Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

Normally a speech like this from a virtual stranger would seem odd. But something in the way he says it makes me comfortable, drawing me in. I lean forward to hear him better.

‘We need a system,’ he goes on, and it sounds like he’s quoting something, ‘where a man can rely on the law for justice, where he’s given basic dignity as a human being and the opportunity to prosper regardless of his status at birth.’

‘I agree.’

‘Then come to our meeting tomorrow.’

‘What meeting?’

‘A gathering of like-minded people, brothers who believe as you and I do that the time has come for change.’

I’m not surprised. I could tell he was a fundo from the moment I saw him. But at the same time, I’ve taken a liking to him and I’m reluctant to let him down. I say gently, ‘I’m not a very good brother, brother. I don’t think I’m the sort you’re trying to recruit.’

He smiles. ‘I’m not recruiting you. I just keep my eyes open for like-minded men. Besides, no believer is a bad believer.’

‘And what if I’m not a believer at all?’

‘You should still come. None of us can change things acting on our own. And to act together we need direction. What else is belief but direction? A common direction toward a better end?’

I smile. ‘We could be hiding enormous differences.’

‘If differences can be hidden, perhaps they aren’t differences at all. Maybe you’re more of a believer than you think.’

I look at him. He seems like such a nice, earnest guy. ‘Tell me where the meeting is.’

He writes it for me on a piece of paper, and as we part ways he shakes my hand with both of his. ‘I hope we’ll meet again.’

‘As God wills,’ I reply.

He accepts that with a nod.

In the car I take an aitch out of the glove compartment. Pre-rolled. I thought I might need one after the movie. I light up, thinking about Mujahid. What a nice guy. I hope he doesn’t get himself killed trying to make things better for the rest of us. I guess there are all kinds of fundos these days. And they’re obviously well organized if they even have a sales pitch for people like me.

I can’t say that I entirely disagree with their complaints, either.

But I’m definitely not going to that meeting. I roll the paper Mujahid gave me into a ball and toss it out the window.

I need a drink.

I watch a lizard strut along a wall, its shoulders and hips moving in a sensuous swagger. I can’t tell if it’s dark brown or dark green in the candlelight, but I can see that it’s missing half its tail. Lizards look obscene without their tails, naked somehow. But tails grow back eventually, if the lizard is lucky and lives long enough. And this lizard is already only partly naked, partly tailless. Partly bald, like Ozi. Or partly damaged, like me, with my nine good fingers.

I like its eyes: two black dots, nonreflective light-trappers. Utterly determined eyes, doubt-free, unselfconscious. Frightening eyes if they happen to be looking at you and you’re small enough to be dinner. The same eyes a man probably sees on an alligator before it drags him down and shakes the air out of his lungs and leaves him to rot a little in the murk, to be tenderized properly before he becomes a meal.

The lizard dashes forward and stops. Two feet away, on the wall above a candle, taking a much-deserved breather from hectic lovemaking, sits one of my shuttlecocks in waiting: a moth the perfect size for pinging. Black dots eye dinner. And dinner, exhausted from a rather strenuous dance with the candle, pants with its wings folded in an aero-dynamic delta, more sleekly angled at rest than in flight.

The lizard steps forward. Two steps. Two more. Then four. Stops. Dinner doesn’t move. Black dots come closer, close enough to blow moth dust off dinner if the lizard should happen to sneeze. But dinner doesn’t seem to think of itself as dinner. No, dinner is completely caught up in its own fantasy, a romantic Majnoon, antennae unkempt, warming itself in the updraft of heat from the flame of much-loved Laila.

Slowly, with no hurry at all, the lizard takes the moth into its mouth and squeezes. Only now does dinner realize it is dinner, one wing trembling frantically until it breaks off and falls like a flower petal, twirling. The lizard swallows, pulling the moth deeper into its mouth, then swallows again. And that’s that.

I clap loudly, my legs crossed at the knee, smiling at the lizard. Thanks for the entertainment. Clapclapclap.

Echoes bounce back from the walls.

Mumtaz comes. She doesn’t want to go inside. So even though a light rain is falling, we stand by her car.

‘I missed you,’ I say, reaching for her.

She steps back and looks down without saying anything.

Her silence frightens me. I say, to make her speak, ‘What have you been up to?’

‘I’ve been writing.’

‘Zulfikar Manto?’

She nods. ‘A piece on corruption.’

How convenient. ‘You can do all the research without leaving your house.’

She looks at me, and the sadness in her face makes me want to hold her. ‘Daru, it’s over.’

Has she left him? ‘What?’ I ask, wanting to make sure.

‘This. I’m not going to be coming to see you anymore.’

Confusion. What is she saying? Stay calm. Try to sort out what’s happening.

‘You can’t just walk away from this,’ I say.

She reaches out and hugs me, pulls my head down to her shoulder. ‘I can. I’m sorry, Daru. We can’t be lovers anymore.’

‘Why are you saying this?’ I whisper.

‘I was never going to leave Ozi for you. I told you that from the beginning.’

I step back, disengaging myself from her embrace. ‘Do you know he killed a boy?’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I was there. I saw him. He ran him over.’

‘Stop it.’

‘He didn’t even bother to stop. He just drove off.’

‘Don’t do this.’

‘But he’s a murderer. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? How can you stay with him?’

‘I’m leaving.’

Suddenly I understand. I grab her arm. ‘Has he threatened you?’ I’m screaming. ‘I’ll kill him! I’ll kill the bastard!’

She tries to pull away, but I hold her by the wrist, tight.

‘Let go of me.’

‘I have a gun. If he hurts you, I’ll kill him.’

She twists violently and pulls her arm free. ‘He hasn’t threatened me,’ she says, backing away.

‘Wait. Don’t go.’

She stops at the door of her car. ‘Daru, please do something about yourself. Tell your family. You need help. You shouldn’t be alone.’ She looks at me for a moment, then slams the door shut and drives off.

I wait for her in the driveway, but she doesn’t come back. Then I go inside and sit down and wipe my face, but no matter how much I wipe, it seems to stay wet.

And everyone on my street must be incinerating their garbage, because the stench of burning flesh is so strong I can’t sleep. Once, in the darkness, I even imagine that I’m on fire, smoke rising from my body, and leap out of bed.

But it’s nothing. Just a moth fluttering by my eyes.

I lie awake and think.

And the more I think, the clearer it becomes. Ozi hasn’t threatened her. It’s Muazzam. Muazzam is the problem.

I never won a championship when I boxed for GC. Our coach used to say that the guys who win championships are the ones who decide they aren’t going down, no matter what. I was one of the best boxers on the team, and I worked hard, but he still disliked me. He told me I wasn’t a real boxer, because there was only so much pain I was prepared to fight through. My last fight was for the All-Punjab. I was TKO’d in two rounds with a bad cut above my left eye. The coach said I was a coward.