Moth Smoke (2 page)

‘He’s exhausted,’ Mumtaz says. ‘You should put him to bed.’

A muffled ‘No’ comes from the boy.

We sit down on a set of low-slung sofas like black-cushioned metal spiders. Mumtaz is watching me and I look away because she’s beautiful and I don’t want to stare. I haven’t seen her since the wedding, and I must have been more drunk than I thought because I don’t remember thinking then that Ozi was such a lucky bastard.

‘Scotch?’ Ozi asks.

‘Of course,’ I respond.

Ozi starts to hand Muazzam to Mumtaz, but she stands up. ‘I’ll get it,’ she says.

‘Do you really think I’ve gone bald?’ Ozi asks me.

‘I’m afraid so, handsome,’ I tell him, even though he still has hair left. Ozi’s vain enough to survive a little teasing.

Mumtaz pulls an unopened bottle of Black Label out of a cabinet. My bootlegger tells me Blacks are going for four thousand apiece these days. I stick to McDowell’s, smuggled in from India and, at eight-fifty, priced for those of us who make an honest living. But Ozi can afford the good stuff, and Black Label is fine by me, provided someone else is paying.

‘Ozi claims he was a real heartthrob in his younger days,’ Mumtaz says, cracking the seal.

‘He certainly was,’ I reply. ‘Lahore ran out of tissues the night you two were married.’

‘I still am a heartthrob,’ Ozi protests, touching his temples. ‘A little skin is sexy.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘At our age, my hirsute chum, all women care about is cash. And my bank account is hairy enough for a harem.’

‘Such refinement,’ Mumtaz says, handing me a Scotch, nicely watered and iced. ‘Are all Lahori men like him?’

‘Certainly not,’ I tell her.

‘Be careful, Daru,’ Ozi says, accepting his glass from Mumtaz. ‘She’s trying to divide us.’

Mumtaz sits down next to him. Her drink is stiffer than either of ours. ‘Since you’re one of my husband’s dearest friends,’ she says, ‘I have little hope for you.’

Ozi gives me a wink.

‘But a little hope,’ she adds, ‘is better than none at all.’

‘Cheers,’ I say. The three of us clink our glasses.

You know you’re in trouble when you can’t meet a woman’s eye, particularly if the woman happens to be your best friend’s wife. So I’m definitely in trouble, because I keep looking at Mumtaz and jerking my gaze away whenever she looks at me. I hope she doesn’t notice, but she probably does. Then again, maybe I’m thinking too much. Stoner’s paranoia.

We’re well into our second round of drinks when I pull out a pack of reds. ‘Smoke?’

‘I’ve quit,’ Ozi says.

‘You can’t be serious.’ The Ozi I knew was a half-pack-a-day man. The very fellow, in fact, who got me started on cigarettes in the first place, when we were fourteen, because he looked so cool smoking on the roof of his old house.

‘I’m a father now. I have to be responsible.’

‘To whom?’ I ask. ‘I feel abandoned.’

‘You should quit, too.’

I extend the pack. ‘Come on. One more. For old times.’

He shakes his head. ‘Sorry, yaar.’

‘Well, I haven’t quit,’ Mumtaz says, taking one. ‘And I’ve been dying for a smoke.’

Ozi gives Mumtaz a look over the head of their son.

‘He’s asleep,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you take him to bed?’

Ozi carries the boy out and I light our cigarettes.

‘I’m not allowed to smoke when he’s in the room,’ she explains, picking a newspaper off the table. ‘Do you read this?’

‘Sometimes. There’s a story today about a missing girl in Defense. The police suspect her family killed her when they discovered she had a lover. Her lover claims the police did something with her after the two of them were caught on a date by a mobile unit and taken into the station. And her family insists she never had a lover. Strange stuff.’

‘I read it. By someone called Zulfikar Manto.’

‘That’s right. I hadn’t heard of him before. Good article.’

She nods once, her eyes on the front page.

‘Let’s talk about this quitting-smoking thing,’ I say to Ozi when he returns, unwilling to let him off the hook so easily.

‘It’ll kill you,’ he says.

I flick some ash into the ashtray. ‘That’s no reason to quit. You have to weigh the benefit against the loss.’

‘And what exactly is the benefit?’

I spread my hands and take a drag to demonstrate. ‘Pleasure, yaar.’

‘Didn’t you tell me smoking ruined your stamina as a boxer?’

Mumtaz raises an eyebrow, the curved half of a slender question mark, black, in recline.

