Moth Smoke (3 page)

I’m beginning to lose my patience. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘I can have you thrown on the street.’

‘Don’t threaten me, Mr Jiwan. I don’t work for you. You’re a client of this bank, and if you don’t like the service you receive here, you’re free to go elsewhere.’

‘We’ll see who goes elsewhere. I want to speak to your Branch Manager.’

‘Certainly.’ I escort him to my BM’s office, outwardly calm, because I don’t want him to see me squirm. But from the way my BM grabs Mr Jiwan’s hand, in both of his, and also from the way my BM bows slightly, at the waist and at the neck, a double bend, I know this is going to be unpleasant.

‘Ghulam,’ Mr Jiwan is saying, ‘this boy has just insulted me.’

‘Shut the door, Mr Shezad,’ my BM says to me. ‘What happened?’

I know I need to present my case forcefully. ‘Sir,’ I begin.

‘Not you,’ my BM says. ‘Malik saab, tell me what happened.’

‘I told this boy to take care of a deposit personally. Today, when I find out that he hasn’t done so, he calls me a liar, and says that I never told him to. He’s rude to me, and when I tell him I won’t stand for it, he raises his voice and tells me to take my business to another bank.’

My BM is looking at me with hard eyes. ‘This is unacceptable, Mr Shezad.’

‘Please let me tell you what happened, sir.’

‘You told Malik saab to take his business to another bank?’

‘You see, sir –’

‘Mr Shezad, this isn’t the first time a client has complained about your attitude. You’re on very dangerous ground. Just answer my question.’

‘No, sir, I didn’t say that.’

‘Are you saying that I’m lying?’ asks Mr Jiwan.

I’ve had a bad day. A bad month, actually. And there’s only so much nonsense a self-respecting fellow can be expected to take from these megalomaniacs. So I say it. ‘This is a bank, not your servant quarters, Mr Jiwan. If you want better service, maybe you ought to learn some manners.’

‘Enough!’ my BM yells.

I’ve never heard him yell before.

His voice brings me to my senses. What am I doing? Fear grabs me by the throat and makes me wave my hands like I’m erasing the wrong answer from a blackboard. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Jiwan.’

They don’t say anything.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ I go on. ‘It won’t happen again. I’m very sorry.’

My BM says, ‘You’re fired, Mr Shezad.’

A quick side step into unreality, like meeting your mother when you’re tripping. Am I losing my job? Right now? Is it possible?

Pull yourself together.

‘Please, sir,’ I say.

‘No, Mr Shezad.’

‘But please, sir. Please.’

‘No.’

I leave my BM’s office, leave them both watching me, and walk to my desk, and I look around it, and there’s so much to do, so much work to do, and I can do it. I can do it. But I can’t concentrate. My nose is running, and I taste it in my mouth, and my face is hot even though I’m cold.

Everyone is staring at me. How can they know already? I want to tell them it’s a mistake, but I look down at my desk instead. Just act natural. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

My BM is walking Mr Jiwan out. I pick up a pen and move some papers, and they don’t say anything to me. Everything will be all right.

Someone comes to stand in front of my desk. Ignore him and he’ll go away.

‘Mr Shezad.’

I raise my head. It’s my BM. There’s a security guard beside him.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You’re fired, Mr Shezad.’

‘But, you see, sir, I’m really very sorry. Don’t fire me. I’ll work a month without pay.’

‘You have a serious psychological problem, Mr Shezad. Your severance pay will be sent to your home by registered post. You need to stop crying, collect your personal items, and go home.’

‘Do you want me to fill out some form?’

‘No, Mr Shezad. Please leave.’

He’s watching me. I’m looking for personal items on my desk but not finding any. Pick up my briefcase. Legs move, feet go one in front of the other. Look straight ahead as the guard opens the door. Turn the key in the ignition. Drive. Drive where? Home. Give briefcase to Manucci and ignore the words that come out of his mouth because I’m going to my room, shutting the door, locking it, pulling the curtains, taking off my clothes, crawling under the sheets, and curling up in the dark dark dark.

I don’t know if I’ve been sleeping or dreaming while I’m awake, but suddenly my eyelids snap apart under the sheets and I’m back from somewhere very different. I feel feverish
and I’m covered in sweat, but I think it’s because I didn’t turn on the AC or even the fan. Unnh, I need to go to the bathroom.

