Moth Smoke (22 page)

Ro has probably never been second at anything in his life. All the boys are impressed that he’s done so well. But I guess he wanted more. He wanted to win, to be the best, just this once. So when Lain goes up to his friend to congratulate him, Ro says, ‘If I had an Atari at my house, I could have scored double what you did.’

Lain, shocked at this display of bad sportsmanship, says without thinking, ‘You might as well take mine, then. You’ll never have one unless my family gives it to you.’

And right there, as twenty-six of their classmates look on, oohing and aahing, Ro turns red as a tomato and starts to cry.

The other boys laugh at him.

And Lain, for probably the first time in his young life, realizes what an asshole he is.

Ro won’t talk to Lain for a long time after that. They
still drive to and from school together every day, but Ro won’t say a word. Lain, surprisingly enough, is miserable. So one day he goes to Ro’s house and breaks down in front of Ro’s mother and starts sobbing and tells her how sorry he is. She calls Ro into the room and Ro forgives Lain. And after that the two become best friends.

Ro still looks up to Lain because he’s cool and popular. Lain gives Ro his first cigarette, his first blue video, his first joint. He sets Ro up on his first date. Helps him pick out his first leather jacket. Teaches him how to use gel and pull a one-eighty.

And Lain, for his part, respects Ro for his honesty and decency.

Meanwhile, both boys are going through some changes. In particular, fat little Ro isn’t quite so fat or little anymore. His uncle is teaching him how to box, he’s exercising like a maniac, and he’s becoming stronger by the day. He isn’t a pretty boy by any stretch of the imagination, but girls are beginning to notice him. Together, Lain and Ro share the adventures that are the plus side of developing a bad reputation.

By the time they enter senior school, they’re in love. No, no, nothing like that. Do I really have to spell it out for you? Many boys, probably most boys, have a first love before they fall in love with a woman. It begins the moment two boys realize they’d die for one another, that each cares more for the other than he does for himself, and it lasts usually
until a second love comes on the scene, because most hearts aren’t big enough to love more than one person like that.

Ro and Lain realize they’re in love one evening on Ro’s roof, as they lie on their backs sharing a joint and holding the string of a battered patang, undefeated after five kite fights. ‘I love you,’ Lain says suddenly. And Ro, who’s probably surprised, even more so when he realizes that he’s been longing to hear those words for some time, says, ‘I love you, too.’ And they don’t look at each other, they’re too embarrassed, but all in all, they feel pretty good.

Then SAT season arrives and Lain does well and Ro does better. They apply to the same eight colleges. Lain gets into three and Ro doesn’t get into any, because he’s asking for financial aid and it’s hard to get when you’re a foreign student. So Lain jets off to the States and Ro enrolls in GC. After that, they see each other only during vacations, but their lives are following different paths. Lain loves college abroad. Ro hates GC. And even though he makes the boxing team year after year, he’s never good enough to win a title for himself.

On the rare occasions when they meet, Ro is angry and Lain is sad, because both sense that one of them is going nowhere.

Then Ro’s mother dies and Lain goes to law school and gets married, and the two hardly see one another for years.
And when Lain returns to Pakistan, wife and son in tow, Ro seems more frustrated than ever by his situation. But Lain reaches out to him, tries to broaden his social circle, asks his father to find Ro a new job.

Lain still loves Ro. He’s still his best friend. And if Lain doesn’t invite Ro to every dinner and get-together he has at his place, it’s only because he knows Ro wouldn’t like the superficial people Lain now socializes with.

But Ro is jealous of Lain. His resentment, dormant since childhood, has begun to rumble. Lain can see it (he isn’t blind), but he knows Ro well and trusts him completely. He’s certain Ro’s anger will pass.

Then one day there is a reunion of sorts at the Punjab Club, and the same twenty-eight boys, more or less, who gathered for that Atari competition long ago are reunited. And again Ro is humiliated: this time he’s called a drug dealer and mocked because he has no job. So the next evening Lain goes over to console him.

And there, from the driveway, through an open window, the curtains spread wide, Lain sees his best friend on top of his wife, moving. Moving.

Now put yourself in Lain’s shoes.

What would that do to you?