‘Ruined is a strong word,’ I say.

‘You never won.’

‘I won all the time. I just never won a championship.’

‘It takes years off your life.’

‘It helps fight boredom. It gives you more to do and less time to do it in.’

‘I must not be that bored. A wife and son do keep life interesting.’

I look at Mumtaz, cigarette in hand, but refrain from pointing out that the pleasures of having a husband and son haven’t eliminated her desire for the occasional puff.

‘What sort of person,’ Mumtaz asks, exhaling, ‘tries to convince someone not to quit smoking?’

‘Only a good friend,’ I respond. ‘Who else would care?’

‘It’s too late,’ Ozi says. ‘I haven’t had a cigarette in three years.’

‘You’ve been away,’ I point out. ‘Surrounded by health-crazy Americans. I’ll have you smoking again in a month.’

‘Don’t corrupt him,’ Mumtaz says to me, pulling her legs up onto the sofa and resting her head on Ozi’s shoulder.

‘I’ve never corrupted anyone,’ I say.

‘I don’t believe you,’ she says.

She’s finished her cigarette but hasn’t put it out properly, so it’s still smoking in the ashtray. I crush mine into it, grinding until both stop burning. ‘I never lie,’ I lie.

She smiles.

By the time I leave for home, I’m happily trashed. Not a bad reunion, all in all. Ozi and Mumtaz see me out, we shake hands and kiss cheeks, respectively, and I’m off, driving under the hot candle of a shadow-casting moon that’s bigger and brighter and yellower than it should be. There are no clouds and no wind, and there are no stars because of the dust. The road sucks on the tires of my car. Great night for a joint, but I don’t think I’m sober enough to roll one, and I should have been paying more attention because I’ve run into a police check post and it’s too late to turn. There’s
nothing for it. I have to stop. I light a cigarette to cover my breath and open a window.

A flashlight shines into my eyes and I can make out a mustache but little else. ‘Bring your car to the side of the road,’ the mustache says.

I do it.

‘Registration,’ says the mustache. ‘License.’

I give them to him, anticipating the list of possible bribe-yielding items he’ll ask me about. I hope he doesn’t smell the booze.

‘Get out,’ says the mustache.

They search my car: the dickey, the glove compartment, under the seats. Nothing. Now if I’m lucky the mustache will let me go. But I’m not lucky and he continues hunting.

‘Where are you coming from?’ asks the mustache.

‘My parents’ house.’ Always a safe answer.

‘Where do they live?’

‘In the cantonment.’ The police are terrified of the army.

He smiles, and I think, Damn, he’s smelled the booze. He has.

‘Have you been drinking?’ he asks.

‘What sort of question is that? I’m a good Muslim.’ Stupid answer. He knows I’m drunk. I should beg for mercy and throw him a bribe.

Other mustaches gather around. ‘Let’s take this good Muslim back to the station,’ one says.

‘Do you know the penalty for drinking?’ asks the first mustache.

‘Eternal hellfire?’

‘No, before that. Do you know how many years you will be shut in prison?’

This has gone far enough, I think. One of these guys might be a fundo with a bad temper, so I’d better buy my way out of this fast. ‘Isn’t there some way we can sort this out?’ I ask.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Perhaps I could pay a fine instead,’ I suggest.

‘Shut him in prison,’ one of the mustaches mutters.

The first mustache leads me a short distance away from the others. ‘This is a very serious crime,’ he says, ‘but I see that you’re sorry for what you’ve done. Give me two thousand, and I’ll convince them to let you go.’

‘I don’t have two thousand,’ I say, relieved that we’ve started haggling.

‘How much do you have?’

I take out my wallet and shuffle through the notes. ‘Seven hundred and eighty-three.’

‘Give it to me.’

‘I’m very low on petrol. Let me keep the eighty-three.’

‘Fine.’

I drive off in a state of drunken emptiness that I know will give way to anger, because I can’t afford to throw away seven
hundred rupees like that. But for now I’m still buzzing, so I take swoopy turns with a grin that’s so separate from my eyes it feels like my face belongs to two people. If there’s a camera filming my life it moves up, higher and higher, until I’m just a pair of headlights winding my way home.

I’m huddled under the sheets in my cold bedroom when I hear, above the air conditioner’s hum, a sound I don’t want to hear. It’s Manucci, knocking on my door.

‘Saab, your breakfast is ready,’ he says.

