Moth Smoke

  If he had been silent I might well have breathed my last that day.

  Instead, I surged to my feet and would have roared, ‘What [obscenities] said that?’ but as so often happens in moments of intense excitement, my stutter locked onto my voice like a fearful lover and prevented me from uttering a sound. I was growing red, my mouth working desperately, when the boy strode purposefully into the workroom with a glint in his eye and the tip of his tongue between his lips. In the dimness, he did not see me beside the door. But I saw his gun, and without thinking, I swung my wrench in a mighty blow that caught him at the back of the head, where the spine meets the skull, and with a sound like stepping on a soft-shell turtle his life was over.

  I have many regrets about that day. Perhaps I could have disarmed him. Perhaps I could have struck him with less force. But life seeks to preserve itself, and I acted as any man who wants to live would have acted. I derived no pleasure from it, and of all the stories you may hear of the men who have died at my hands, only this one is true, and my career as a robber would have been more illustrious were it not.

  Perhaps you will now better understand why I, an infamous criminal, was so horrified by the events of that ill-fated robbery, when my friend and colleague Darashikoh revealed his capacity for cold-blooded murder.

  It was a dark and stormy night.

  Do you smile at this introduction? Allow me to submit for your consideration the saying that tales with unoriginal beginnings are those most likely later to surprise.

  So, the night was dark and stormy.

  Lightning flickered above the city, a crescent moon sneered through a gap in the clouds. The boutique huddled against the storm, a tiny island of light on an unlit street.

  I wore red, the darkest crimson, a color that blends into black in the dark and flatters my figure by day. My kurta fluttered behind me in the breeze, and a concealed revolver itched where it pressed against my hairy belly. Darashikoh was inside, for all the world a tastefully dressed patron of the shop, but he carried death in his undershorts and hunger in his heart. I had done all this before, but the thrill, the excitement, the electricity of anticipation never goes. Yes, armed robbery is like public speaking. Both offer a brief period in the limelight, the risk of public humiliation, the opportunity for crowd control. And in both, what you wear is an often ignored but vitally important factor.

  The signal I awaited was simple: when Darashikoh placed his pistol against the head of the guard standing just inside the entrance of the shop, clearly visible through the window display, I was to come in and fleece the place.

  The signal was given and I walked in. If you learn nothing else about violent conflict, learn this: never rush. Take your time, evaluate the situation, then act. When you have multiple tasks to perform, proceed sequentially, or you will make a mess of them all. Think of it as being assigned to read a long, convoluted poem, if that helps you. My tasks at this stage were to enter, control the crowd, rob them, and leave.

  The shop guard, a rather sweet fellow with a shotgun and a leather bandolier of cartridges, seemed almost ready to cry by the time I entered, walking purposefully but without undue haste. From my long years in the service profession I have learned both that the customer is always right and that if he steps far enough out of line, threatening him with execution-style murder is a valid although rarely exercisable option. I am told my smile and manner succeed in conveying this duality of knowledge and so it is easy for me to maintain the utmost respect while inspiring terror of bowel-moving proportions.

  With a cheery ‘If you please,’ I proceeded to lighten the burden of wealth that bore down so heavily upon this establishment’s clientele. My revolver gleamed with the sweat it had accumulated while pressed against my skin, and it was slippery in my hand. I looked about me as I proceeded, and so I saw the vacant look in Darashikoh’s eyes as he stood with one foot on the guard, who was by now lying flat on the floor.

  It happened when I turned my back on him.

  I was encouraging an elderly lady to help her husband remove a lovely watch with a complicated clasp when I heard a sound behind me, the sound of feet moving quickly, and I whirled just in time to see Darashikoh raise his gun.

  The moment is frozen in my memory: the blank faces above their expensive outfits, the colorful clothing on shiny metal racks, the motionless, impossibly slender mannequins, the gasping inhalation that preceded the woman’s scream, the change in pressure as the door of an air-conditioned space is opened, Darashikoh’s left hand flashing up to steady his aim. And then the scream – shrill – a sound that raises hackles.

