Mohammed Hanif - A Case of Exploding Mangoes

Joanne had started using Pakistan’s flag as the backdrop for her show in the run-up to the ball. The creme de la creme of the East Texan community and would-be supporters of the jihad against the Soviets were sent invitation cards carrying a picture of a dead Afghan child (caption: Better dead than red ). Others showed a nameless Afghan mujahid in an old shawl with a rocket launcher on his shoulder (caption: Your ten dollars can help him bring down a Russian Hind helicopter ). “Now, don’t that fry your tater? Ain’t that the bargain of the century?” Joanne had followed her invitation with enthusiastic phonecalls, turning the small Texan town into a base camp for the Afghan mujahideen, fighting six thousand miles away.

The Holiday Inn in the city of Lufkin christened its fourth floor the Presidential Floor. Joanne had provided them with a Pakistani flag and an audiotape of Quran recitation that was promptly forwarded to their meat supplier to be played as the slaughter started. The President would get his halal meat. The waiters were taught to say their salaam in Urdu.

Despite these efforts, when General Zia’s convoy pulled into the porch of the Holiday Inn he was disappointed to see only a small office-like structure with a Pakistani flag flying over it. He installed the First Lady in the Presidential Suite. She complained about the size of the bedroom, the complimentary toiletries in the bathroom and really lost her cool when she asked hotel reception to connect her to the Army House and she was put through to the local Salvation Army store.

General Zia, meanwhile, changed into his safari suit with some difficulty. His stomach stuck out like a football and his safari shirt could barely contain it. He mumbled something about meeting an important Texan senator, picked up his briefcase and went to another room on the same floor, bearing a sign that said ‘Presidential Office’. He did feel that the hotel was beneath his status. He himself was a humble man who needed only a cot and a prayer mat, but heads of state needed to stay in proper presidential hotels in order not to lose their sense of purpose. He needed to maintain the honour of his country, but he could hardly bring up this hotel business with Joanne after all she had done for his country and the Afghan cause.

He put his briefcase on the desk, picked up the hotel stationery pad and tried to calm his pounding heart by scribbling on the paper. His host, his comrade in struggle, Joanne, would be here shortly and just thinking about what she might be wearing, what she would smell like, made him nervous. A stream of perspiration ran down his spine. To distract himself, he tried to make notes for his speech at the charity ball:

Joke comparing Islamabad and Lufkin. (Half the size and twice as dead?)

Islam, Christianity…forces of good, communism evil (use the word godless).

America superpower but Texas the real superpower? And Lufkin soul of the real superpower? (Ask Joanne for a cowboy saying?)

Someone knocked on the door. He jumped from his seat and stood up in anticipation. Should he leave his desk, receive her at the door? Handshake? Hug? Kiss on the cheek?

General Zia knew how to greet men. No one who ever met him forgot his double handshake. Even cynical diplomats couldn’t deny the genuine warmth of his hugs. Politicians got converted to his cause with his understanding hand on their knee and a friendly slap on their back. It had taken him some time to figure out how to deal with women, though, especially foreigners. He had invented, then perfected, his own style; when he reached a woman in a reception line, he put his right hand on his heart, and bent his head as a gesture of respect. The women who had done their homework kept their hands to themselves and nodded in appreciation. Those intent on testing the limits of his piety extended their hands, got a four-finger, limp handshake and a refusal to look into their eyes.

But Joanne was different. When she had come to interview him for the first time at the Army House, she had ignored his hand on his heart, his nodding head, even his attempt at a handshake and had kissed him on both his cheeks, forcing Brigadier TM to look in the other direction. He had realised at their first meeting that he was dealing with a special person, a person to whom he could not apply his social rules about women. Weren’t there women warriors who had fought shoulder to shoulder with men in the first Muslim war? Wasn’t she an ally in his jihad against the godless communists? Hadn’t she promised to do more than the whole of the State Department? Couldn’t she be considered an honorary man? A mujahid even? At this point his logic usually broke down as he remembered her golden, blow-dried hair, the heart-shaped diamond necklace that nestled between her breasts, her voluptuous red lips and the breathy whispers in his ears that made the most ordinary exchange seem like a secret plan.

Allah tests only those He really likes, he told himself for the umpteenth time and sat down on the seat with a very firm resolve. “Yes, come in,” he said.

The door opened and a swirl of sandalwood perfume, peach-coloured silk and mauve lipstick came at him, cooing, “Your Excellency. Welcome to the fine city of Lufkin.” General Zia stood up, still not sure whether he should leave the desk, still uncertain whether to kiss or hug or extend his hand from behind the safety of the desk. Then as Joanne lunged towards him, the self-control that had helped him survive three wars, one coup and two elections vanished. He left the table that was to be his defence against temptation and moved towards her with extended arms, unable to focus on her face or her features. In her embrace he noted with satisfaction that she wasn’t wearing her high heels, which made her a head taller than he was. They were the same height without her heels. Her left breast pressed lightly against the strain of his safari suit and General Zia closed his eyes, his chin resting on the satin bra strap on her shoulder. For a moment the First Lady’s face flashed in front of his eyes. He tried to think of other things: moments from his glorious career; his first handshake with Ronald Reagan; his speech at the UN; Khomeini telling him to take it easy. The dream ended abruptly as she wriggled out of his arms, held his face in her hands and planted a kiss on both his cheeks. “Your Excellency, you need a trim.”

General Zia sucked his stomach in. She twirled his moustache gently with her fingers and said, “Texans are big-hearted people, but when it comes to facial hair they are very small-minded. Now if you’ll ask that handsome hulk outside your door to let my man in, we can take care of this.”

For the first time in his life, General Zia shouted an order at Brigadier TM. “Let the man in, TM.”

Lufkin’s only businessman without an invitation to the charity ball entered the room, an old black man with a barber’s leather bag. “ Salaam alaikum ,” he said. “You folks call it mooch, I know. I am gonna make this mooch sharp, Your Highness.” Before General Zia could say anything he had tucked a white towel around his neck and was clipping away at his moustache, still talking. “You gonna meet old Ronnie? Can I give you an important message? Tell him he ain’t no John Wayne. Stop tryin’. Lufkin is a fine ol’ city but some folks is still racialist. They say there is a nigga in the woods when their kids don’t eat. I tell them nigga has seen woods in Korea, nigga has seen woods in Nam. Now this nigga ain’t in the woods, nigga is here and he got a razor on your neck, so be careful ‘bout what you say.” He held a silver-framed mirror in front of him. General Zia’s burly thick moustache had been trimmed to a thin line. It was sharp, all right. “That’s gonna make your lady’s tater fry.”