Sitting hunched over on the toilet, I feel the wet smoothness of my skin as my belly doubles over and touches itself. My stomach is so bad that I’m passing liquid. It burns. I grab the lota and wash myself.

Walking naked to the window in my room, I pull open the curtains and see an overripe sun swelling on the horizon.

I remember that I’ve agreed to go to a party with Ozi and Mumtaz. When they come to pick me up, Mumtaz is wearing something black that exposes her shoulders. She kisses me on the cheek. Her smell stays near me.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, concern mixed with the gravel of her voice.

‘I’m not feeling well.’

She smiles sympathetically. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Upset stomach.’

‘Have some Imodium and let’s go,’ Ozi says.

‘I’m not going,’ I say.

‘Come on, yaar,’ Ozi says, turning his hands palm up and tilting his head.

‘I’m feeling really bad.’

‘That’s how we’ll all be feeling in the morning. You just have a head start.’

‘I’m sorry, yaar. I’m not going.’

‘Yes, you are. I insist.’

‘Look at me: I’m not dressed and I look horrible.’

‘You always look horrible. Throw on some clothes and let’s go. We’ll wait in the car.’

In a daze, I put on a pair of black jeans, with a black T-shirt, black belt, and black loafers, slip some hash into a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and head out.

‘You two match,’ Ozi says, meaning Mumtaz and me.

I sit in the back of Ozi’s Pajero. I’ve never been in a Pajero before. Costs more than my house and moves like a bull, powerful and single-minded. Ozi drives by pointing it in one direction and stepping on the gas, trusting that everyone will get out of our way. Occasionally, when he cuts things too close and has to swerve to avoid crushing someone, the Pajero’s engine grumbles with disappointment and Ozi swears.

‘Stupid bastard.’

‘It was a red light,’ Mumtaz points out.

‘So? He could see me coming.’

‘There are rules, you know.’

‘And the first is, bigger cars have the right of way.’

A favorite line. One I haven’t heard in a long, long time. I remember speeding around the city with Ozi in his ’82 Corolla, feet sweating sockless in battered boat shoes, following cute girls up and down the Boulevard, memorizing their number plates and avoiding cops because neither of us had a license. Hair chopped in senior school crew cuts. Eyes pot-red
behind his wayfarers and my aviators. Stickers of universities I would never attend on the back windshield. Poondi, in the days of cheap petrol and skipping class and heavy-metal cassettes recorded with too much bass and even more treble. We had some good times, Ozi and I, before he left.

I would have reached out and clapped him on the shoulder then, grinned at him in the rearview, but I don’t do it now. I’m too tired.

We arrive at the party. A mostly male mob is gathered outside the gate, hoping to get in. It’s summertime, after all, and parties are few and far between.

Ozi pulls up and honks, and we get some glares.

‘Sorry, sir, I can’t open the gate,’ says a security guard.

‘You’ll have to. I’m parking inside,’ says Ozi.

The Pajero must give Ozi’s words added authority, because instead of laughing in his face, the guard says, ‘But how will we keep these people outside?’

‘That’s your problem. If anyone tries to get in, hit them one.’

The guard disappears. Ozi inches the car forward, pushing the crowd out of his way. I hear people swearing. Suddenly the gate opens and we drive in, leaving two security guards and some servants to scuffle with the crowd.

Ozi and Mumtaz head indoors, toward the music, and I’m about to follow them when someone grabs my arm. It’s Raider, taut with nervous energy. ‘Shit, yaar,’ he says.

‘Let’s not talk about it.’ The last thing I want to do just now is think about what happened today. Besides, the pity in Raider’s face is making me feel unwell.

He nods and raises his hands in accommodation. ‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘To hell with those bastards. I can’t believe –’

‘Leave it.’

Raider shifts from foot to foot, an intensely vacant look in his eyes, and grins at me. ‘You’re a killer, yaar. A killer. I like your style, partying tonight. I’d be a complete wreck.’

I take hold of his shoulders. ‘Please, shut up.’

He ducks his head. ‘Sorry.’ Then he starts grinning again. ‘But I’ve got the perfect thing for you.’

‘What?’

‘Ex.’

I should have guessed he was on something. ‘Here?’

He nods. ‘Great stuff, yaar. Very peppy.’

I shake my head. ‘Not tonight.’

‘Especially tonight. I know what I’m talking about.’

‘How much?’

‘Two thousand.’

‘I can’t, yaar. It’s too much.’