  And finally, so long awaited that its coming was a shock, the explosion of the gunshot.

  And Darashikoh changed before my eyes.

  It was unsettling, even for me, a man not easily unsettled.

  I had forgotten how much it affected me. I hope you will not mind if I now take my leave.

  7

  four

  I wake up sweating, staring at a motionless ceiling fan. Damn. They’ve cut my electricity. I call the power company, hoping that it’s just load-shedding or a breakdown, but a smug voice at the other end tells me that my account is in arrears and my service has been discontinued.

  I yell for Manucci, and he sticks his head into my room with a smile. ‘What are you smiling at, idiot? Our electricity is gone.’

  ‘It will come back, saab,’ he says, still smiling. The boy has no fear of me.

  ‘No, it will not come back. They’ve cut us off. We’re back in the seventeenth century.’

  He nods solemnly.

  ‘Make my breakfast. I’ll have eggs. No, it’s too hot. I’ll have a glass of milk and a sliced mango. Then run to the bazaar and get some candles. And some hand fans.’

  He starts to shut the door to my room and then stops. ‘Saab, money?’

  ‘What happened to the money I gave you?’

  ‘It’s finished.’

  ‘What do you mean, finished? Stop smiling, you crook, this is serious.’ I take two hundred rupees out of my wallet and give them to him. ‘I want a full accounting when you get back.’

  I take a shower and plop down on my bed, still wet, with a towel wrapped around my waist. At least I’m not hot this way. Having the power cut is serious. I was a month behind on my payments even before I lost my job, unprepared as usual for the summer spike in my bill that sucks a quarter of my paycheck into the air conditioner, and now I owe them half a month’s salary. Power prices have been rising faster than a banker’s wages the last couple of years, thanks to privatization and the boom of guaranteed-profit, project-financed, imported oil-fired electricity projects. I was happier when we had load-shedding five hours a day: at least then a man didn’t have to be a millionaire to run his AC.

  I’m eating the mango when the phone rings. A voice jumps out of the receiver like a snappy salute, and even though I haven’t spoken to Khurram uncle in quite some time, I know at once it’s his. He has an unmistakable tone of command I associate with Sandhurst and the experience of sitting comfortably in an office while ordering men to die.

  ‘Darashikoh,’ he says, ‘Aurangzeb tells me you’ve encountered a spot of difficulty finding a position.’

  So he knows I’ve been fired. ‘Yes, sir,’ I answer.

  ‘Well, son, I think it’s about time you called in the heavy guns. I know Aurangzeb has requested your presence at the house this evening. Come by my quarters at twenty-two hundred and we shall see if I can’t straighten things out.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’

  Khurram uncle was my father’s best friend at the military academy. He occupied a cushy staff position as an ADC in Rawalpindi in ’71, while my father died of gangrene in a prisoner-of-war camp near Chittagong. Then he slipped into the civil service, specializing, it’s said, in overpaying foreign companies for equipment and pocketing their kickbacks.

  I have no
real memories of my father. I turned two the summer his regiment was sent east. His photos and the stories I’ve heard have built in my mind the image of a quiet, courageous man, a soldier’s soldier. He was the best boxer at the military academy, and he drove a motorcycle. I have his ears, people say. Strange things to inherit, ears. Small and lobeless, like a pair of half-hearts. Otherwise we look nothing alike.

  Khurram uncle was the first person to notice the similarity. I must have been seven or eight. Ozi and I had come back to my place from a football match and my knees were bloody. Khurram uncle was paying a visit to my mother. As she cleaned my cuts with Dettol, and I cried because of the stinging, I remember Khurram uncle taking one of my ears between his thumb and forefinger and saying, ‘Strange ears. Connected to the jaw. Just like his father.’

  Khurram uncle visited our house fairly regularly. He always asked if we needed anything, and he often brought me presents. Sometimes he gave me clothes from abroad. I remember my first pair of high-top sneakers. Ozi told the boys in school that they were meant for him but were too small, so his father gave them to me.