Maybe I should have suspected it. After all, Mumtaz and Daru hit it off from the very beginning, and there were certainly
enough hints. But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and besides, I trusted him.

I trusted her, too. I knew Mumtaz was up to something, wandering all over town, telling me she’d been to places I later learned she hadn’t, getting defensive whenever I’d ask what she did while I was away. But I didn’t mind, because I’d found out about Zulfikar Manto. I discovered his first article in the computer’s trash folder. And I let myself preview his later work, files hidden on an unmarked floppy disk in her handbag. I could see that she was passionate about it, so I let her keep up the pretense for as long as she wanted, certain she’d eventually tell me. I once gave her a book of Manto’s short stories in translation, a gentle hint, to see if she’d open up. And I was a little hurt when she kept her secret. But what could I say? I adored my wife. And I was thrilled that she was having adventures.

I just had no idea that journalism was only half of it, that Mumtaz and Daru were having an affair.

Once we were eating mangoes, the three of us together. I said, Sindhris are my favorite. Daru said, You can’t juice Sindhris, you can only cut them. I said, So what, cutting is more civilized. He said, It lacks passion, Chaunsas are my favorite, because they’re the best for sucking. I looked at Mumtaz and smiled and said, I like fruit from Sindh. She said, Both cutting and juicing have their merits. Then she said, I like Anwar Ratores, because they’re small and you
can have two or three at a time. She said Daru and I were overly preoccupied with size.

I wonder if they were making fun of me, even then.

But I’m not going to treat you to a look inside the mind of the cuckold, a view into the near crack-up that accompanies the realization that your best friend is sleeping with your wife. I don’t want your pity, thanks. And even if I did want it, I couldn’t put what I endured into words. There’s a reason prophets perform miracles: language lacks the power to describe faith. And you have to land on faith before you can even begin to hike around to its flip side, betrayal.

So what did I decide to do?

Nothing.

I couldn’t confront Daru. You haven’t seen him when he’s angry: he can be a scary guy. If he’d become twisted enough to sleep with my wife, who knows what he might have done to me. I could have had him killed, I suppose. Shot like a favorite dog gone rabid. But I didn’t.

I told you, I’m not a bad guy.

And I couldn’t bring myself to confront Mumtaz either. Because I didn’t want to lose her. You see, I knew things hadn’t been going well in our marriage for some time. And even though I wasn’t sure if I could ever forgive her, I still loved her and I didn’t want her to leave me. Can you understand that? If you can’t, you’ve never been in love, not really.

But she left me anyway. And even though she denies it, I know she left me for Daru. My one consolation is that they won’t be seeing each other for a while.

So: no, I’m not sad to hear he killed the boy. I won’t lie to you. But I certainly didn’t frame him for it. I’m not the sort.

He was my best friend, after all.

My cocoon is too tight. Uncontained by my broken body, blood and wet flesh combine with cloth, bonding me to my bandages. Eyes shut by swelling see only orange, translucent light.

Wrapped inside my painkillers and the shell of my scars and bruises like a slow-growing larva, I wait.

She comes in with her palms pressed together, fingers touching lips, wide eyes above a prayer or a shush so forceful it requires both hands.

‘What happened to you?’

‘Don’t ask.’ The words whistle through the gap in my teeth, tickling the raw hole in my gum.

She takes my good hand in both of hers and strokes it with her cheek, runs her fingers over my face, over my bruises, my cuts, the train tracks of my stitches.

‘Who did this?’

I shut my eyes and reenter the dizziness that spins inside my head like two drinks too many too fast too strong. I can’t vomit it out. I’ve tried. I can only hold on to myself
in the whirlwind, staring up at Shuja’s father, crying, begging. The barrel of his shotgun pressing against my abdomen like a needle, suddenly sharp. Gasping as my skin rips, as the needle slides into my body, pushing muscle and tissue aside, tearing through me, snapping my back, pinning me to the ground, mounting me like an insect on a board. And the nausea grows stronger, pulling me into itself, twisting me, wrenching at my guts, becoming unbearable.

I open my eyes. I want to kill him.

She sits down on the bed beside me.

I protect my rib cage with my arm.

‘Where’s your family?’ she asks.

