Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

What do you know? It’s three o’clock. Well, Daru, time for you to give your bladder a release. Get up now, that’s a good fellow. One, two, three. Up. There you go. Takes a lot of effort, and energy level seems low, but no problem with motor control here. Stroll over to the bathroom. Turn on the light. Oops, no electricity. What’s this? A little nausea? Let it out, then. There. That wasn’t bad at all. And again? No problem. Just let it come on up. Perfect. Now sit down, let your bladder relax, too. Great. Rinse your mouth and head back to the couch. Take a detour for a glass of water. Here’s a glass. Here’s the water.

Sit down on that couch and have some rest. You’ve earned it. What time is it? Four in the morning. That’s a surprise. You should give Mumtaz a call. Can’t: Ozi. But Ozi’s out of town. Should you, then? Pick up the phone. Ringringrrring. Hang up. Don’t want to wake her.

Well, you can chill out by yourself. This is nice. Must thank Murad Badshah. Look, the sky is getting lighter. Just slightly, from black to blue. Shocking. Time for bed. This couch is so comfortable. Pull your feet up and stretch out and exhale.

Hhhhhhhh.

I’m woken in the evening by Manucci shaking my arm. ‘Go away,’ I tell him, desperate to return to sleep.

‘Your guest is here, Daru saab.’

I feel a moment of panic. I don’t want to face anyone at home, with no electricity and nothing to offer, unshaven because I don’t have a job. ‘What guest?’ I ask, opening an eye.

‘Mumtaz baji,’ he says, looking down like a blushing bride.

Relief comes twice, a double release, because the guest is the one person I want to see, and because it’s been a week with no contact since we made love and I was beginning to get anxious.

‘Tell her I’m coming down.’

I head into the bathroom and grip the sink. The sun is setting and it’s getting dark, but I can make out the circles around my eyes and I can see the uneven stubble of my beard, the growth thickest above and below my mouth. I feel my gorge rising and spit once, but there’s no real nausea, so I brush my teeth with a mangled toothbrush, white bristles spread and soft from too much use. I scrub my tongue and palate, unable to banish the bad taste I woke up with.

I need a shower, but haven’t the time. I wash my face without soap, feeling as I rub them that my nose and eyelids are greasy. Then I throw on a pair of jeans and a white shirt, the only semi-ironed one I have, and head downstairs.

At least I had a haircut.

Mumtaz is sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, with Manucci squatting on the floor beside her. He’s chatting away, which annoys me, because I don’t like it when the boy forgets his place. It makes me look bad, as though I’ve fallen so far my servant thinks there’s no longer any need for him to behave formally.

‘It was hard to catch me, Mumtaz baji,’ he’s saying. ‘I ran very fast. I knew all the hiding places.’

‘But when they did catch you?’ she asks.

‘Then sometimes they beat me.’

‘Is he telling you about his adventures?’ I ask loudly, in the ringing tones of a master of the house making his presence known. Manucci falls silent. ‘He has the soul of a poet. It’s hard to stop him once he gets started.’

Mumtaz looks me in the eyes and smiles. ‘Hello, Daru saab,’ she says.

I feel awkward with Manucci in the room, uncertain whether I should give her a kiss on the cheek. I do my best to seem calm and in control, but I find myself confused, very conscious of her physical presence.

Mumtaz is perfectly at ease. ‘Quite the early riser, I see.’

‘Bring tea,’ I tell Manucci.

‘Saab, there’s no milk.’

I open my wallet like a card player, as casually as I can but very careful to tilt it toward me so Mumtaz can’t see how little it contains. ‘Run to the market and get some,’ I say, handing Manucci a fifty.

‘Hi,’ Mumtaz says once he’s gone.

‘Hi.’ I feel silly sitting across from her. ‘How have you been?’

‘Good. I’m working on a new article.’

‘About what?’

She lights a cigarette. ‘All the money that left the country before the government announced the freeze on foreign currency accounts.’

‘What’s the story?’

‘It depends on who you ask,’ she says, inhaling. ‘The version I like is that they knew they would have to freeze the accounts when they tested, because it was obvious every-one would be nervous about sanctions and start converting rupees into dollars, and our foreign exchange reserves would have been too low to keep up. But of course some of them had their own money in those accounts. So they tipped off a few insiders, and just hours before the accounts were frozen, millions of dollars left the country.’

‘And Zulfikar Manto is trying to discover whether this happened and who was involved?’

‘Precisely, my dear Daru,’ she says.

‘I should give you the names of some banker friends of mine who might tell you who pulled their money out.’ I think of my numerous c.v.’s dangling in the water with not even a nibble. ‘Hopefully they’ll be more helpful to you than they have been to me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Nothing. My job hunt isn’t going particularly well. It isn’t going at all, actually. The economy is completely dead right now, with the rupee skyrocketing on the black market and bank accounts frozen.’

‘Have you ever thought of finishing your Ph.D.?’

‘I can’t afford to.’

‘I thought tuition was basically free.’

‘It is. But I can’t afford not to work. I need an income.’

‘Did you finish your course work?’

I nod. ‘I was working on my dissertation. And I suppose I could do that part-time. Or full-time at the moment, since I have nothing better to do. But the whole thing is ridiculous.’

‘Your dissertation?’

‘It was on development. What a joke.’

‘So you think nothing can be done?’

‘I spoke to a lot of people. I think nothing will be done.’

‘I think you’re wrong. A lot can be done. There’s just a shortage of good people willing to do it.’

‘It’s easy to be an idealist when you drive a Pajero.’

‘Ouch.’

‘Sorry. Let’s change the subject.’ I glance at her, hoping she won’t stay offended, and I see what I think is a willingness to let our disagreement go.

‘You look exhausted,’ she says.

I consider telling her about the heroin and decide not to. ‘I couldn’t sleep. It’s so bloody hot.’

Manucci returns with the milk and quickly serves up some tea. I sip slowly, feeling the heat rise from the cup and open pores on my face. I’m used to sweating all the time now, so it doesn’t bother me. And Mumtaz doesn’t seem to mind, either.

As it gets darker, Manucci starts lighting candles, and I pray that tonight we will have fewer visiting moths than normal, but here my luck leaves me. Mumtaz raises an eyebrow more than once at the whirring guests who join us for tea, bumping noisily into walls and windows.

Once Manucci’s gone, Mumtaz puts her arms around me and pulls me close. We kiss, and she gives me a long lick, like a cat tending to its paw. I hug her, squeezing, and her ribs flex with the pressure. I feel my face flush with excitement, and at the same time I’m surprised by how comfortable this is, how new but also familiar.

‘Sorry about the Pajero comment,’ I say.

‘Don’t worry.’

We kiss again, harder this time.

‘Why did you write that article about prostitutes?’ I ask her.

‘Manto often wrote about prostitutes.’

‘But why the fascination with Manto’s subject matter?’

She pulls back slightly and looks at me. ‘A few years of marriage and motherhood, I suppose. Finding I don’t quite fit into what’s expected. I’m interested in things women do that aren’t spoken about. Manto’s stories let me breathe. They make me feel like less of a monster.’