  I saw less and less of Khurram uncle as I grew older, especially after Ozi left for America. The summer my mother died, I went to a restaurant with some friends and found her having lunch with Khurram uncle. She told me he had found me a job at a bank. I don’t remember being happy at that moment. Maybe no one wants to stop being a student.

  The last time I saw him was at her funeral. He was crying. Ozi’s mother was sick and couldn’t come. Khurram uncle told me to contact him if there was ever anything I needed. I never did. But even though we weren’t in touch, I kept hearing about him, that he’d built a mansion in Gulberg, that he was being investigated by the Accountability Commission.

  I never said anything when people spoke of him. I’d been doing well enough for myself. I was getting by without any more of his handouts. And I was quite content not to see him.

  But tonight I swallow my pride, hold my nose, and arrive at his place promptly at ten.

  ‘Darashikoh, my boy,’ Khurram uncle says when I’m taken to him. ‘Why haven’t you come to see me before this? There’s no need for formality between you and me. You’re a bright lad; all you need is a few doors opened for you and your merits will carry you far.’

  I thank him and sit down.

  ‘So, what kind of work is it you’re looking for?’ he asks me.

  I lean forward in my seat. ‘A bank or a large multinational.’

  ‘Have you thought about car dealerships?’

  He doesn’t seem to be joking. ‘Not really.’

  He takes a sip from a glass of whiskey and taps his shoe with a walking stick. ‘There’s good money to be made, and someone with your brains could be quite an asset to a car dealer.’

  I feel the blood rush into my face, burn hotly in my ears. ‘I’m not –’

  ‘Now listen to me, Darashikoh. This is no cheap little used-car dealing operation on some side street. I’d never ask you to consider something like that. No, I’m talking about a modern business, a professional showroom on Queen’s Road, with well-dressed salespeople and well-heeled clients. A place where you will have twenty-five thousand rupees in your pocket at the end of every month.’

  ‘I’d really like something with a bank or a multinational.’

  ‘Ah, boys these days. They don’t know a good thing when they see it. Still, nothing is too much for the son of my dearest comrade-in-arms. Let me see what I can do.’ Khurram uncle takes another sip from his whiskey. He hasn’t offered me any, which is no surprise, since he doesn’t permit Ozi to drink in his presence, even though he knows Ozi drinks. Maybe it’s a little like Khurram uncle’s attitude toward corruption.

  A young Filipina leads a child in by the finger. ‘This is Muazzam,’ Khurram uncle says proudly. ‘Aurangzeb’s son. Would you like to give him a hug?’

  ‘I know Muazzam,’ I say, taking the child into my arms. He struggles to pull free, like he’s afraid of me, and his nanny quickly retrieves him.

  ‘Children are excellent judges of character, you know,’ Khurram uncle says with a loud guffaw. ‘Well, off with you now, my boy. I’ll keep you posted.’

  I head upstairs, feeling a little disgusted with myself.

  When Ozi opens the door to his suite, though, surprise drives all thoughts of my meeting with Khurram uncle out of my head. Ozi embraces me hard, like a friend preventing a fight, or a boxer tying up an opponent with shorter reach. The smell of his aftershave envelops us both, and his voice tickles my ear as he whispers, ‘I’m so sorry, yaar. I know it was just supposed to be the three of us tonight, but there’s been a change of plans. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course not, yaar,’ I say, confused.

  ‘And I tried to call you about dinner, but I couldn’t get through. Besides, we had sushi flown in from Karachi and I know you don’t like fish.’

  And with that he steps aside and lets me pass, and I begin to understand what he’s talking about. I have arrived at a full-fledged invitational dinner only semi-invited. That is, I was told to come late for drinks, while the other guests came early and polished off an exotic air-transported meal. I know a snub when I see one, and this is a serious snub, especially since I love fish and know damn well that I’ve never told Ozi otherwise.

  But why wouldn’t Ozi want me around?

  It takes me only a cursory examination of the room to answer that question: Ozi’s made new friends.

