Daniyal Mueenuddin - In Other Rooms, Other Wonders

‘Oh God, not Bugoo’s place. So you must be the son of Makhdoom Talwan. From Multan.’

‘His nephew. And from Muzaffargarh. You were close.’

‘That’s not close at all.’

‘For a girl from Islamabad it is. I suppose the only time you’re aware of our famous Punjabi countryside is when you fly over it.’

She laughed, cocking her eyebrow. ‘And what do you know about me? Maybe my finest hours are spent giving polio drops to villagers’ babies.’

Looking out at the scene, the flickering lamps below, the lit DJ booth far down by the water, she asked, ‘So tell me, Mr. Murad Talwan, nephew of the great Makhdoom Talwan, friend of the less than great Bugoo Moono — what do you do when you’re not loitering by the swimming pool trying to get a light? Are you exceedingly rich?’

The man sat down, placed his cigarette in an ashtray on a table beside him, and rubbed his hands together. ‘No, that would be my evil uncle, the famous Makhdoom Talwan as you call him. I’m actually a kind of businessman. I have some land, and I’m setting up greenhouses to grow vegetables. There’s only one other man in Pakistan doing it.’

‘So you’re the entrepreneurial type. Gift of the gab and lots of new ideas.’

‘I’m not sure. Probably there’s a reason I’ve got only one competitor.’

‘I was being serious. I like people who actually do something useful, though I don’t seem to meet them very often.’ She allowed that he had crossed the first barrier. ‘But anyway tell me about something else, something interesting.’

‘First, can I get you another drink? And I’ll bring one for myself.’

On the verge of excusing herself, she looked at him, his thin supercilious features and silver-minted look, which she had once admired in young rich Pakistani men and long outgrown — and then against that, the appearance of strength, of vigor, reflected in his posture, sitting relaxed and looking agreeably out into the night.

‘All right. Champagne. Tell the bartender it’s for me, otherwise he’ll say he’s run out.’

He didn't make a pass at her — in that evening’s mood she would have rebuffed it with a jet of ice — and when they had talked for more than half an hour, quite easily, until she found herself laughing, on a whim she gave him her cell phone number.

‘And now let’s go dance,’ she said, putting down her glass, which had long been empty.

‘I don’t dance. I stopped when a girl told me I look like a chicken wading through melted tar.’

She laughed. ‘Well that’s sad, because that’s pretty much all I do. Goodbye then.’ And she walked away, down the steps, and into the crowd, into the party.

She vaguely expected him to call the next day or the one after that — their conversation had been more substantial than such encounters usually are, and she had volunteered her phone number — but when he didn’t she shrugged it off, saying, ‘Tant pis.’

As it happened her phone rang on one of her alone evenings, as she was sitting by the fire, a cup of tea beside her, reading — nothing, chick lit, something easy.

‘Hi, it’s me,’ he began, and she rolled her eyes, simultaneously taking a lock of her long straight black hair and curling it around her forefinger. When she didn’t respond, he added, ‘I meant to say, this is Murad.’

‘Actually I recognized your voice.’

‘That lets me off the hook, I suppose.’ Then, after a pause, ‘Are you busy?’

‘Not really. I’m sitting in front of a fire, reading an extremely bad book.’

‘I’m surprised, I assumed I’d hear pounding music in the background when you picked up.’

‘Not tonight. I’m alone, drinking tea, and generally practicing to be an old maid.’

‘Look, this may seem a bit sudden, but remember you told me about going to Kaghan with your father? Well, I thought about driving to Attock and going for a picnic along the Indus. It’s pretty interesting, the Kabul River flows in, and it’s brown, and for a long way downstream it stays separate from the blue Indus, so they run side by side, like two stripes. Right where we’ll go they start mixing together.’

‘A metaphor, I suppose.’ She said this more evenly, less ironically than she intended. Sitting by the pool at the lake party, she had told him about fishing in Kaghan as a girl — it had been on her mind, and she had let herself go to that degree.

‘You don’t know me very well. But I can bring a certifi cate of good moral character from my grandmother if that would help …’

‘That’s fine, I’ll take your word for it. I’d love to. When?’

‘How about this Saturday?’

‘How about the next one.’

‘At eight. Or no, you’re probably not up. At ten. I’ll pick you up. I know where your parents’ house is.’

And abruptly, he hung up, just as she was about to say, ‘That sounds a bit creepy.’

Putting down the phone, she cringed, thinking of her old maid comment, which sounded self-pitying, and worse, sounded as if she were sitting alone dreaming of matrimony.

‘This is a rather posh vehicle — for the poor nephew of a rich Makhdoom.’

They were driving along the Grand Trunk Road, under the eucalyptus trees planted by some briefly energetic government.

‘I couldn’t do without it. I live in this thing.’

‘It looks brand-new.’

‘It’s ten years old. My driver takes brilliant care of it. Back and forth we go, to my farm — I stay there a couple of weeks, and then I start going crazy and I drive back to Islamabad for R&R. Ten hours on bad roads.’

‘Ah, the famous vegetables.’

He looked over at her, smoothly changing gears, driving very precisely in the heavy chaotic traffic, buses swaying past with passengers on the roof and hanging from the doors, terrifically overloaded trucks grinding along, painted with elaborate scenes of a mountain paradise, snow-capped peaks like a child’s painting, Shangri-La, or of fighter jets, babies, pneumatic film actresses.

‘Indeed, the famous vegetables.’

She had decided on Western clothes, white linen bell-bottom pants, a fitted emerald-colored blouse, which suited her complexion and her black hair, and sandals rather than something more practical — like a girl in a commercial for Bacardi rum, she told herself, looking in her dressing room mirror. Now she put one foot up on the dash, keeping it there for a long moment, glossy red nail polish, high arch. Rolling down her window, she put her bare arm out, the breeze soft, fragrant with eucalyptus blossoms, fields of yellow mustard blossoming out to the horizon, then the beginning of the hard country, the frontier.

‘So, do you often invite bad girls for picnics along the Indus?’ she asked.

‘Oh no. You’re actually the first bad girl I’ve known well enough to ask.’

‘Very funny. Do you know, I’ve done some research. You went to college at Princeton, where you drove around in a Porsche. Your mother passed away two years ago. Your father and your uncle haven’t spoken for years, your uncle sits in the Assembly — and your father is bedridden.’

‘Not guilty on the Porsche. Even if I had had the money, I’m not quite that much of a twerp.’

‘And you’re either stuck up or shy — I heard both versions.’

‘Or maybe just schizophrenic, playing it both ways.’

‘Not in the report. Though it does occur in the family.’

‘My God! Is this stuff available on the Web or something? Pakidesigroom.com.’

She folded her arms, shaking her head, saying in a kittenish coy voice, ‘That’s it, I’m done. A complete description of the specimen.’ And then, having set it up, slyly, ‘I won’t ask what you’ve heard about me.’