The Good Son (64 page)

Idris Ghulam is not there, however; he has survived. He was blown through a window in the first moments of the battle and landed well; he has broken bones and his body is peppered with pieces of metal, many and painful, but he is not dead. She identifies him to her interrogator like a good citizen, and then kneels beside him.

“Peace be with you, Idris, and I am sorry to see you hurt,” she says in Pashto, “but I am happy to see you alive.”

He glares at her for an instant, then looks away. “Did you see this in your dreams?”

“Oh, yes,” she replies, “and if you recall I tried to warn you, but, as Rahman says,
Like a child you put your hand in the fire, hoping for something good, unconscious of the pain to come
.”

“They did all this, made all this death, just to save you?”

“No, there was another reason, but what does that matter? The dead are still dead, including those you killed yourself. It would have been better not to start the killing.”

“Will they kill me?”

“No, they will confine you, and perhaps you will be tortured in some way, not as badly, however, as what awaits you in Hell, unless you repent and change your life. There is still a lot of time. When I was your age I was a begum in a great house in Lahore, but after that I led a very different kind of life. Trust God and follow His commandments, Idris, and may you have peace.”

Now the interrogator demands to know what they’ve been saying. “We were just discussing religion,” says Sonia, and walks away.

N
ight in Lahore at the start of Ramadan. The Muslims have been fasting all day, and roasting too, because it’s August, and the crowds are thick, up and down the Mall and in Anarkali, where I am. I live here now, working for the family business. Like I figured, the army tried to stop-loss me when my enlistment ran out, but a call to Major Lepinski fixed that up pretty good. I was not that indispensable for national security, it turned out, and I was able to take Uncle Nisar up on his standing offer.

We’re sitting in Koh’s Tea Shop in Anarkali, on the terrace there, down the Mall from the museum. Koh’s is a tourist trap—no Lahori with any pretension to elite status would be caught dead there, among the Japanese tour groups and the backpacking blond girls—but I like it. I like it because it is near my house in Anarkali, and because if any of the elite ever do show up at Koh’s it’s because they want to see me without an appointment, in a place where none of their peers would be caught dead, and because the barman has an American generosity with the ice, which he makes from distilled water, and because if you look down the Mall you can just pick out through the haze the great gun Zam-Zammah on its stupid little traffic island across from the Lahore Museum, and also because Koh’s terrace has a low wall of solid concrete separating it from the street and affords excellent fields of fire in several directions.

I look down the road and see that, as usual, some kids are climbing on the gun, as is forbidden. It warms my heart, after a lifetime of following orders, to be in a place where laws are barely suggestions, are more like lists of actions that you can get rich by transgressing.

Yet we are not lawless here in Pakistan, we are feudal, a big difference, although our many lawyers don’t see it that way. Everyone loves feudalism in their hearts, which is why
The Godfather
and
The Sopranos
were huge hits; there is yet to be a movie about legislative markup or the courageous agents of the federal elections commission. We also have democracy here now, which means I vote for whomever Nisar tells me to, along with all the other thousands of his people, and I make sure my people vote right too. Nisar is a genius with the smooth aspects of the business world, while I am in charge of the rough parts.

Every big Pakistani firm does some rough work or has to defend against the rough work of rivals. There is extortion. Everybody has trucks, for instance, and what do you do if somebody wants money for
not
burning your trucks or beating your drivers? Forget the cops; the cops have been paid off or maybe they’re moonlighting as muscle in the same racket, so you have to show you’re tougher, that you won’t be intimidated. Maybe you make an example of the extortionist. Maybe you bribe a senior police official to pull the protection the extortionist is buying. It depends on the situation. I try to avoid violence where I can, but where I can’t I go in with the max, shock and awe, just like I learned from the Americans. I had to do a lot more of it when I first got here, so no one would think I was an asshole who just got the job because he was the sahib’s nephew. During that period I introduced kneecapping as a tool of Pakistani commerce, and it has worked pretty well for us. I am known around town as Bhatija Sahib, which means Mister Nephew—without irony, I believe.

There is that woman again. I point her out to Malang, my chief bodyguard, who sits beside me on the terrace, and he turns his head slightly to bring her into view. She has just walked by, dressed as she always is, in a black kurta and shalwar, with a gold-colored scarf over her head. Not a Pakistani woman, I thought when she first walked by, but a European or an American. You can tell: the walk is different and the way they hold their bodies is more relaxed—sloppy, some would say, but not I. She is beautiful in a gaunt way, and she is a Eurasian of some kind, like me. Of course, I sent my boys to find out who she was.

Because any number of people would like to see me dead. There have been several attempts so far, but fortunately the ineptitude that afflicts our society has reached even into the assassination business. Even gangsters
have incompetent relatives who require jobs, and I have not been harmed, although that hasn’t prevented me from taking revenge. They have never tried with a woman before; if they are using this one, it would at least be an original twist.

I am assembling a private army, too. Gul Muhammed sends me likely Pashtun boys from our tribe, and I train them up as my personal guard. I also tour the few dozen Punjabi villages the family owns, look over the crop of teenagers, and pick the ones who remind me of myself: tough and smart but not bookish. I educate them at my own expense with the understanding that they will have lifetime jobs defending the Laghari interests.

