Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

Then I feel her mouth and I exhale, slowly.

And after, she takes off her clothes and bathes herself. Touches herself. And then she lies beside me and watches me sleep.

When she leaves I’m alone. Completely alone. I’d hoped Manucci might be there, but he hasn’t come back. It frightens me to look at myself, and it frightens me even more to run my good hand along the broken rib curving around my soft innards, a gap in my body’s protection more shocking than the gap in my teeth.

That night I lie on my bed with my badminton racquet, tapping moths ineffectively, because it hurts too much when I move fast enough to kill them.

It’s more difficult to bear the pain when I’m alone. I know it’s good for me, a sign of life reasserting itself after the damage I’ve sustained, but it’s hard to put up with when there’s no one watching, no reference point, no sign that the struggle will lead anywhere but to more struggle. I can smile as a doctor sews stitches into my skin or a nurse slides a needle into my rump, but who can smile at a headache as he lies in bed in an empty house? I can’t. I haven’t that much strength.

The pain gets worse as the night goes on. The painkillers help, and the joints help as well, but what helps most is the heroin.

I find the stuff in my bedside table drawer, where it’s been lying untouched since the night of my first try, and I know from the second I see it that I want some. It’s wonderful. It doesn’t kill the pain exactly, but after an aitch the pain doesn’t seem to matter. Pain without hurt, as though I don’t understand what my nerves are telling me. Or don’t believe them.

I tell myself not to use it again, unless I really need the release. Hairy’s serious, after all. Wouldn’t want to get in the habit.

Mumtaz comes in the morning with halva poori for breakfast. Feeds me with her own hands, the halva still hot. Kisses the crumbs from my lips. And she brings me lunch and dinner: omelets and parathas, wrapped in greasy newspaper. Also candles. Matches. Mangoes. Toothpaste.

I don’t tell her about the hairy.

When I look in the mirror, when I see what’s been done to me, rage lifts my eyelids and twists my reflection. I cherish the anger, center myself in it, draw power from it, strength for my healing. Because I will heal. And then it’ll be my turn at the crease. And I won’t be gentle with my bat.

She understands how I feel. Knows how to calm me.

When I tell her how my body was broken, fury comes, and I start screaming until I exhaust myself, panting from the pain in my rib cage. She wipes the spit from my chin and cradles my head, somehow corking my anger, bottling it up. And after a while I do feel better. Bottled, starved for air, even anger can’t burn.

The longer she stays, the more I hate it when she leaves.

One evening she says, ‘You look less monstrous every day.’

‘So do you.’

‘How do you feel?’

‘Stronger.’

‘Good, because Ozi’s back. I won’t be able to come as often.’

I’m silent.

‘You look disappointed,’ she says.

‘I am.’

‘Well, I can’t blame you. I wouldn’t mind being fed and bathed by you every day, either.’

‘It’s not that. I want to see you.’

‘I’m here.’

‘I want to see you as much as Ozi sees you.’

‘I’m best in small doses, believe me.’

My rib twinges, but she slides her hand under my shirt and onto my chest, and then I must breathe more softly, because I can’t feel the pain.

We lie naked in bed, a small chocolate cake with a red-and-white sparkling candle balanced between my nipples, fizzing and smoking merrily. Two weeks out of hospital. Two months without electricity. Three months since I lost my job. Twenty-nine years since my first smack on the bottom, the first time I cried.

Today is my birthday. My family has already been by, honking at the gate until the neighbors started shouting and they had to go away. I’m not ready to face them yet. And I wanted to be alone with Mumtaz. She tells me to make a wish. I wish for work and money and air-conditioning and a healed rib and a new tooth and ten good fingers and my ex-best friend’s wife. Then I blow out the candle. It takes two tries, and makes me wince.

‘Don’t tell me what you wished for,’ she says.

‘It would take too long,’ I say. And I grin, because at this moment, with her beside me and an undisturbed afternoon ahead, I feel almost happy.

She takes the plate off my chest and strokes my hair.

I shut my eyes. ‘What would you wish for?’ I ask.

She thinks. ‘Perfect foresight, a little courage, and a time machine.’

I smile. I like the slow rasp of her voice, the way she draws out her words. ‘Why?’

‘So I could go four years back into the past, realize what was going to happen if I married Ozi, and say no when he asked.’

My head begins to throb, full of blood, stuffed by the excited pumping of my heart. I open my eyes. ‘So it was a mistake?’

She turns onto her side. Her breast brushes my shoulder. ‘I have no clothes on. I’m with you. You’re not my husband. I’ve clearly made a mistake somewhere.’

‘Did you ever love him?’

She nods. ‘I loved him. Did you?’

‘I think so.’

‘So what happened?’

Something is caught between my teeth. I pull it out: a hair. Maybe an eyelash. ‘I don’t know. A million things. There were problems even when we were kids. He was vicious, full of himself. And when he left, we drifted apart. Maybe I just realized what he was all along: not a good guy. A bastard, really. A self-centered, two-faced, spoiled little bastard …’

‘Stop.’

The sharpness of her tone makes me realize I’m getting carried away, and I bite down on my words. But I feel myself choking on all I’m leaving unsaid.

‘Don’t,’ she says. ‘I don’t want to lie here and attack Ozi. It isn’t right.’

‘You said it was a mistake to marry him.’

‘For me, yes. But which one of us is the problem? Ozi’s a good father. He’s sweet. He’s generous. He’s smart …’

I feel the muscles in my chest contract. ‘He’s rich. He’s got everything he wants. He’s perfect.’

She pulls back. ‘Why are you so bitter?’

‘He’s a bastard.’

‘There’s no reason for you to be jealous.’

My mouth is wet with unswallowed spit. ‘If you think he’s so wonderful, maybe you shouldn’t be here.’

She watches me, her eyebrows rising, wrinkling her forehead. ‘Are you serious?’

I realize she’s getting angry. And I don’t want to fight. ‘No,’ I say. And when she doesn’t respond, I add, ‘I’m sorry.’

She’s quiet for a moment. ‘I don’t think I should be married to Ozi. But not because of him. Because of me. I’m really not all that nice. I don’t think I’m the sort who should marry at all.’

‘That isn’t true.’

She smiles. ‘You don’t know me that well. I’m a bad wife. And I’m a worse mother.’

I put my arm around her and she presses against my side. ‘You’re just stuck in a bad situation.’

She shakes her head. ‘I chose my situation. No, it’s deeper than that.’

‘What is?’

‘Where am I right now?’

I stroke her back. ‘With me.’

‘And what about my son? He’s at home. He misses me. But I leave him with Pilar as much as I can. I can’t help it. I’m flawed. A bad design.’

‘It’s normal. Everyone gets tired of their children sometimes.’

‘I’m not talking about getting tired sometimes. I don’t know. I don’t think I can explain it.’

‘My mother didn’t spend every minute with me.’

‘No?’ Her belly swells against my side with her breathing.