‘I haven’t told them.’ I don’t want to explain, don’t want to see them until I’ve recovered and there’s no reason for questions. But that won’t happen, not in a lifetime, not with a dead finger and a crushed nose and a smile that can’t hide the darkness inside my head.

‘How will you pay for this?’

‘I don’t know.’

She slips her arm around my shoulders and cradles my head against her breast.

We breathe together. Slowly.

Time passes, flowing, a long, less and less painful sigh. And I shut my eyes.

Pain becomes only physical again.

Fear recedes.

Anger flickers for a moment longer, gas in the pipes after the stove has been turned off.

She says, ‘I’ll take care of you.’

And I feel gratitude and happiness rise up inside me: old friends, long-forgotten and yet much missed.

When the doctors tell me I can leave, she drives me home in my car. Its windows have been smashed, even the little triangles above the rear doors, but when the engine comes to life I smile, feeling unfamiliar muscles in my face flex.

In my room she lays me down on my bed, pulls the curtains shut, and undresses me.

Then she finds a bucket of cool water and a soft cloth and a bar of Pears soap. And she bathes me.

She begins with my eyes, stroking them shut. She follows my throat down to my collarbone, to the inside of my arm, to the skin between my fingers. To my chest, avoiding my broken rib, to my stomach, the bones of my pelvis. My feet, my shins. My thighs.

Then I feel her mouth and I exhale, slowly.

And after, she takes off her clothes and bathes herself. Touches herself. And then she lies beside me and watches me sleep.

When she leaves I’m alone. Completely alone. I’d hoped Manucci might be there, but he hasn’t come back. It frightens
me to look at myself, and it frightens me even more to run my good hand along the broken rib curving around my soft innards, a gap in my body’s protection more shocking than the gap in my teeth.

That night I lie on my bed with my badminton racquet, tapping moths ineffectively, because it hurts too much when I move fast enough to kill them.

It’s more difficult to bear the pain when I’m alone. I know it’s good for me, a sign of life reasserting itself after the damage I’ve sustained, but it’s hard to put up with when there’s no one watching, no reference point, no sign that the struggle will lead anywhere but to more struggle. I can smile as a doctor sews stitches into my skin or a nurse slides a needle into my rump, but who can smile at a headache as he lies in bed in an empty house? I can’t. I haven’t that much strength.

The pain gets worse as the night goes on. The painkillers help, and the joints help as well, but what helps most is the heroin.

I find the stuff in my bedside table drawer, where it’s been lying untouched since the night of my first try, and I know from the second I see it that I want some. It’s wonderful. It doesn’t kill the pain exactly, but after an aitch the pain doesn’t seem to matter. Pain without hurt, as though I don’t understand what my nerves are telling me. Or don’t believe them.

I tell myself not to use it again, unless I really need the release. Hairy’s serious, after all. Wouldn’t want to get in the habit.

Mumtaz comes in the morning with halva poori for breakfast. Feeds me with her own hands, the halva still hot. Kisses the crumbs from my lips. And she brings me lunch and dinner: omelets and parathas, wrapped in greasy newspaper. Also candles. Matches. Mangoes. Toothpaste.

I don’t tell her about the hairy.

When I look in the mirror, when I see what’s been done to me, rage lifts my eyelids and twists my reflection. I cherish the anger, center myself in it, draw power from it, strength for my healing. Because I will heal. And then it’ll be my turn at the crease. And I won’t be gentle with my bat.

She understands how I feel. Knows how to calm me.

When I tell her how my body was broken, fury comes, and I start screaming until I exhaust myself, panting from the pain in my rib cage. She wipes the spit from my chin and cradles my head, somehow corking my anger, bottling it up. And after a while I do feel better. Bottled, starved for air, even anger can’t burn.

The longer she stays, the more I hate it when she leaves.

One evening she says, ‘You look less monstrous every day.’

‘So do you.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Stronger.’

‘Good, because Ozi’s back. I won’t be able to come as often.’

I’m silent.

‘You look disappointed,’ she says.

‘I am.’

‘Well, I can’t blame you. I wouldn’t mind being fed and bathed by you every day, either.’

‘It’s not that. I want to see you.’