Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

‘With peacocks.’

‘Let’s go.’

We drive down the canal, cross the Mall, and head out of town. I roll. Mumtaz prefers open windows to the AC, and the rush of air makes it difficult to keep the mixed tobacco and hash in my palm. But I manage. When I’m done, I ask her if I should light it and she says yes. I slide the car’s ashtray out and hold it in my hand, underneath the joint, to catch any burning pieces that might fall as we smoke.

‘Why Zulfikar Manto?’ I ask her.

‘Manto was my favorite short-story writer.’

‘And?’

‘And he wrote about prostitutes, alcohol, sex, Lahore’s underbelly.’

‘Zulfikar?’

‘That you should have guessed: Manto’s pen was his sword. So: Zulfikar.’

I take a hit and cough through my nostrils, gently. ‘How have you managed to keep it a secret?’

‘It isn’t that hard. No one keeps tabs on where I am during the day. And I usually don’t slip out to work at night unless Ozi’s away.’

‘Don’t the servants say anything?’

‘They have, once or twice. Ozi asked me what I was up to and I told him I’d gone out for a get-together at somebody’s place. That was that. Ozi isn’t the untrusting type.’

The joint’s finished by the time we pull into the Jallo Park entrance. It’s the middle of the week, so there aren’t too many people here, and no one bothers us. We stroll around the caged animals, nicely buzzed.

‘So how are things with Ozi?’ I finally ask.

Mumtaz shrugs. ‘I don’t know.’

‘You said you’d been having problems.’

‘We are.’

We stop in front of the peacock area. A pair of albinos strut by, the male unfurling his white fan, making it shake by quivering his hips.

‘That’s a clear signal,’ I say. ‘Nature knows how to be direct.’

Mumtaz laughs, her eyes on the peacock.

The peahen is less impressed. She walks away.

If there’s ever an appropriate time to ask Mumtaz what’s going on with us, it’s now. I want to know what she thinks of me, of the time we’re spending together, of where this is headed. And I’d like to tell her that I’m confused as hell. But my tail seems stuck and I can’t unfurl it.

The moment passes.

We walk on, past other fences, other animals.

I ask her about Muazzam.

‘He’s fine,’ she says. ‘He seems to like Lahore.’

‘What does he do when you go out?’

‘He has a nanny, Pilar. She’s lovely. She cut the umbilical cord.’

‘In America?’

‘No, here. Muazzam had me on a leash until she came along. But now I can disappear for the entire day and I don’t have to worry about him. I could disappear forever, I suppose.’

I grin. ‘That wouldn’t be very motherly of you.’

She turns, and I’m shocked to see anger in her eyes. For a moment I think she’s about to punch me.

‘What?’ I ask softly.

‘Who are you to judge me?’

‘I wasn’t judging you.’

‘Yes, you were.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I said.’

She shakes her head and walks on, and I raise my face and squeeze my eyes shut, pissed at myself for being unable to understand. I follow a few steps behind her. We don’t speak until we reach the car, but I don’t want to get in without making amends somehow, so I take hold of her elbow and turn her around.

‘Listen, Mumtaz, I’m sorry. Really. I’ve had a wonderful day with you. I think you’re wonderful.’ I pause, aware that I’m being astoundingly inarticulate. ‘I don’t want you to be angry with me.’

Well, I’m clearly no poet. But what I said seems to work, because her face softens and she says, ‘Forget it. It has more to do with me than with you.’ That’s it, no explanation, but at least my apology seems to be accepted.

Once, on the drive home, she holds my hand between gear shifts, between third and second, and I’m glad for the reassuring touch of her skin on mine. We talk, but we’re talking about nothing, just reestablishing a comfortable space, and although our first fight hasn’t been erased, I think it’s safe to say we’ve survived.

When we get home we kiss, again on the lips, soft and tender and brief, like a kiss between friends, except that I always kiss my friends on the cheek.

I have to make two trips to Murad Badshah’s rickshaw depot to get hold of him. That’s usually how it works, because Murad Badshah’s rarely in and there’s no telephone number where he can be reached. I once told him he ought to get a pager and he said that pagers are an American idea and the only good thing America’s ever given us is Aretha Franklin. Bizarre fellow, Murad is. Anyway, on my first trip I leave a message saying I’ll be back at eight the following night. On my second I cruise down Ferozepur Road, past Ichra, hoping he’ll be there, because the weekend’s almost here and Raider’s relying on me.

He’s eating dinner, his drivers and mechanics gathered around him in a circle, their food on metal plates on the floor of the workshop.

‘Hullo, old chap,’ he calls out as he sees me, surging to his feet. Or rather, he says something to that effect with his mouth full as one of the younger mechanics helps him get his bulk off the floor.

He offers his wrist for me to shake, because his hands are greasy.

‘Will you do us the honor of joining us for dinner?’ he asks. ‘Tonight we’re having a special feast. Lakshmi Chowk’s best.’

I hadn’t planned on it, but a free meal is a free meal, and I’m partial to Lakshmi myself. ‘I’d love to,’ I say.

A generous space is cleared for me next to Murad Badshah and I sit down, rolling up my sleeves as I grab a naan and get to work. I’m famished, and I can hold my own when it comes to eating, so I match Murad Badshah bite for bite, until he pats his stomach, releases a resounding belch, and announces that he’s stuffed.

A boy brings us mixed tea, milk and sugar already present in generous quantities, and Murad Badshah takes a dainty sip, the small finger of his left hand extended away from his teacup.

A driver wearing a Sindhi cap grabs the roll of flesh that circles his midsection and says, ‘I’m about to explode.’

‘I saw it last night on television, you know,’ says another, a drop of sweat hanging from his nose. ‘The explosion.’

‘What was it like?’ asks a mechanic.

‘They did it under a mountain,’ explains sweaty nose. ‘The mountain trembled like an earthquake. Dust flew into the sky. And the rock turned dark red, like the color of blood.’

‘How would you know?’ asks Sindhi cap. ‘You only have a black-and-white television.’

‘But it’s a very good one. You can almost see colors.’

‘Bloody fool. It’s black-and-white.’

‘No, but you can sometimes tell what the real colors are. I swear.’

‘Nonsense.’

Sweaty nose doesn’t argue. ‘The blast was fantastic,’ he says to the mechanic.

‘How fantastic could it be?’ Murad Badshah asks. ‘It was underground.’

‘The shaking, the dust. It was too good.’

Murad Badshah farts loudly. ‘There. Shaking. Dust. Was that too good as well?’

Sindhi cap pinches his nostrils shut. ‘That was a bad one, Murad bhai.’

‘My bad one won’t double the price of petrol. It won’t send tomatoes to a hundred rupees a kilo. But our bloody nuclear fart will.’

‘Let tomatoes go to two hundred,’ says Sindhi cap. ‘I hate tomatoes anyway. And if the price of petrol doubles, so what? We’ll raise our prices. We’ve done it before.’

‘And who will pay?’

‘The tomato farmers who are getting two hundred rupees a kilo.’

This gets a laugh.

‘Good one, yaar,’ says sweaty nose.

Murad Badshah shakes his head. ‘This nuclear race is no joke. Poor people are in trouble.’