt cash. But instead I say, ‘I’m not upset with him. We had a little argument. Nothing important.’

Manucci comes in, unable to meet Mumtaz’s eye, giggling slightly as he hands us our water. When he leaves, Mumtaz leans forward and presses her glass against her cheek. ‘It sounds like there’s more anger in you than you want to admit.’

I shrug. ‘He’s a good man.’ I’m shocked when I hear the words, not because I’m saying them, but because I don’t believe them. ‘We’ll be fine.’

She takes a sip of her water and looks at me like she knows I’m lying. ‘We’ve been having problems,’ she says.

She strokes her glass with her cheek, and I keep my mouth shut and wait for her to go on. But she’s quiet for a while, looking away, and when she looks at me again, I can see that she’s decided to say no more about it for now. ‘I don’t want to bore you,’ she says.

‘You’re not boring me,’ I tell her.

‘I hate being so morbid all the time.’ She gives a little laugh that isn’t at all happy. ‘I think part of my frustration is that I haven’t been getting enough exercise. Do you work out?’

I let her change the subject. ‘Not really. I do some push-ups and sit-ups, or go for a run, but not regularly.’

‘What about boxing?’

‘I hit a bag sometimes.’

‘Can you teach me?’ she asks.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I need a good workout.’

‘Now?’

She gets up and raises her fists. She’s grinning, but there’s an intensity in her eyes that my coach would have liked to see.

‘If you want,’ I say.

I go to my room for some equipment and take her to the back of the house, where my old heavy bag hangs from a rusty chain. We sit down on a wooden bench, straddling it and facing each other.

‘Show me your hand,’ I say.

She does.

I turn it over, a little hesitant when I touch her because I don’t want to be rough but I’m afraid that if I’m too gentle it’ll seem like a caress. ‘I’m going to wrap it,’ I tell her, slipping the loop of a rolled-up hand wrap over her thumb. I slide the cotton tape around her skin, encircling her wrist, slowly, so she can see how it’s done, then curving the tape up and around her fingers.

‘Take off your ring,’ I say.

She does. It’s a solitaire diamond, simple and probably worth almost a year of my salary at the bank, when the bank paid me a salary. She puts it down on the bench behind her.

I keep wrapping, covering her knuckles, binding her long fingers together, then spiraling back down to her wrist. Finally I tie the two tassels at the end of the hand wrap. I tell her to make a fist and then let go, and I watch the blood rush back into her fingers.

‘Do you want to do the other one yourself?’ I ask her.

‘I’ll try,’ she says. She slips the loop over her thumb and starts to wrap, keeping about the right tension, neither too loose nor too tight. Sometimes I have to guide her hand with mine.

‘Let me tie the end,’ I say when she’s done.

‘I want to try.’ She grabs one tassel with her teeth, pulls the other around her wrist with her fingers, and ties a knot.
I’ve had these hand wraps for a long time, but seeing them on her skin, seeing her use her mouth to tie them, makes them seem less familiar.

Finally I show her my gloves, once bright red, now faded and scuffed with use. ‘These will be too big,’ I say, putting them on her. ‘But I want you to wear them, because I don’t want you to hurt your hands.’

She stands up, squares her shoulders, and raises the gloves. Her hair is pulled back, away from her face, and she looks beautiful. I reach out and take her shades off the neck of her T-shirt, conscious of my fingers touching the skin below her throat, and set them down on the bench near her ring.

I look at her stance. ‘Spread your legs slightly,’ I say. ‘And bend your knees. Stand on the balls of your feet.’ Her body moves exactly the way I want. ‘Perfect. Now bring your hands up. Higher. That’s the basic on-guard position. After each punch, you want to come back to it.’

She starts hopping up and down and making mean faces.

‘Easy, champ,’ I tell her. ‘Let’s learn a couple punches first. This,’ I say, tapping her left glove, ‘is your lead hand. And this’ – I demonstrate – ‘is a jab.’ I throw another, much faster this time, just touching her glove with my bare hand. ‘Let’s see it.’

I talk her through a few basic punches, and she learns fast. Her movements are fluid, efficient, her attention focused on me when I’m explaining and on her own body
when she’s moving. I put my hands on her arms and shoulders from time to time to adjust her position, and I feel long muscles under soft flesh.

After she’s warmed up and has the hang of it, we move to the heavy bag, and I start by demonstrating one punch at a time. She watches me, breathing steadily, her face shiny with sweat, a smile pulling at her lips. Reaching up, she shuts her eyes and wipes the sweat from her forehead with her arm. I want to touch her face, smooth the sweat out of her eyebrows with my fingers. Then she opens her eyes and sees me staring at her, and I turn and slam my hand into the bag with a ferocity that surprises me. Suddenly I’m going all out, punching hard, deep in my rhythm, coiling and exploding, again and again, dancing, my muscles full of blood, hitting on the move, slipping punches. The bag is jumping. My hands are brutal. I shake my head, smile violently, and hit it.

Then I stop, my breathing an easy pant, and look at Mumtaz. Our eyes meet and I feel the rhythm in my blood beating loud. I look down. Damn: my hands. I should have worn gloves, because now I’ve rubbed the skin off my knuckles.

Mumtaz steps up to the bag. She hits it hard, like she wants to punch right through it and trusts the strength of her wrist. The bag rocks slightly, and she hits it again, drawing power from her legs and twisting her body to put her shoulder behind the punch. She throws her punches at a slow, measured pace. Soon the bag is swinging. I hear a
grunt of exertion, a sound almost like rage. She hits the bag like she’s furious with it, like she wants to hurt it. And she keeps on hitting it, completely intent on the bag, and my surprise at her strength gives way to a new surprise at her endurance. Finally she stops, puts her arms around the bag, and presses her forehead into it.

I tap her on the shoulder and she turns. ‘I guess I needed that,’ she says, grinning.

‘So who were you punching?’ I ask her.

‘Who were you punching?’ she replies.

I smile. ‘I was just showing off, I suppose.’

She hits her gloves together. ‘So was I.’

‘You have a lot of stamina for a smoker.’

‘I work out. Besides, I have an older brother, so I’m a fighter.’ Her T-shirt is dark around the throat and along the back of her shoulders, where her skin touches the wet fabric. ‘Are you ready to box?’ she asks me.

I start to laugh. ‘You won’t be able to hit me.’

‘Let me try.’

I stand in front of her and let my hands dangle at my sides. ‘Punch me in the head,’ I say.

She puts her hands up and throws a punch. And she doesn’t hold back. I watch the red glove coming and pull my head back at the last moment, grinning at her surprise. She keeps trying, but she can’t hit me.

‘Stop,’ I say finally.

She does, dropping her hands.

‘I boxed for years,’ I tell her. ‘It’ll take you a while before you can hit me.’ Then, just to tease her, I shut my eyes and lean forward, offering up my best ‘do it if you dare’ face.

Hot sunlight glows orange through my eyelids.

I feel the punch coming and don’t move, don’t even open my eyes. I’m sure she’s bluffing. Then my head snaps back as her punch hits me full in the face. ‘What the hell was that?’ I say, shocked. I touch my mouth and my fingers come away with a streak of blood.

She’s laughing, one glove in front of her mouth, her eyes wide with surprise. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says, trying to look apologetic. ‘I didn’t mean to hit you that hard. But I just couldn’t resist.’