Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

‘And is this palm reader a well-connected young socialite?’

‘Her name’s Allima Mooltani. She’s about sixty and she lives in Model Town.’

‘A well-connected old socialite, then,’ I say, taking one of her cigarettes. ‘How much did she charge?’

‘Five hundred. But she spent an entire hour with me.’

‘I can’t believe you paid that much.’ I do some quick arithmetic. Let’s say she sees three people a day and works five days a week. That comes to seventy-five hundred a week, thirty thousand a month. That’s more than what I made as a banker, before taxes. And she probably doesn’t even pay taxes. Why am I sitting here, deeper and deeper in debt, when palm readers are making that much?

‘What are you thinking?’ Mumtaz asks me.

‘Nothing,’ I say, noticing that the ash has grown on my cigarette. I flick it. ‘What makes you think this woman isn’t a complete fake?’

‘That’s hard to explain. She doesn’t try to tell you that your eighth kid’s name will be Qudpuddin or anything. She just shows you yourself.’

‘For five hundred an hour I’d want to know my eighth kid’s name, birthday, and favorite dessert.’

‘You have to go.’

‘No thanks. I can’t afford it.’

‘My treat.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘You have to. I’ll take you.’

‘When?’

‘Tomorrow.’

Manucci comes in with her ring and shades, which we forgot on the bench outside, and she takes them casually, not at all upset that she was so absentminded.

‘Do you know what happens when you detonate a nuclear bomb under the desert?’ she asks.

‘No.’

‘The sand turns to glass.’

‘From the heat?’

She nods.

When she leaves, I present my cheek for her to kiss, but she kisses my lips instead, softly. I smile in surprise, and then I remember pulling her to me earlier, which makes my smile wider even though my mouth hurts. And she smiles back at me like she knows what I’m smiling about. Then she’s gone, and I sit back down to lunch and finish off the food. Manucci clears the plates, giggling to himself, and although he’s just being silly, he makes me laugh as well.

The celebrations begin not long after Mumtaz has left. How everyone knows I don’t understand. The excited trrring ing of bicycle bells brings me to the gate, witness to the victory parade of a half-dozen gardeners, long shears tied to the backs of their Sohrabs, pedaling triumphantly, wobbling, clapping as often as balance and courage will allow.

Manucci brings the news with him at a run, doubled over with the effort, from the neighbor’s servant quarters.

‘What the hell is going on?’ I ask him.

‘We’ve done it,’ he pants.

‘What?’

‘We’ve exploded our bomb.’

I feel something straighten my back, a strange excitement, the posture-correcting force of pride. Manucci looks up at me, his face sweaty, dirty, and grins. We shake hands like old comrades, two warriors home at last, and I’m about to say something, to launch into a little self-congratulatory speech, when a sound interrupts the flow of my elation.

From somewhere down the road we hear the first burst of celebratory gunfire, a hard-edged firecracker set to automatic, emptying its magazine into the sky. And I find myself thinking of my mother, beautiful, wasp-faced, with high cheekbones and hollow cheeks, her strict expression softened by sad eyes and a small, round smile. Never any jewelry, holes in her ears shriveled shut, still-black hair pulled into a bun. How young she always seemed, young enough to be mistaken for my sister the year she died. But not the day she was buried: bloodless, all color drained from her face, wrinkles visible in her pale skin like creases on a ball of paper.

Manucci puts his fingers in the air and launches into a spontaneous bhangra. The Kalashnikov spits again. I head inside.

That evening Raider comes to see me. He’s wearing his power suspenders, the ones with a red polka dot on either side, which he calls the Rising Sun.

‘Five each, baby,’ he says, giving me a hug.

‘Five each.’

We sit on the bonnet of his car and share a cigar. ‘It’s a Havana,’ he tells me.

‘I hate cigars. You can’t inhale them.’

He shakes his head and rolls up his shirtsleeves. Work is miles away, but Raider’s still wearing his tie. His jacket hangs in the car, broad shoulders, no vents, very European, copied from GQ by a tailor on Beadon Road.

‘Good parties tonight.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. People are feeling good. It’s been a nervous couple of weeks.’

‘Armageddon parties?’ I ask, trying to sound superior, mainly because I haven’t been invited to any.

‘Initiation parties. Welcome to the nuclear club, partner.’

‘Are you going?’

‘I’m going to your buddy Ozi’s.’

‘Maybe I’ll see you there,’ I say, hiding my surprise. I didn’t know Ozi was having a party.

Raider spits out a piece of tobacco and takes a few quick puffs. ‘I have to ask you a favor. I need some pot.’

My stash is running low. ‘I can give you enough for a joint or two.’

‘I need more. I promised a couple of friends and all my sources are out.’

‘I can get you some in a few days.’

‘Before the weekend?’

‘I think so.’ I should be able to track Murad Badshah down before then.

‘Thanks, partner. I owe you, big-time.’

Raider likes that phrase, big-time. He wants to make it, big-time. He owes you, big-time. He’s going to party, big-time.

‘No problem, yaar,’ I tell him, thinking I have nothing better to do. ‘How much do you want?’

He takes out a note and hands it to me. ‘Five hundred worth?’

‘That’s a lot of hash.’

‘I know. Do you think you can get it?’

I’ve never placed an order with Murad Badshah that he couldn’t fill. ‘I think so.’

‘Great,’ Raider says.

I feel strange buying that much pot, especially since it isn’t for me. It isn’t even for Raider. It’s for his friends. But Raider’s an openhearted guy and there’s no way I can turn him down. Besides, I might be able to keep a little for myself, a heartening thought given the sorry state of my supplies.

Once the cigar is finished, I invite him in to share a joint, but he tells me he has to run and drives off. Raider’s always rushing. He’s busy, big-time.

Mumtaz picks me up after lunch the next day for our date with Allima Mooltani, the palm reader. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But I am doing it, slouching a little in my seat as though it’ll make me less visible if Ozi or someone we know happens to see us. Mumtaz seems completely unconcerned. I don’t know what she’s used to in Karachi, but here in Lahore going for a drive with a friend’s wife when the friend doesn’t know about it definitely qualifies as self-destructive behavior.

‘I like your servant, Munnoo-ji,’ she says as we power down Main Gulberg Boulevard, cutting through traffic. We’ve decided to get a couple of paans since my appointment isn’t for another half hour.

‘He’s called Manucci, not Munnoo-ji.’

‘Manucci? That’s a strange name.’

‘I think it’s Italian.’

‘But he’s not Italian.’

‘No.’

‘Then why is he called Manucci?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Where does he come from?’

‘He tried to rob my mother.’

‘While he was working for you?’ She takes the Liberty roundabout at high speed.

‘Before. He’s had a colorful past. Kind of like Kim.’

‘Kipling’s Kim?’

I nod. ‘But not as romantic. Manucci’s missing a kidney.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The kidney-theft racket. But he’s lucky: they only took one of his, and they were nice enough to sew him back up.’