Moth Smoke (18 page)

I kept writing, glad for the distraction from the constant demands of my son. The income was important to me, as well. Between Ozi and his parents, we had everything we needed, but the idea of taking pocket money from my husband had begun to grate on me. So I managed to earn some financial independence writing about parenting, little hypocrite that I am. It was satisfying in a strange way, and in a not so strange way, too. The strange satisfaction came from at least being able to write about motherhood well. It helped me hide from myself. And the not so strange satisfaction came from learning that I was a good writer, feeling new muscles growing in my back, wing muscles, the kind that mean you’re learning to fly.

But it wasn’t the right season to lift off. Not yet. I sat in my apartment and looked out over the city, and I just didn’t feel any passion to write about the place. I didn’t give a damn about local politics, I wasn’t moved by the issues. I missed home. And I was frustrated by people who actually thought the world had a center, and that center was here. ‘The world’s a sphere, everyone,’ I wanted to say. ‘The center of a sphere doesn’t lie on its surface. Look up the word “superficial,” when you have a chance.’

Slowly, even though I thought it would never happen, New York lost its charm for me. I remember arriving in the city for the first time, passing with my parents through the First World Club’s bouncers at Immigration, getting into a massive cab that didn’t have a moment to waste, and falling in love as soon as we shot onto the bridge and I saw Manhattan rise up through the looks of parental terror reflected in the window. I lost my virginity in New York, twice (the second one had wanted to believe he was the first so badly). I had my mind blown open by the combination of a liberal arts education and a drug-popping international crowd. I became tough. I had fun. I learned so much.

But now New York was starting to feel empty, a great party that had gone on too long and was showing no sign of ending soon. I had a headache, and I was tired. I’d danced enough. I wanted a quiet conversation with someone who knew what load-shedding was.

Then Ozi decided he’d had enough of being a well-paid small fish in Manhattan. His father needed him, and he wanted to go home. I agreed. I was desperate for a new start, too. So we took a deep breath and jumped and landed with a loud splash one summer in beautiful Lahore.

But Lahore wasn’t the answer. I didn’t know anyone, I had nothing to do, and I hated living with Ozi’s parents.

At least Muazzam’s new nanny was a blessing. For the first time since before he was born, he wasn’t completely dependent on me, and that was liberating. I started thinking about what I wanted to do with my time, and then about what I wanted to do with my life. My twenty-sixth birthday reminded me that I was still young.

I tried to restart my marriage, to rediscover everything that had made me love Ozi in the first place. Honestly I did. But it didn’t work, because I lost my respect for him. And once that happened, there was nothing more I could do.

How do you lose your respect for the person you love? It isn’t easy. It takes – it took – a lot. It took his mother, for one thing. She’d spent half her life making her son into the man she’d wished she’d married, and now that he’d returned, she was back in business. She corrected his posture, critiqued his suits, made him self-conscious about his receding hairline by telling him again and again how a good haircut would hide
it. And the effect she had on him was incredible. One look from her would transform the relaxed, charming, sexy man I’d married into an uncomfortable little schoolboy.

But it took more than his mother to utterly destroy my respect for Ozi. It took his father, too. No matter how much I wanted to believe otherwise, I quickly realized that the rumors about Ozi’s father being corrupt were true. And when I finally, delicately, confronted Ozi, he seemed almost surprised that it bothered me. In fact, he said one of the main reasons he’d come back to Lahore was to help his father protect his assets, kickbacks from the good old days when Dad was a senior civil servant with the country at his feet.

Even then I might have stayed with my increasingly emasculated, amoral husband for quite some time. It took some serious miscalculations on his part to extinguish the last, lingering, stubborn spark of respect I had for him. It took one manipulative comment too many, one more comparison of myself to his perfect mother than I could take. I didn’t confront him. I just gritted my teeth, took out a needle, and worked him out of my heart like a splinter.

But I still wasn’t ready to leave him.

It might seem strange after everything I’ve said that Muazzam should prevent me from leaving my husband. But he did. I still wanted to believe that I loved my son, that I was a good mother, that I was a good person. I knew it would be wrong to abandon him. And I knew I couldn’t take him with
me. I couldn’t bear it, having sole responsibility for the child. I didn’t trust myself, and I didn’t want to.