  Dressed in elegant evening wear, chins held aloft, are key components of Lahore’s ultra-rich young jet set, only five couples in all, but enough of a presence to indicate that Ozi has been granted a trial membership in their crowd.

  The introductions begin. I know their names. Some venture an ‘I think I’ve seen you around,’ but most don’t bother. They’ve sized me up, figured out I’m a small fish, and decided to let me swim by myself for the evening. I spot Pickles, sporting flat-fronted black trousers and a bicep-revealing V-neck T.

  ‘Darashikoh, right?’

  Yes, you pretentious bastard. Darashikoh, the same boy who thrashed you after PT behind the middle school building. ‘Right. How are you, Pickles?’

  He seems less than ecstatic at my use of his pet name. ‘Very well. Yourself?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ I find myself saying.

  ‘Really? What are you doing these days?’

  I raise my chin. ‘Family business, you know. Import-export.’

  ‘Clothing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great,’ he says. ‘What do you think of that Australian buyer everyone’s been talking about?’

  I feel the illusion I’ve twirled around me like a sari start to come undone and fall to my feet. ‘You know, Pickles, there’s no quick answer to that one. Let me give you a call to discuss it further.’

  He winks. ‘I already know the details. I just wanted to know whether it’s true.’

  I can’t tell whether he’s referring to a sex scandal or a business blunder. ‘It’s true,’ I say.

  He laughs. ‘Here’s my card,’ he says, whipping out a pen to write something on the back. ‘And that’s my mobile. We should do lunch.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it from him. He looks at me expectantly, but I see Mumtaz coming into the room and excuse myself with a smile. Pickles probably thought I was dying to give him my card, and I suspect I’ve risen several levels in his estimation by not doing so.

  Mumtaz gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. She looks harried, and nothing about her suggests that our midnight run to Heera Mandi ever took place.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I ask her.

  ‘Yes. Sorry. Muazzam’s making a nuisance of himself downstairs. He won’t go to bed, and Ozi’s father gives him candies whenever I scold him. He probably has nothing but liquid sugar in his bloodstream at this point. He may never sleep again.’ She smiles at me.
‘How are you?’

  ‘Good. What is this?’

  ‘Lahore’s rich and famous.’

  ‘Are they your friends?’

  ‘I’ve met most of them before.’

  ‘So they’re Ozi’s friends?’

  ‘Some are. The rest will be. He’s good at this sort of thing, my husband. Can I get you some wine?’

  ‘I’m not a wine drinker.’

  She looks at me thoughtfully. ‘You sound upset. Is it because Ozi didn’t invite you for dinner?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t feel bad. He wasn’t sure you would like this crowd.’

  ‘Why didn’t he just tell me not to come at all?’

  ‘He wanted to see you. So did I. Listen, I’m not a wine drinker either. Let me get us both a Scotch.’

  I nod, feeling a little better. When she returns, we toast each other silently, and then she says, ‘Look, you have to try to enjoy yourself. Pretend that you’re an anthropologist observing the rituals of some isolated tribe.’

  It isn’t hard to do.

  A woman whose tied-on top reveals armor-plated abs starts clapping her hands above her head. ‘Quiet, everyone,’ she says. ‘Who wants to go swimming?’

  Another woman, very drunk and visibly undernourished, starts chanting, ‘Swim-ming! Swim-ming! Swim-ming!’

  ‘In Ozi’s pool!’ yells the first.

  ‘O-zi! O-zi! O-zi!’ chants the second.

  (I record the first entry in my ethnography: It appears that intermarriage has severely retarded the mental development of some members of the tribe.)

  ‘Forget that you’re Over Here! Pretend that you’re Over There.’

  (The utopian vision of Over There or Amreeka promises escape from the almost unbearable drudgery of the tribe’s struggle to subsist.)

  There’s some scattered clapping but no real enthusiasm for the idea. More drinks are tossed back. I see the rare sight of an iced martini glass being filled with gin and a splash of vermouth, then stirred gently and served with an olive. Ozi is really going all out. I wonder how much he’s spent tonight. Fifty thousand rupees? More?