Moth Smoke (9 page)

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?

After a while I tire of pretending I’m an anthropologist and focus on my Scotch, killing time by swirling ice cubes. Luckily, the end isn’t long in coming.

The Amazon and her famished friend start making a racket again. ‘Par-
ty!
Par-
ty!
Par-
ty!
’

As if on cue, people start downing their drinks and rounding up their mobile phones. I follow the pack downstairs. In the drive-way I don’t stand next to my car. It’s silly, I know, but I lean against Ozi’s Pajero instead. Eventually my friend’s guests have gone and it’s just Ozi, Mumtaz, and I.

‘So what’s the plan?’ I ask.

‘Pickles’s cousin is having a party at his farmhouse,’ Ozi says. ‘You have to come.’

‘I’m not invited,’ I say. And I don’t have a date.

‘We’ll get you in,’ Ozi says, clapping my shoulder. ‘Never fear, yaar: I’m back in town.’

We’re getting into our cars when Ozi stops and asks, ‘Is Muazzam in bed?’

‘I’ve handled him all night,’ Mumtaz tells him. ‘You check.’

Ozi shakes his head and goes back in. Mumtaz stares after him, as though she’s tracking his progress inside. She looks exhausted.

‘How’s my friend Zulfikar Manto?’ I ask her.

Life seems to rush into her face. She raises an eyebrow and sends a slow glance to either side, pretending she’s making sure we aren’t overheard. Then she grins. ‘The prostitution article came out today.’

‘And? I haven’t been reading the papers.’

‘Big response. I spoke with the editor, and he said he’s been swamped with calls.’

‘Good?’

‘Mostly furious. Which is good. It means people read it. One even threw a rock through the paper’s window.’

‘Was the editor upset?’

‘He said they’re used to it. They buy cheap glass.’

The door opens, spilling light, and Ozi comes back out. ‘He’s asleep,’ he says.

I follow Ozi’s Pajero in my Suzuki, struggling to keep pace. We head down the canal toward Thokar Niaz Beg, take a left, cruise by what everyone calls the Arab prince’s vacation palace, wind from a side street to an unpaved road to a dirt path, and finally end up at a gate in a wall that literally stretches as far as I can see into the night. Even out here we find the obligatory group of uninvited, dateless guys trying to get in, their way barred by a mobile police unit responsible for protecting tonight’s illegal revelry.

Ozi and Mumtaz show their invitation to a private
security guard, and he lets them drive through. He stops me. ‘Invitation?’

‘I’m with them,’ I say.

‘Sorry, sir.’ He isn’t apologizing. He’s telling me I can’t go in. Luckily, I see the white reverse lights of Ozi’s Pajero come on ahead.

All three of us get out. ‘We told you he’s with us,’ Ozi says.

‘Sorry, sir. Orders.’

‘No sorry. Let him in.’

‘It’s okay,’ I say to them. ‘I’m tired anyway. I’ll just go.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Mumtaz tells me. ‘You’re coming in.’

A Land Cruiser pulls up behind us, blocking my exit. Pickles gets out and the guard touches his cap to him. ‘What’s the problem?’ Pickles asks.

‘They’re not letting Daru in,’ Mumtaz tells him.

Pickles nods to the guard.

And that’s that.

The driveway, made of brick and in better condition than most roads in the city, purrs under my tires. We park near the farmhouse, big and low, with wide verandas, and I notice the difference in the sounds of slamming car doors: the deep thuds of the Pajero and Land Cruiser, the nervous cough of my Suzuki.

It’s early summer, which means I’m not likely to go to another big bash for a while, so I put on my best party-predator
smile, run my fingers through my hair, and light a cigarette, trying to get in the mood.

The party turns out to be a real insider’s affair. Just a hundred people, the who’s who of the Lahore party crowd, all hip and loaded and thrilled about Santorini in June. Even the music isn’t the standard club collage but rather some remixed desi stuff that I’ve never heard before (because, I’m soon told, the DJ mixed it specially for this party and sent it in from London).

I wander around, checking out the scene. Our host, Pickles’s cousin, is wearing a white linen shirt, thin enough to suggest an underlying mat of chest hair even though he has only the top button open. His sleeves are rolled up over thick, veiny forearms, and one of his fists clenches a bottle of rare Belgian beer. Long hair is moussed back along his scalp, giving his forehead a greasy gleam, and his nose sits like a broken gladiator above the huge grin he’s flashing at everyone and everything around him.

I’d smile, too, if I were him. His party is a smashing success. The dance floor is packed, and the dancing sweaty and conversation-free. Businessmen and bankers crowd the bar, fetching drinks for models with long, lean, nineties bodies. A lot of skin is on display, like something out of a fundo’s nightmare or, more likely, vision of paradise. Tattoos, ponytails, sideburns, navel rings abound: this is it, this is cool, this is the Very Best Party of the Off-Season.

And I’m single, with no job and no money, and no real hope of picking up anyone.

Nadira’s here, some hotshot in tow, and I try to avoid her even though I know the party’s too small for me to hide successfully. I wish I’d brought some hash.

I look around for Raider. I don’t know how he does it, because he isn’t rich or anything, but the better the party, the more likely he is to be there. I find him kissing Alia under a mango tree.

‘Daru,’ he says, clearly delighted. ‘Where have you been, partner?’

‘Do you have a joint?’ Alia asks.

‘I was just about to ask you guys the same thing,’ I say.

They exchange grins. ‘No joint, yaar,’ Raider says. ‘But I have you-know-what.’

‘Raider, if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you were Lahore’s number-one ecstasy supplier.’

‘Who’s that?’ Alia asks, looking in the direction of the house.

I see Mumtaz and wave. She walks over.

‘Does anyone have a joint?’ she asks.

Raider and Alia laugh and introduce themselves. ‘I like you already,’ Alia says to Mumtaz.