Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

‘Darashikoh, right?’

Yes, you pretentious bastard. Darashikoh, the same boy who thrashed you after PT behind the middle school building. ‘Right. How are you, Pickles?’

He seems less than ecstatic at my use of his pet name. ‘Very well. Yourself?’

‘Couldn’t be better,’ I find myself saying.

‘Really? What are you doing these days?’

I raise my chin. ‘Family business, you know. Import-export.’

‘Clothing?’

‘Of course.’

‘Great,’ he says. ‘What do you think of that Australian buyer everyone’s been talking about?’

I feel the illusion I’ve twirled around me like a sari start to come undone and fall to my feet. ‘You know, Pickles, there’s no quick answer to that one. Let me give you a call to discuss it further.’

He winks. ‘I already know the details. I just wanted to know whether it’s true.’

I can’t tell whether he’s referring to a sex scandal or a business blunder. ‘It’s true,’ I say.

He laughs. ‘Here’s my card,’ he says, whipping out a pen to write something on the back. ‘And that’s my mobile. We should do lunch.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it from him. He looks at me expectantly, but I see Mumtaz coming into the room and excuse myself with a smile. Pickles probably thought I was dying to give him my card, and I suspect I’ve risen several levels in his estimation by not doing so.

Mumtaz gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. She looks harried, and nothing about her suggests that our midnight run to Heera Mandi ever took place.

‘Is everything all right?’ I ask her.

‘Yes. Sorry. Muazzam’s making a nuisance of himself downstairs. He won’t go to bed, and Ozi’s father gives him candies whenever I scold him. He probably has nothing but liquid sugar in his bloodstream at this point. He may never sleep again.’ She smiles at me. ‘How are you?’

‘Good. What is this?’

‘Lahore’s rich and famous.’

‘Are they your friends?’

‘I’ve met most of them before.’

‘So they’re Ozi’s friends?’

‘Some are. The rest will be. He’s good at this sort of thing, my husband. Can I get you some wine?’

‘I’m not a wine drinker.’

She looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You sound upset. Is it because Ozi didn’t invite you for dinner?’

‘No.’

‘Don’t feel bad. He wasn’t sure you would like this crowd.’

‘Why didn’t he just tell me not to come at all?’

‘He wanted to see you. So did I. Listen, I’m not a wine drinker either. Let me get us both a Scotch.’

I nod, feeling a little better. When she returns, we toast each other silently, and then she says, ‘Look, you have to try to enjoy yourself. Pretend that you’re an anthropologist observing the rituals of some isolated tribe.’

It isn’t hard to do.

A woman whose tied-on top reveals armor-plated abs starts clapping her hands above her head. ‘Quiet, everyone,’ she says. ‘Who wants to go swimming?’

Another woman, very drunk and visibly undernourished, starts chanting, ‘Swim- ming! Swim- ming! Swim- ming! ’

‘In Ozi’s pool!’ yells the first.

‘O- zi! O- zi! O- zi! ’ chants the second.

(I record the first entry in my ethnography: It appears that intermarriage has severely retarded the mental development of some members of the tribe. )

‘Forget that you’re Over Here! Pretend that you’re Over There.’

( The utopian vision of Over There or Amreeka promises escape from the almost unbearable drudgery of the tribe’s struggle to subsist. )

There’s some scattered clapping but no real enthusiasm for the idea. More drinks are tossed back. I see the rare sight of an iced martini glass being filled with gin and a splash of vermouth, then stirred gently and served with an olive. Ozi is really going all out. I wonder how much he’s spent tonight. Fifty thousand rupees? More?

After a while I tire of pretending I’m an anthropologist and focus on my Scotch, killing time by swirling ice cubes. Luckily, the end isn’t long in coming.

The Amazon and her famished friend start making a racket again. ‘Par- ty! Par- ty! Par- ty! ’

As if on cue, people start downing their drinks and rounding up their mobile phones. I follow the pack downstairs. In the drive-way I don’t stand next to my car. It’s silly, I know, but I lean against Ozi’s Pajero instead. Eventually my friend’s guests have gone and it’s just Ozi, Mumtaz, and I.

‘So what’s the plan?’ I ask.

‘Pickles’s cousin is having a party at his farmhouse,’ Ozi says. ‘You have to come.’

‘I’m not invited,’ I say. And I don’t have a date.

‘We’ll get you in,’ Ozi says, clapping my shoulder. ‘Never fear, yaar: I’m back in town.’

We’re getting into our cars when Ozi stops and asks, ‘Is Muazzam in bed?’

‘I’ve handled him all night,’ Mumtaz tells him. ‘You check.’

Ozi shakes his head and goes back in. Mumtaz stares after him, as though she’s tracking his progress inside. She looks exhausted.

‘How’s my friend Zulfikar Manto?’ I ask her.

Life seems to rush into her face. She raises an eyebrow and sends a slow glance to either side, pretending she’s making sure we aren’t overheard. Then she grins. ‘The prostitution article came out today.’

‘And? I haven’t been reading the papers.’

‘Big response. I spoke with the editor, and he said he’s been swamped with calls.’

‘Good?’

‘Mostly furious. Which is good. It means people read it. One even threw a rock through the paper’s window.’

‘Was the editor upset?’

‘He said they’re used to it. They buy cheap glass.’

The door opens, spilling light, and Ozi comes back out. ‘He’s asleep,’ he says.

I follow Ozi’s Pajero in my Suzuki, struggling to keep pace. We head down the canal toward Thokar Niaz Beg, take a left, cruise by what everyone calls the Arab prince’s vacation palace, wind from a side street to an unpaved road to a dirt path, and finally end up at a gate in a wall that literally stretches as far as I can see into the night. Even out here we find the obligatory group of uninvited, dateless guys trying to get in, their way barred by a mobile police unit responsible for protecting tonight’s illegal revelry.

Ozi and Mumtaz show their invitation to a private security guard, and he lets them drive through. He stops me. ‘Invitation?’

‘I’m with them,’ I say.

‘Sorry, sir.’ He isn’t apologizing. He’s telling me I can’t go in. Luckily, I see the white reverse lights of Ozi’s Pajero come on ahead.

All three of us get out. ‘We told you he’s with us,’ Ozi says.

‘Sorry, sir. Orders.’

‘No sorry. Let him in.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say to them. ‘I’m tired anyway. I’ll just go.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Mumtaz tells me. ‘You’re coming in.’

A Land Cruiser pulls up behind us, blocking my exit. Pickles gets out and the guard touches his cap to him. ‘What’s the problem?’ Pickles asks.

‘They’re not letting Daru in,’ Mumtaz tells him.

Pickles nods to the guard.

And that’s that.

The driveway, made of brick and in better condition than most roads in the city, purrs under my tires. We park near the farmhouse, big and low, with wide verandas, and I notice the difference in the sounds of slamming car doors: the deep thuds of the Pajero and Land Cruiser, the nervous cough of my Suzuki.

It’s early summer, which means I’m not likely to go to another big bash for a while, so I put on my best party-predator smile, run my fingers through my hair, and light a cigarette, trying to get in the mood.