Mohsin Hamid: Moth Smoke

Sitting hunched over on the toilet, I feel the wet smoothness of my skin as my belly doubles over and touches itself. My stomach is so bad that I’m passing liquid. It burns. I grab the lota and wash myself.

Walking naked to the window in my room, I pull open the curtains and see an overripe sun swelling on the horizon.

I remember that I’ve agreed to go to a party with Ozi and Mumtaz. When they come to pick me up, Mumtaz is wearing something black that exposes her shoulders. She kisses me on the cheek. Her smell stays near me.

‘Are you all right?’ she asks, concern mixed with the gravel of her voice.

‘I’m not feeling well.’

She smiles sympathetically. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Upset stomach.’

‘Have some Imodium and let’s go,’ Ozi says.

‘I’m not going,’ I say.

‘Come on, yaar,’ Ozi says, turning his hands palm up and tilting his head.

‘I’m feeling really bad.’

‘That’s how we’ll all be feeling in the morning. You just have a head start.’

‘I’m sorry, yaar. I’m not going.’

‘Yes, you are. I insist.’

‘Look at me: I’m not dressed and I look horrible.’

‘You always look horrible. Throw on some clothes and let’s go. We’ll wait in the car.’

In a daze, I put on a pair of black jeans, with a black T-shirt, black belt, and black loafers, slip some hash into a half-empty pack of cigarettes, and head out.

‘You two match,’ Ozi says, meaning Mumtaz and me.

I sit in the back of Ozi’s Pajero. I’ve never been in a Pajero before. Costs more than my house and moves like a bull, powerful and single-minded. Ozi drives by pointing it in one direction and stepping on the gas, trusting that everyone will get out of our way. Occasionally, when he cuts things too close and has to swerve to avoid crushing someone, the Pajero’s engine grumbles with disappointment and Ozi swears.

‘Stupid bastard.’

‘It was a red light,’ Mumtaz points out.

‘So? He could see me coming.’

‘There are rules, you know.’

‘And the first is, bigger cars have the right of way.’

A favorite line. One I haven’t heard in a long, long time. I remember speeding around the city with Ozi in his ’82 Corolla, feet sweating sockless in battered boat shoes, following cute girls up and down the Boulevard, memorizing their number plates and avoiding cops because neither of us had a license. Hair chopped in senior school crew cuts. Eyes pot-red behind his wayfarers and my aviators. Stickers of universities I would never attend on the back windshield. Poondi, in the days of cheap petrol and skipping class and heavy-metal cassettes recorded with too much bass and even more treble. We had some good times, Ozi and I, before he left.

I would have reached out and clapped him on the shoulder then, grinned at him in the rearview, but I don’t do it now. I’m too tired.

We arrive at the party. A mostly male mob is gathered outside the gate, hoping to get in. It’s summertime, after all, and parties are few and far between.

Ozi pulls up and honks, and we get some glares.

‘Sorry, sir, I can’t open the gate,’ says a security guard.

‘You’ll have to. I’m parking inside,’ says Ozi.

The Pajero must give Ozi’s words added authority, because instead of laughing in his face, the guard says, ‘But how will we keep these people outside?’

‘That’s your problem. If anyone tries to get in, hit them one.’

The guard disappears. Ozi inches the car forward, pushing the crowd out of his way. I hear people swearing. Suddenly the gate opens and we drive in, leaving two security guards and some servants to scuffle with the crowd.

Ozi and Mumtaz head indoors, toward the music, and I’m about to follow them when someone grabs my arm. It’s Raider, taut with nervous energy. ‘Shit, yaar,’ he says.

‘Let’s not talk about it.’ The last thing I want to do just now is think about what happened today. Besides, the pity in Raider’s face is making me feel unwell.

He nods and raises his hands in accommodation. ‘That’s right,’ he says. ‘To hell with those bastards. I can’t believe –’

‘Leave it.’

Raider shifts from foot to foot, an intensely vacant look in his eyes, and grins at me. ‘You’re a killer, yaar. A killer. I like your style, partying tonight. I’d be a complete wreck.’

I take hold of his shoulders. ‘Please, shut up.’

He ducks his head. ‘Sorry.’ Then he starts grinning again. ‘But I’ve got the perfect thing for you.’

‘What?’

‘Ex.’

I should have guessed he was on something. ‘Here?’

He nods. ‘Great stuff, yaar. Very peppy.’

I shake my head. ‘Not tonight.’

‘Especially tonight. I know what I’m talking about.’

‘How much?’

‘Two thousand.’

‘I can’t, yaar. It’s too much.’

Raider smiles. ‘Just take it, then. A gift.’

That’s the problem with Raider, why he’ll never make it to Wall Street or probably even to Karachi, for that matter: he’s too generous. He’s the last person you want on your side in a negotiation.

‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘But I can’t. Another time.’

‘Just call,’ Raider says, suddenly sad. ‘The bank will be boring without you. All worker bees and no wasps.’

I pat him on the back and walk off.

Then I’m inside. I see the familiar faces of Lahore’s party crowd, and soon I’m caught up in the whole hugging, handshaking, cheek-kissing scene. Tonight’s venue is a mansion with marble floors and twenty-foot ceilings. Rumor has it that the owner made his fortune as a smuggler, which is probably true but could also be social retribution for his recent ascent to wealth.

The dance floor is packed. Ozi and Mumtaz are shaking it down to ‘Stayin’ Alive.’ They make a sexy pair, a welcome new addition to the scene, and I overhear the update passing like a Reuters report: ‘Aurangzeb and Mumtaz, back from New York, very cool.’ Information is key at these things: no one wants to be caught holding social stock that’s about to crash.

I see Nadira glaring in my direction as she dances with some guy whose wet shirt sticks to his back. Keeping her eyes fixed on mine, she pulls closer to him and grinds her body against his, running her hands up his thighs. I’ve never understood why she does this to me, since she’s the one who ended it. As usual, I try to ignore her.

I’m in no mood to dance and there are too many people at the bar, so I wander through the house and out to the back lawn. Finding a wrought-iron bench, I sit down to watch the party out of the darkness.

As I roll a joint, couples argue and kiss, unable to see me seeing them. Two guys are pacing about. One seems to be calming the other down, but I’m too far away to hear their words. Several people chat on their mobiles.

Then a woman walks in my direction.

‘Daru?’ she says.

‘Here, Mumtaz.’

She comes over and sits down, her body as far from mine as this narrow bench will allow.

‘How did you find me?’ I ask.

‘I watched you go outside. What are you doing?’

‘Just enjoying the night air.’

She smiles and says conspiratorially, ‘It looks like you’re rolling a jay.’

‘I suppose it does look like that.’

‘Can I have some?’

I look down. ‘Where’s Ozi? We should all share it.’

She points to the house with her chin. ‘He’s inside, chatting it up with some old school buddies. Besides, he’s stopped smoking pot.’

‘I can see I’m going to have to be firm with him,’ I say. ‘He’s forgotten his roots.’

‘We used to smoke together before. I was stoned when we first met. He was dancing. Ozi’s a great dancer, you know.’