But a crack down my middle was splitting open, and I couldn’t be just the good wife and mother anymore.

So how did I, after being faithful for four years of marriage, come to start having sex with my husband’s best friend? It all began with writing under a pseudonym. A double life has to begin somewhere. There has to be a first lie, a first deception. And mine began when I decided to start working as an investigative journalist called Zulfikar Manto. It wasn’t because Ozi would have objected that I didn’t tell him. (He married a woman he slept with on the first night, remember that. He wasn’t a close-minded man.) It was because I wanted to create a life that he knew nothing about.

But as soon as I began, wings that had been growing for years stretched and pushed and I found myself flying. I was home again, and there was so much I wanted to say. I found myself sitting up all night at the computer, writing with all of my soul, the window open and my wrists sweaty against the keyboard as Ozi slept under his blanket in the next room. I spoke with prostitutes and policemen who might have killed a girl and lawyers who gave safe haven to fugitive women from abusive marriages and an Accountability Commission investigator with one arm and a grip so strong my hand hurt for days.

I wrote about things people didn’t want seen, and my writing was noticed. Zulfikar Manto received death threats and awards. And the more I wrote, the more I loved home. I was back, I was finding myself again, and I was being honest about things I cared for passionately. Childbirth had hurt me inside, and I was finally starting to heal.

When I met Darashikoh Shezad, I didn’t know whether I was going to sleep with him, but I knew I wanted to. He seemed the perfect partner for my first extramarital affair. He was smart and sexy, and since he was one of Ozi’s best friends, I knew he’d keep his mouth shut.

It was fantastic. We had a delicious courtship, slow and exquisite, because we both felt so guilty. Sex was a revelation: being touched by another man, declaring my independence from the united state of marriage, remembering myself by being felt for the first time. We smoked joints and talked for hours and made each other laugh.

I once went to a coffee party where rich young wives sat around and moaned about being bored while their husbands were at work, and I laughed at them afterwards, because I knew that I had a lot to do. It wasn’t until later that I realized they did, too. Affairs were the most popular form of entertainment around. And I know why. My affair with Daru was, at first at least, the most liberating experience I have ever had. I felt bad, of course. Selfish. But I also felt good.

The problem was that I started to get under his skin, and he, in a very different way, started to get under mine.

I’ll tell you more later.

I take the turn as fast as my car lets me, my road grip half a handshake away from letting go, from flipping my Suzuki onto its back, and cut through traffic with a smile on my face because I’m thinking of Mumtaz. The card in my shirt pocket presses into my chest, its corner painful, but I finish sucking the life out of my joint, curling my lips at the heat and smell of burnt filter when it’s done, before I take the card out and put it on the seat next to me.

I’m going to a kiddie party.

The old chowkidar lets me in with no trouble, and I see maybe a dozen cars in a long driveway. I’ve shaved today and even treated myself to a haircut, my hairdresser taking it close to the scalp as he flirted with me, so I look as young as I can. But I’m definitely older than these kids, and they notice. This is the pre-college crowd, still in school and worried about the O levels and APs and SCs and SATs that stand between them and the States and Merry Old England, the only places they’d ever dream of going for an education.

One of them asks, um, excuse me, who I am.

‘I’m a friend of Raider’s.’

‘Raider?’

‘Haider.’

‘Oh.’ He looks around to make sure we’re not being watched. Naturally everyone’s staring at us. ‘Do you have it?’ he asks, lowering his voice.

‘Aren’t you going to offer me a drink?’ I notice they only have Murree vodka. How cute. These kids are still learning to walk: they have the cash for Scotch but they don’t yet have the contacts.

‘Well, it’s not really my party.’

Come on, kid. Not you, too. At least try to pretend that I’m more than just a drug connection. I’m well dressed, hip. A little hospitality wouldn’t hurt. ‘Whose party is it?’

‘It’s sort of all of ours. But it isn’t my house.’

‘Are you saying you don’t want me to stay?’

‘No, I’m not saying that.’

‘Great. I’ll have a drink, then.’

He looks almost frightened.

I smile. ‘Just teasing, yaar. Don’t worry, I won’t steal any of your girlfriends. Take the stuff and I’m off.’

‘Do you mind if we go outside?’

