Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

But I’ve decided that I’m not going to lose Mumtaz. I’m not going down this time.

In the morning I find myself heading out for a drive. I’ve taken my gun with me. First I pass by my bank, slowing down to watch the customers slipping inside. Then I drive to Shuja’s house. The gunman outside doesn’t recognize me, even though my Suzuki must be distinctive with its smashed windows. I stop and stare at him, my gun on my lap. He looks uncomfortable and goes behind the gate. And that makes me feel good.

Eventually I find myself where I knew I’d end up: parked near Ozi’s house. I think Mumtaz told me he was out of town, in Macau or something, but I don’t care if he is here, if he does drive up and see me. I’ll tell him I’m having an affair with his wife. What can he do about it?

But I don’t see him, and I don’t see Mumtaz either, which is fine with me. Because I’m hoping to see someone else. And early in the afternoon, when the sun comes out and the gray clouds part to reveal a beautiful blue sky, I do see him: little Muazzam, in a black Lancer with his nanny and a driver.

I slip into first and follow. Muazzam is what stands between Mumtaz and me. She feels so guilty about leaving him that she’s willing to stay in a meaningless marriage. I wonder what would happen if Muazzam got into a car accident, if he died suddenly. Mumtaz might be upset for a while. But eventually it would be better for her. She would be free, happy again, able to come to me. What adventures the two of us could have. We would be unstoppable.

The Lancer takes a left, heading toward FC College. Dirty water stretches across the road, hiding potholes, and the driver slows down. I get closer. I can see the driver’s eyes in his rearview mirror. Then he accelerates, the Lancer pulling away, and I have to floor my Suzuki to keep up. But he isn’t trying to lose me. He slows down again at a roundabout, takes a right. I’m very close. Muazzam disappears. Then he stands up again on the rear seat, his curly head visible through the window, just ten feet away from me.

The Lancer gives a left indicator and turns into the driveway of a house I remember, Ozi’s grandfather’s place. We used to play there sometimes, when we were younger.

Dark clouds with red bellies, lit from below by the electric city or a last gasp of light from the drowning sun, and a smoky breeze that stinks of burning flesh from the trash pile down the street. A joint in my mouth, heavy on the hairy, and a 9-millimeter automatic tucked into my jeans, pressed into my hipbone, bruising my flesh painlessly because of the numbness. Crows flap against the wind, sitting on a telephone line, quiet, watching the outnumbered parrots in my banyan tree.

Finally, fear stronger than the hairy can hide.

I’m so scared that I feel like throwing up. I’d force my finger down my throat and make myself gag if it would make me a little less dizzy. But I’m not drunk, I’m frightened, and I don’t think vomiting would be much help.

Murad Badshah arrives and parks his rickshaw, and we head out in my car. We don’t speak much. For once, even Murad Badshah doesn’t have anything to say. He keeps adjusting himself under his shalwar, or maybe he’s trying to find a comfortable position for his revolver.

The hand brake makes a loud sound when I pull it up. Light pours out of the big glass windows of the boutique. Mannequins cast shadows on our car. Murad Badshah reminds me what I have to do, and even though I’m listening, I don’t understand a word he’s saying. My college boxing coach once had to slap me before a fight to get me to attend to his instructions.

I get out, feeling self-conscious. Then I turn and walk into the boutique. The guard stares at me and my heart starts pounding in my head, hard. I stare back at the guard like I’m a rude patron. I realize I’ll kill him if I have to. He’s a young guy, balding, with dark skin and glistening temples and a mole like a fly on his left nostril. He’s sitting on a stool with a short-barreled pump-action shotgun across his thighs, and I’m standing beside him so its barrel is pointing at my knees. If he squeezes the trigger he’ll blow my legs off.

I walk out of his line of fire and his eyes don’t follow me. An ugly kid who looks like Muazzam is crying and pulling on his mother’s arm, and the sound is so unnerving that I want to shoot him to prevent myself from panicking.

Get hold of yourself.

Walk around, avoiding eye contact, touching fabrics, seeing who’s here. No men except the guard and one of the salespeople, who looks harmless. The other salesperson is a fierce-faced woman with arms bigger than mine. Keep my distance from both of them, because my mouth is dry and I’m zoned on hairy, so I don’t know how well I can talk. If they ask me what I’m looking for, I might shoot them. I think shooting something might calm me down. I feel hysterical. That damn kid keeps crying and tugging on his mother.

I walk up to the guard and pull the automatic out of my jeans and put it in his face. His shotgun isn’t pointing at me. I notice that my finger’s on the trigger guard instead of the trigger, so I slip it into the right place. I click off the safety. The guard watches me. Above his head I can see my reflection in the window, and I look just as calm as he does, but I’m not calm at all and I don’t think he is either. He’s raising his hands, which is good. They’re not near the shotgun.

I can’t believe I forgot to take my automatic off safety before I came in. He could have killed me. Thinking that makes me want to kill someone just to calm down.

Murad Badshah’s here. He’s taking control. Good. The salespeople are giving him a lot of money. The customers are taking off their jewelry, their purses. The guard is lying on his face, his shotgun out of reach, and I realize I’m standing on his right hand, but I don’t move. I look around me, feeling embarrassed, but no one seems to notice.

A police mobile drives by on the street outside without stopping. I watch it. If they stop I’m dead, and the first thing I’m going to do is start shooting. Shooting anyone and anything. But the police keep on going.

I take my foot off the guard’s hand, but this makes me nervous.

The woman with the kid yells something, and I look and see the boy running for the door. I don’t move. Little ugly boy who looks like Muazzam. Runs right by me and reaches the door. No one gets out, that’s the rule. No one gets out.

My hand. Hand’s rising. Hand with the gun in it. Leveling off at Muazzam’s head. He’s not going to make it to Mumtaz. He’s not going to ruin this.

The sound of an explosion and the glass of the door becomes opaque with cracks but doesn’t shatter.

Was that me?

The gavel weighs heavily in your hand. Suppressing a yawn, you use the handle to scratch yourself beneath your robe.

The actors sit upright in these, the final moments of the trial. Murad Badshah perspires comfortably, his wet face beatific as it catches the light. Any thought, no thought, could be passing through his mind.

Tension animates Aurangzeb’s handsome features, a streak of cruelty visible in his expression of uncertain triumph. It suits him. Women (and not a few men) cast admiring glances his way.

Mumtaz carries herself with the equestrian elegance of a woman who looks good in hats, leaning forward as she prepares for a jump. Her eyes glitter. She watches Daru.

And the accused, Darashikoh Shezad, coils without moving, explosive, motionless, barely contained. His smile is predatory. He stares at you.

The prosecutor is closing his closing.

‘The accused would have you believe, Milord,’ he is saying, ‘that our trials are on trial here, that our judgments are being judged. The accused would have you believe that a crime is in progress in this courtroom. The accused would accuse those who accuse him. Hooked by the line of truth, thrashing against the current of evidence, the accused would have you believe, Milord, that the fish is reeling in the fisherman.