Mohsin Hamid - Moth Smoke

‘Hello, gangster,’ I say to him.

Murad Badshah’s my dealer: occasionally amusing, desperately insecure, and annoyingly fond of claiming that he’s a dangerous outlaw. He speaks what he thinks is well-bred English in an effort to deny the lower-class origins that color the accent of his Urdu and Punjabi. But like an overambitious toupee, his artificial diction draws attention to what it’s meant to hide.

His hand engulfs mine, and I find myself pulled into a damp and smelly embrace, the side of my face pressed against his shoulder. ‘A very good evening to you, old boy,’ he says.

‘Do you have any cigarettes?’

‘But of course.’

‘My savior.’

‘More than you know.’ He flashes a grin down at me. ‘I also have some first-class, A-one quality charas.’

We climb a rickety ladder to the roof of my house and sit down on the bench I keep up there for pot smoking and kite fighting. I roll a joint, and as we smoke it, Murad Badshah asks me how my job search is going.

‘Badly. They want foreign qualifications or an MBA.’

‘It’s all about connections, old boy.’ He takes a hit. ‘How did you get your previous job?’

‘Through a family friend,’ I admit. Ozi’s father, as a matter of fact.

Murad Badshah grins. ‘Perhaps you should see the gentleman again. What he did once he can do twice.’

‘Maybe he can.’ But I don’t want to ask for Khurram uncle’s help.

I look up, squinting into the sun. A hawk circles in the sky over my neighbor’s house, where a baby lies naked on a sheet on the lawn. His ayah keeps a careful eye on him: he’s too big for a hawk to carry away, but not too big for one to try.

‘Quite frankly, Darashikoh Shezad, you’re better off this way. Pinstriped suits are cages for the soul.’

‘At least a caged soul is well fed by its handlers.’

‘Well fed, my left buttock, if you’ll pardon the expression. A man who works for another man is a slave.’

I take the joint back from him. ‘Yes, but you need capital to start a business. I’m broke. The other day I received a notice that my electricity is about to be disconnected.’

‘All you need is human capital: a strong mind and an obedient body.’

I look at Murad Badshah’s obedient body. Even in the loose folds of his shalwar kurta, I can see the love handles sagging away from his waist.

‘I have a proposition for you,’ he says suddenly.

‘What?’

‘I don’t want to shock you, old boy.’

‘Just don’t ask me to drive one of your rickshaws.’

He reaches under his kurta and pulls a silver revolver out of the waistband of his shalwar. It gleams like well-polished cutlery, big and shiny and more than a little ridiculous.

‘Is it real?’ I ask him.

He looks offended. ‘Of course,’ he says.

‘Why are you carrying it around?’

‘Darashikoh Shezad, do you listen to nothing that I say?’

‘You don’t need to impress me.’

He snorts. ‘Here, take it.’

I drop my joint and put it out with my shoe. The gun is heavier than it looks.

‘You are holding a Python. Three-fifty-seven magnum.’

I nod and hand it back to him. ‘I don’t like guns.’

‘Why don’t you fire off a few rounds?’ he asks. ‘Just point it up in the air. But be careful: it jumps.’

I think of my mother and look away. ‘No thanks,’ I say. Sometimes indulging Murad Badshah can take more effort than it’s worth. ‘Can you get me some ex?’ I ask, reminding him that he’s my dealer first and my friend only a very distant second.

Murad Badshah looks at me as if he wants to say more about his proposal. Then he seems to decide against it and says, ‘What is ex?’

‘Never mind. It’s a drug.’

‘The best I can do is charas, old boy. And heroin. I can always get you heroin. But I wouldn’t recommend it.’ He puts his arm around me. ‘Come. Let’s roll another joint.’

I’m thirsty, and the smell from Murad Badshah’s armpit is overpowering. I want to get rid of him. ‘Can I offer you a beer?’ I ask, standing up.

He shakes his head, still seated. ‘You know me better than that, old boy. I want the pleasures of the afterlife. Charas is a gray area, but alcohol is explicitly forbidden.’

‘Some men drink the blood of other men, all I drink is wine,’ I quote.

‘Saqia aur pila. Wonderful qawali. But I think the verse refers to the wine of faith, my friend.’

Once I’ve paid Murad Badshah for the pot and I’m alone again, I open a bottle of Murree beer. I don’t like it when low-class types forget their place and try to become too frank with you. But it’s my fault, I suppose: the price of being a nice guy.

Settling in front of the television, I watch videos on Channel V, and remind myself that when I have some cash coming in I need to call a technician to adjust my satellite dish. The sound quality just isn’t what it should be. I eat my dinner on a TV tray and open a beer. Manucci has fallen asleep at my feet. He loves to sleep in the living room when the air conditioner is on, and I don’t blame him, because the servant quarters are too hot in the summertime.

The phone rings and wakes me up. I’ve dozed off in front of the television. Manucci’s still asleep.

It’s a woman’s voice, husky, like she’s just gotten out of bed. ‘Daru?’ she says.

‘Nadira?’

There’s laughter on the other end. ‘It’s Mumtaz. Who’s Nadira?’

My mouth tastes awful. ‘No one,’ I say. ‘Just a friend.’

‘Listen, Daru, can you do me a favor?’

‘Is everything all right? Where’s Ozi?’

‘Everything’s fine. Ozi’s in Switzerland on business. I need to go to the old city, but I don’t know the roads in that part of Lahore and I don’t want to take a driver. Do you think you could come with me?’

This is very strange. Why is Ozi’s wife calling me up in the middle of the night to go for a drive? ‘Are you serious?’

‘Yes. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but it’s important to me and I’d appreciate your help.’

‘Where are you?’ I ask her.

‘Outside your gate.’

‘What?’

‘I’m calling you on my mobile.’

Her mobile. How classy. I think quickly: What can be wrong in going with her? Ozi would want me to help her out. On the other hand, the last thing Ozi probably wants is for his wife to be cruising around Lahore with single men while he’s out of town. But my curiosity gets the better of me. ‘I’m coming,’ I say.

It’s dark outside. None of the streetlamps work and the sharp crescent moon does little to light the night. Mumtaz’s car is parked with the engine running.

I get in, and she turns the music down. It’s Nusrat, remixed and clubby, but damn good as always.

‘Hi,’ she says with a grin.

‘What’s up?’

‘I’ll tell you as we go. Cigarette?’

I take one and she reverses onto the street, slips the car into first while it’s still moving backwards, and accelerates away from my house.

‘What have you been up to lately?’ she asks.

‘Looking for a job.’

‘Any luck?’ She takes a turn fast and I tense my legs.

‘No.’

‘What sort of job are you looking for?’

‘The standard: banks, multinationals.’ We’re on the canal now, zipping past weeping willows.

‘Do you really want to work for a bank or a multinational?’

She seems distracted, intent on her driving, and I’m irritated that she’s being flippant about what for me is a serious problem. ‘What do you mean?’

She flashes her beams at a truck and it pulls to the left to let us pass. ‘You don’t seem like the sort of person who’d enjoy being a slave to a faceless business.’