Raider smiles. ‘Just take it, then. A gift.’

That’s the problem with Raider, why he’ll never make it to Wall Street or probably even to Karachi, for that matter: he’s too generous. He’s the last person you want on your side in a negotiation.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But I can’t. Another time.’

‘Just call,’ Raider says, suddenly sad. ‘The bank will be boring without you. All worker bees and no wasps.’

I pat him on the back and walk off.

Then I’m inside. I see the familiar faces of Lahore’s party crowd, and soon I’m caught up in the whole hugging, handshaking, cheek-kissing scene. Tonight’s venue is a mansion with marble floors and twenty-foot ceilings. Rumor has it that the owner made his fortune as a smuggler, which is probably true but could also be social retribution for his recent ascent to wealth.

The dance floor is packed. Ozi and Mumtaz are shaking it down to ‘Stayin’ Alive.’ They make a sexy pair, a welcome new addition to the scene, and I overhear the update passing like a Reuters report: ‘Aurangzeb and Mumtaz, back from New York, very cool.’ Information is key at these things: no one wants to be caught holding social stock that’s about to crash.

I see Nadira glaring in my direction as she dances with some guy whose wet shirt sticks to his back. Keeping her eyes fixed on mine, she pulls closer to him and grinds her body against his, running her hands up his thighs. I’ve never understood why she does this to me, since she’s the one who ended it. As usual, I try to ignore her.

I’m in no mood to dance and there are too many people at the bar, so I wander through the house and out to the
back lawn. Finding a wrought-iron bench, I sit down to watch the party out of the darkness.

As I roll a joint, couples argue and kiss, unable to see me seeing them. Two guys are pacing about. One seems to be calming the other down, but I’m too far away to hear their words. Several people chat on their mobiles.

Then a woman walks in my direction.

‘Daru?’ she says.

‘Here, Mumtaz.’

She comes over and sits down, her body as far from mine as this narrow bench will allow.

‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

‘I watched you go outside. What are you doing?’

‘Just enjoying the night air.’

She smiles and says conspiratorially, ‘It looks like you’re rolling a jay.’

‘I suppose it does look like that.’

‘Can I have some?’

I look down. ‘Where’s Ozi? We should all share it.’

She points to the house with her chin. ‘He’s inside, chatting it up with some old school buddies. Besides, he’s stopped smoking pot.’

‘I can see I’m going to have to be firm with him,’ I say. ‘He’s forgotten his roots.’

‘We used to smoke together before. I was stoned when we first met. He was dancing. Ozi’s a great dancer, you know.’

‘I know. He’s a charmer. Women love him.’ I finish rolling the joint. ‘Do you want me to go and get him?’

She shakes her head. ‘No, let him enjoy himself.’

I light up. We share it. She takes one hit and starts coughing, but she takes another before handing it back. I don’t say anything, shutting my eyes and smoking slowly as we keep passing the joint. When it’s done, I flick it into a hedge.

Both of us are silent. I stare straight ahead.

‘What’s wrong?’ asks Mumtaz.

‘Nothing. I shouldn’t have come.’

‘I’m sorry if Ozi forced you.’

‘It’s not that. I had a bad day.’

‘What happened?’ she asks.

The joint has made my throat burn and my eyes water. ‘I got fired.’

Mumtaz brushes my face with her fingers. They come away wet. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

My stomach constricts. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ I shut my eyes and bend over, coughing through my nose.

Mumtaz puts her arm around me. ‘It’ll be okay,’ she says gently. ‘Don’t be scared.’

I stay bent over like that for a long time, until the coughing stops, and I wipe my face on my jeans before I sit back up. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Please go in to Ozi.’

‘I’d rather stay outside with you for a little bit. If you don’t mind.’

My coughing seems to have loosened the tightness wrapped around my chest. I take a deep breath, my lungs raw like I’ve been for a long run. ‘This bastard told my boss I was rude.’ I start to laugh. ‘I wish I’d known I was going to get fired. There are a few more things I’d have liked to say.’

Mumtaz laughs with me. ‘I can imagine.’

I love her voice. It has the soul of a whisper, meant only for the person she’s speaking to, even when she isn’t speaking softly. ‘Are you stoned?’

‘You know, I’m really stoned.’

I nod. ‘This is good hash. Courtesy of a friend of mine, Murad Badshah.’

‘Murad? Did he go to school with you and Ozi?’