‘No.’ We head out onto the lawn, away from prying eyes. I hand him my fourth and last pancake of hash.

‘How much?’ he asks.

‘A thousand.’

He gives it to me without another word. This is
incredible. He’s buying it for eight times what it cost me, and he actually seems happy about it. I like this kid. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’

‘Shuja Rana. Yours?’

‘Darashikoh Shezad. Call me if you ever need more.’

‘What’s your number?’

I tell him, and he takes out the stub of a pencil and writes it down.

‘I’m sorry you can’t stay,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t mind at all. But some of these people are such snobs.’

There you go, kid, putting your foot in your mouth. You can stand my stench even though your friends can’t, is that it? You’re lucky I need your money.

‘That’s too bad,’ I say, lighting a cigarette. ‘Run along. I’m going to have a smoke, and then I’m leaving.’

It’s a big lawn, and I stand in the middle, watching the house, wondering how many of these kids will grow up into Ozis. Quite a few, probably. Our poor country.

A couple walks out together, holding hands, but when they see me they turn around and go back inside, leaving me uncertain whether they think of me as a chaperon or a servant.

When I get home I’m still a little angry.

It’s the wrong time for Manucci to ask for his pay.

‘I don’t have it,’ I say.

‘Saab, you haven’t paid me in two months.’

I raise my hand and he flinches, but I don’t hit him. ‘Enough. I’ll pay you when I pay you. I don’t want to hear another word about it.’

He runs off, looking upset. I feel a little hard-hearted, but I tell myself I did the right thing. Servants have to be kept in line.

I go to my room with a candle and fish the heroin Murad Badshah gave me out of one of the drawers. Heroin and charas mixed. ‘I’ll call you hairy,’ I say, pleased with the name. My curiosity has been killing me, but I haven’t yet tried the stuff. Tonight I feel reckless, feel like having sex on the roof in the moonlight, except that Mumtaz hasn’t called since that crazy night, and this hairy will have to do.

I roll a jay, or maybe I should call it an aitch, since I’m using hairy. It frightens me a little bit, so I use about half the amount I would if it were hash. I light up and puff delicately, but it doesn’t taste so different from what I’m used to, and it doesn’t seem to be any more harsh on my throat. I finish the aitch and sit back to see what it does to me.

The first feeling is jointy, a head throb from unfiltered nicotine in the tobacco. A light hash buzz slides in after that, nothing spectacular, just a medium-level high. I wait to see if anything else will follow, relaxing into the sofa and shutting my eyes. When I open them again, the candle has gone out and the moon is riding higher in the sky, its faint colorless light peeling off the wall opposite me. Long
shadows. Should light another candle, but feel very comfortable, in no rush to move. My watch says an hour has passed. Skin itches, but in a good way, and hand slips under shirt to scratch it. Soon the moon’s so high that I’m sitting in shadowless dark, but my eyes have adjusted and I can see well enough without a candle, so I stay put.

I would like a cigarette, though. Where are my cigarettes? I just made an aitch, so I must have some. Ah, here they are in my shirt pocket. How convenient. Now if I could find a lighter without getting up I would be so happy. Open the pack and there one is. Wonderful. Now the next question: aitch or cigarette? Aitch’s too much work. But cigarette’s boring. What the hell. Sit up. Roll one.

Light up.

Ahhhhh. World floats at body temperature. Very nice, very nice. I’m in a good mood. My head is clear. Thoughts are coming one at a time, nicely formed. I like this. Well, I might as well admit it: this hairy is damn pleasant. Damn pleasant, do you say? I do indeed, my dear sir, damn pleasant. Nice little interior dialogue, that.

What do you know? It’s three o’clock. Well, Daru, time for you to give your bladder a release. Get up now, that’s a good fellow. One, two, three. Up. There you go. Takes a lot of effort, and energy level seems low, but no problem with motor control here. Stroll over to the bathroom. Turn on the light. Oops, no electricity. What’s this? A little
nausea? Let it out, then. There. That wasn’t bad at all. And again? No problem. Just let it come on up. Perfect. Now sit down, let your bladder relax, too. Great. Rinse your mouth and head back to the couch. Take a detour for a glass of water. Here’s a glass. Here’s the water.