‘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.
‘I was just telling Daru that we have some ex,’ Raider says.
I wish he would learn to be more discreet.
‘Really?’ Mumtaz says, with unexpected enthusiasm.
‘Only one,’ Raider says.
Mumtaz looks at me. ‘Do you want to?’
‘Do you think it’s a good idea?’ I ask her.
She takes my answer as a yes. ‘How much does ex cost here?’
‘Nothing,’ says Raider, handing her a little white pill.
‘Two thousand,’ I tell Mumtaz, hoping the price will discourage her. What would Ozi say?
She takes out some cash, peels off two notes, and hands them to Raider. Then she places the pill in her palm and breaks it with her thumbnail.
‘Cheers,’ she says, downing her half.
I look at the broken pill in my hand: smooth curve, rough edge. Might as well. ‘Cheers,’ I say, placing it on my tongue and swallowing.
‘It won’t kick in for a while,’ she tells me. ‘I’ll see you guys in a bit.’
I nod and she heads back inside.
‘Wow, I think I’m in love, yaar,’ Raider says admiringly.
‘So am I,’ says Alia. ‘Who is she? I’ve never seen her before.’
It somehow sounds inappropriate to say, ‘Ozi’s wife,’ so I say, ‘Just a friend.’
They both laugh. Then Raider starts stroking Alia’s arm, and I can see that I should leave. ‘Check on us from time to time,’ Raider says. ‘We’ll be right here till dawn.’
I wander around, making small talk and avoiding Ozi, because I’m still upset at not being invited for dinner and also because I’m feeling guilty about having ex with his wife. But eventually he catches my eye and weaves his way over, half-dancing to the music, flashing his famously irresistible grin.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asks.
‘Nothing.’
He puts me in a headlock and messes up my hair with his free hand, laughing. I push him away.
He looks surprised and hurt, and I feel bad, because I pushed him with more force than I’d intended. ‘Sorry, yaar,’ I say, trying to sound playful but failing miserably.
‘You’re mad at me, aren’t you?’
I shrug.
‘You think I’m doing a little social climbing,’ he goes on. He’s slurring slightly.
I don’t answer.
‘Lahore’s boring, yaar. Deadly dull. They provide some entertainment.’
‘They seem like good friends,’ I say, acid in my voice.
He embraces me, and I know the ex must be kicking in, because I’m very aware of the contact between us, his shirt, slightly sweaty, the muscles of his back, our breathing.
‘That’s why I love you, yaar,’ Ozi’s saying. ‘You always look out for me. But I don’t want to be friends with those people. We’ll be friendlies at best. People who party together. But that’s good enough. That’s all I want from them. They’re the best party in town.’
I feel my attention drifting with the ex, flowing in and around his words, and my gaze slips around the room, looking for Mumtaz.
‘It’s not my crowd,’ I say, trying to hold up my end of the conversation.
‘That’s because you can’t afford it. But you’re lucky in a sense. Being broke keeps you honest.’
I stare at Ozi’s mouth. I’m not sure if I thought those words or if he said them. But I want to get away from him. I need to breathe.