I intend to stay here when the place falls apart. I’ve gone around this issue a couple of times with Nisar, who is patriotic enough for a Lahori, but when the news is bad he always thinks first about moving resources offshore, so that when the Taliban take over Punjab the family can have a comfortable exile in London or New York. I tell him we can resist. If we have a loyal force and if we treat our peasants like human beings, we will not have Taliban in our villages, and when they try we can strike back at them. He asks me how you can fight people who use suicide bombers, and I say it is very easy; suicide bombing is a sign of weakness, not strength. If you are attacked in this way, you find out who the bomber was and then you go to where he comes from and kill every male member of his family, all the way out to the cousins. I have done this once already, and there has not been another suicide-bomb attempt. No one likes killing children, but we do it all the time in my former land, and the main difference between doing it from ten thousand feet and doing it from two feet is a strong stomach and a dislike of hypocrisy.

I make it a point to get reports of what is being taught in our mosques and madrasas, and when I don’t like what’s going down I have a talk with the mullah. My intel service is not as good as it should be, but it is getting better. I want to know who’s oppressing and who’s oppressed. I don’t like my employees to use their power over those lower than they are in ways I would not approve. No raping girls, for example, and no cheating on wages. Often a little talk is all that’s necessary to resolve these problems. They are amazed that anyone in Lahore cares what happens in some village south of Multan, but I do. Nisar thinks this is an American eccentricity, but it is not. It is the foundation of our kingdom.

If Nisar is correct, and my father Farid is correct, we will travel through this period of strife and establish the rule of law. Farid points out that England was once a lawless land full of religious wars, and look at what it became. This is his great dream and I admire him for it, but Gul Muhammed is my father too, and his dream is different and more modest: that his tribe might be secure in their little valleys and grow fruits and tend animals and sing their songs and be left alone by the world, and leave the world alone, except maybe for a little plunder. That dream seems more realistic for this part of the world, and so I plot and deal out violence and charity in about equal measure, like any good lord, fair but cruel. I never thought I was much of a plotter, but it turns out I am. In this at least I am my mother’s son.

Wazir has vanished. At the last moment he whispered into my ear that, despite all, he still loved me and that God was merciful and would not keep us apart forever. I try to believe him. Strangely enough, that belief is a big part of what keeps me safe from the sadistic megalomaniac of my fellow warlords, or such is my hope. He has not set off any of his bombs, so the traffic still rushes along the Mall and along all the streets of the world. I did not tell anyone about the other bombs or about his plans to rid the Middle East of the oil curse. It’s none of my business, and my mother agrees.

She’s temporarily here in Lahore, as a matter of fact, and perfectly secure in my house; it would take a reinforced company with heavy weapons to get in there. This is one of the advantages of being a warlord. I think the whole thing amuses her; when she’s back in Washington she works hard to convince poor Farid that I have not become a complete monster.

My mother is not a Punjabi matron, but she still would like grandchildren, and quite aside from that I need to think about founding my dynasty. Nisar has only daughters, and Seyd has taken himself and his family out of contention (after the events of last year, Nisar arranged to have Seyd assigned to Jidda as military attaché to our embassy there, in the hope that a little soaking in true Islam will knock some sense into him), leaving only Rukhsana’s boys and me. Or only me, since Hassan and Iqbal are going the traditional professional route and will eventually join the great diaspora. I am not the most eligible bachelor in my
circle by any means. High Pakistan does not like to dwell on the means by which it is kept in power, and I am too thuggy by far for the best matches, plus there is the scandal of my mother. High Pakistan has a long memory.

But my skin is nice and pale, comparatively, and I have good manners and speak perfect English, and I’m rich and I’m a Laghari, which are all enough to win me a suitable girl. I have not met one so far that I like, and I am American enough to want that in my official wife. I kind of miss Gloria, or a Gloria-type thing. I go to the Hira Mandi as often as any other man in my position and have had several interesting relationships with women in the house my uncle patronizes, but I do not have that whole wife-and-mistress thing in my DNA. Maybe another gift from Mom.

The woman is crossing the street, weaving through the tangled traffic on the Mall. She is walking directly toward us. I feel Malang stir, and he signals to the two boys on perimeter duty. Shuja walks into her path and engages her in some conversation while Tofan comes up behind her and tells her he has a gun and he will either shoot her now or she will allow him to make sure she is not carrying a weapon or wearing a suicide vest, and sorry for the indignity. Malang stands up and positions himself between me and the blast, if any, but there is no blast and the woman walks toward our table. I stand up and indicate a vacant chair.

I say, “Please sit, Ms. Lam, and tell me what I can do for you.”

She sits and looks at me. Terrific eyes, almonds with chocolate centers, showing a complex, ironic intelligence. She says, “What was that all about with the pat-down? You knew who I was; did you think I would try to kill you?”

“Standard procedure. Although you have more reason than most to want to kill me.”

“Oh? Why is that?”