Manucci only does this when I’m late. I look at my alarm clock: ten minutes to nine. I should be leaving right now. ‘Breakfast!’ I roar. I shower and shave at the same time, cutting myself, throw on a suit, and try to gulp down the water Manucci has brought me, but it’s so cold I have to drink it slowly. I have a headache and an upset stomach, signs that last night’s Black Label might have been fake, and my shirt is missing a button.

I grab my briefcase, shovel some fried egg into my mouth with pieces of toast, and head out the door. A dog is lying in the middle of the driveway, just outside the gate, and he doesn’t stir when I yell at him or even when I send a stone thudding into his back. I look around for a stick but can’t find one, so I walk forward empty-handed to see if he’s dead. He is. He can’t have been dead for long because gorged ticks still cover his ears like bunches of grapes. There are a lot of dead
dogs these days: the heat’s killing them. I push him with my foot toward the refuse pile by the gate and notice he’s already stiff, tendons like tight ropes wrapped around his bones.

Small houses hunched over shoulder-high boundary walls disgorge a few tardy inhabitants onto the narrow street. My place is plain, unlike some of the pink-painted, column-sporting mini-monstrosities nearby. A gray cement block, more or less, with rectangular windows, a couple of balconies too narrow to use, and the best bloody tree in the neighborhood: a banyan that’s been around forever and covers most of the dust patch I call my front lawn.

I drive fast, belching up the taste of egg from time to time, and I’m thinking about an appointment I have at ten which I’d rather not have at all. Still, I’m not happy when my car’s engine dies on me and a quick glance tells me that I’m out of fuel. I try to make it to the next petrol pump on sheer momentum, but there’s too much traffic and I have to hit the brakes. I take off my jacket, roll up my sleeves, open the door, and push with one hand on the steering wheel until the car is by the side of the road. People honk at me unnecessarily as they drive past, and my white shirt is turning translucent in spots.

I walk the half-kilometer or so to the station and buy some regular, a container, and a funnel. It’s 9:48. Petrol swishing beside me, I jog back, inhaling the dark smoke buses spit in my direction and feeling sweat fill my eyebrows
and overflow, stinging, into my eyes. I restart my car, driving with one hand and unbuttoning my shirt with the other so I can dry myself off with a rag.

I’m in the office by eleven minutes after ten, cold because I’m soaked and the air-conditioning in the bank is always too strong. I smell like a garage on a windless day, and I’m sure I look a mess.

Raider sees me and shakes his head. Raider’s real name is Haider, and his dream is to become a hostile takeover specialist on Wall Street. He’s the only man at our bank who wears suspenders.

‘You’re in for it, yaar,’ he says.

‘Is he here?’ I ask.

‘Is he ever late?’

‘Is he pissed?’

‘He isn’t smiling.’

Raider’s talking about my client, Malik Jiwan, a rural landlord with half a million U.S. in his account, a seat in the Provincial Assembly, and eyebrows that meet in the middle like a second pair of whiskers. His pastimes include fighting the spread of primary education and stalling the census. Right now he’s sitting behind my desk, in my chair, rotating imperiously.

‘You’re late,’ he says.

I’m in no mood for this. ‘Sorry, Mr Jiwan, my car –’

‘Never mind. Has my check cleared?’

‘Your check?’

He strokes his beard and looks at me, saying nothing.

I remind myself why God gave bankers lips: to kiss up to our clients. ‘Please tell me: what check?’

‘The check for thirty thousand U.S. I deposited with you.’

‘Let me just find out.’ I call customer services and give them the account number. ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t gone through yet.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I deposited it a week ago.’

I’m enjoying his discomfort. ‘International checks can take some time.’

‘Didn’t I tell you to take care of this personally?’

‘I don’t remember your saying that, Mr Jiwan.’

‘Well, I remember saying it.’

Good for you. ‘Next time you really ought to consider a cashier’s check.’

‘Are you making fun of me?’

God forbid. ‘No,’ I say.

‘Young man, I don’t like the way you’re smiling.’

I’m not one of your serfs, you bastard. And I want you to get the hell out of my chair. ‘Mr Jiwan, I’m not trying to be disrespectful.’

‘Your tone is disrespectful.’

Before the Day of Judgment, as every good banker knows, will come a Night of Insolvency. And on that
Night I intend to go calling on one or two of my more troublesome clients. But for now my bank is still sound, and I’m limited in my choice of responses to Mr Jiwan’s attempt to impose feudal hierarchy on my office. ‘Mr Jiwan, I’m doing my best to provide you with any service you require.’

‘Do you know who I am?’