Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

I walk the half-kilometer or so to the station and buy some regular, a container, and a funnel. It’s 9:48. Petrol swishing beside me, I jog back, inhaling the dark smoke buses spit in my direction and feeling sweat fill my eyebrows and overflow, stinging, into my eyes. I restart my car, driving with one hand and unbuttoning my shirt with the other so I can dry myself off with a rag.

I’m in the office by eleven minutes after ten, cold because I’m soaked and the air-conditioning in the bank is always too strong. I smell like a garage on a windless day, and I’m sure I look a mess.

Raider sees me and shakes his head. Raider’s real name is Haider, and his dream is to become a hostile takeover specialist on Wall Street. He’s the only man at our bank who wears suspenders.

‘You’re in for it, yaar,’ he says.

‘Is he here?’ I ask.

‘Is he ever late?’

‘Is he pissed?’

‘He isn’t smiling.’

Raider’s talking about my client, Malik Jiwan, a rural landlord with half a million U.S. in his account, a seat in the Provincial Assembly, and eyebrows that meet in the middle like a second pair of whiskers. His pastimes include fighting the spread of primary education and stalling the census. Right now he’s sitting behind my desk, in my chair, rotating imperiously.

‘You’re late,’ he says.

I’m in no mood for this. ‘Sorry, Mr Jiwan, my car –’

‘Never mind. Has my check cleared?’

‘Your check?’

He strokes his beard and looks at me, saying nothing.

I remind myself why God gave bankers lips: to kiss up to our clients. ‘Please tell me: what check?’

‘The check for thirty thousand U.S. I deposited with you.’

‘Let me just find out.’ I call customer services and give them the account number. ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t gone through yet.’

‘That’s ridiculous. I deposited it a week ago.’

I’m enjoying his discomfort. ‘International checks can take some time.’

‘Didn’t I tell you to take care of this personally?’

‘I don’t remember your saying that, Mr Jiwan.’

‘Well, I remember saying it.’

Good for you. ‘Next time you really ought to consider a cashier’s check.’

‘Are you making fun of me?’

God forbid. ‘No,’ I say.

‘Young man, I don’t like the way you’re smiling.’

I’m not one of your serfs, you bastard. And I want you to get the hell out of my chair. ‘Mr Jiwan, I’m not trying to be disrespectful.’

‘Your tone is disrespectful.’

Before the Day of Judgment, as every good banker knows, will come a Night of Insolvency. And on that Night I intend to go calling on one or two of my more troublesome clients. But for now my bank is still sound, and I’m limited in my choice of responses to Mr Jiwan’s attempt to impose feudal hierarchy on my office. ‘Mr Jiwan, I’m doing my best to provide you with any service you require.’

‘Do you know who I am?’

I’m beginning to lose my patience. ‘Yes, I do.’

‘I can have you thrown on the street.’

‘Don’t threaten me, Mr Jiwan. I don’t work for you. You’re a client of this bank, and if you don’t like the service you receive here, you’re free to go elsewhere.’

‘We’ll see who goes elsewhere. I want to speak to your Branch Manager.’

‘Certainly.’ I escort him to my BM’s office, outwardly calm, because I don’t want him to see me squirm. But from the way my BM grabs Mr Jiwan’s hand, in both of his, and also from the way my BM bows slightly, at the waist and at the neck, a double bend, I know this is going to be unpleasant.

‘Ghulam,’ Mr Jiwan is saying, ‘this boy has just insulted me.’

‘Shut the door, Mr Shezad,’ my BM says to me. ‘What happened?’

I know I need to present my case forcefully. ‘Sir,’ I begin.

‘Not you,’ my BM says. ‘Malik saab, tell me what happened.’

‘I told this boy to take care of a deposit personally. Today, when I find out that he hasn’t done so, he calls me a liar, and says that I never told him to. He’s rude to me, and when I tell him I won’t stand for it, he raises his voice and tells me to take my business to another bank.’

My BM is looking at me with hard eyes. ‘This is unacceptable, Mr Shezad.’

‘Please let me tell you what happened, sir.’

‘You told Malik saab to take his business to another bank?’

‘You see, sir –’

‘Mr Shezad, this isn’t the first time a client has complained about your attitude. You’re on very dangerous ground. Just answer my question.’

‘No, sir, I didn’t say that.’

‘Are you saying that I’m lying?’ asks Mr Jiwan.

I’ve had a bad day. A bad month, actually. And there’s only so much nonsense a self-respecting fellow can be expected to take from these megalomaniacs. So I say it. ‘This is a bank, not your servant quarters, Mr Jiwan. If you want better service, maybe you ought to learn some manners.’

‘Enough!’ my BM yells.

I’ve never heard him yell before.

His voice brings me to my senses. What am I doing? Fear grabs me by the throat and makes me wave my hands like I’m erasing the wrong answer from a blackboard. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Jiwan.’

They don’t say anything.

‘I don’t know what came over me,’ I go on. ‘It won’t happen again. I’m very sorry.’

My BM says, ‘You’re fired, Mr Shezad.’

A quick side step into unreality, like meeting your mother when you’re tripping. Am I losing my job? Right now? Is it possible?

Pull yourself together.

‘Please, sir,’ I say.

‘No, Mr Shezad.’

‘But please, sir. Please.’

‘No.’

I leave my BM’s office, leave them both watching me, and walk to my desk, and I look around it, and there’s so much to do, so much work to do, and I can do it. I can do it. But I can’t concentrate. My nose is running, and I taste it in my mouth, and my face is hot even though I’m cold.

Everyone is staring at me. How can they know already? I want to tell them it’s a mistake, but I look down at my desk instead. Just act natural. Don’t draw attention to yourself.

My BM is walking Mr Jiwan out. I pick up a pen and move some papers, and they don’t say anything to me. Everything will be all right.

Someone comes to stand in front of my desk. Ignore him and he’ll go away.

‘Mr Shezad.’

I raise my head. It’s my BM. There’s a security guard beside him.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘You’re fired, Mr Shezad.’

‘But, you see, sir, I’m really very sorry. Don’t fire me. I’ll work a month without pay.’

‘You have a serious psychological problem, Mr Shezad. Your severance pay will be sent to your home by registered post. You need to stop crying, collect your personal items, and go home.’

‘Do you want me to fill out some form?’

‘No, Mr Shezad. Please leave.’

He’s watching me. I’m looking for personal items on my desk but not finding any. Pick up my briefcase. Legs move, feet go one in front of the other. Look straight ahead as the guard opens the door. Turn the key in the ignition. Drive. Drive where? Home. Give briefcase to Manucci and ignore the words that come out of his mouth because I’m going to my room, shutting the door, locking it, pulling the curtains, taking off my clothes, crawling under the sheets, and curling up in the dark dark dark.

I don’t know if I’ve been sleeping or dreaming while I’m awake, but suddenly my eyelids snap apart under the sheets and I’m back from somewhere very different. I feel feverish and I’m covered in sweat, but I think it’s because I didn’t turn on the AC or even the fan. Unnh, I need to go to the bathroom.