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?’