‘That’s a lot of hash.’
‘I know. Do you think you can get it?’
I’ve never placed an order with Murad Badshah that he couldn’t fill. ‘I think so.’
‘Great,’ Raider says.
I feel strange buying that much pot, especially since it isn’t for me. It isn’t even for Raider. It’s for his friends. But Raider’s an openhearted guy and there’s no way I can turn him down. Besides, I might be able to keep a little for myself, a heartening thought given the sorry state of my supplies.
Once the cigar is finished, I invite him in to share a joint, but he tells me he has to run and drives off. Raider’s always rushing. He’s busy, big-time.
Mumtaz picks me up after lunch the next day for our date with Allima Mooltani, the palm reader. I know I shouldn’t be doing this. But I am doing it, slouching a little in my seat as though it’ll make me less visible if Ozi or someone we know happens to see us. Mumtaz seems completely unconcerned. I don’t know what she’s used to in Karachi, but here in Lahore going for a drive with a friend’s wife when the friend doesn’t know about it definitely qualifies as self-destructive behavior.
‘I like your servant, Munnoo-ji,’ she says as we power down Main Gulberg Boulevard, cutting through traffic. We’ve decided to get a couple of paans since my appointment isn’t for another half hour.
‘He’s called Manucci, not Munnoo-ji.’
‘Manucci? That’s a strange name.’
‘I think it’s Italian.’
‘But he’s not Italian.’
‘No.’
‘Then why is he called Manucci?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Where does he come from?’
‘He tried to rob my mother.’
‘While he was working for you?’ She takes the Liberty roundabout at high speed.
‘Before. He’s had a colorful past. Kind of like Kim.’
‘Kipling’s Kim?’
I nod. ‘But not as romantic. Manucci’s missing a kidney.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The kidney-theft racket. But he’s lucky: they only took one of his, and they were nice enough to sew him back up.’
We reach Main Market and pull into a space in front of Barkat’s paan shop. A dozen runners surround the car, knocking on the windows, each claiming he saw us first. I realize that it was stupid of us to come here: Main Market’s paan runners are Gulberg society’s elite reconnaissance team. I point to my guy, Salim, and wave the rest of them away.
Once Salim’s taken our order, the beggars move in. Most are genuinely crippled, or hooked on heroin, or insane, or too old to work, or dying from some debilitating disease, and I’d give them a rupee or two if it weren’t for the few strong ones, perfectly healthy, waiting to take their cut when night falls. But Mumtaz is more softhearted than I am, and when our runner comes back with the paan, I have to tell him to clear them away. Give money to a few and the whole market wants some. I tip Salim very well, with a look that means keep your mouth shut, because he knows who I am and who Ozi is, and a leak from him could spark some vicious gossip.
Which reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to ask Mumtaz since I spoke to Raider. ‘How was your party?’
She looks embarrassed. ‘I’m so sorry he didn’t invite you. But what a stupid reason to celebrate.’
‘Is he angry with me?’ What I’m really asking is: Has he found out we’ve been spending time with each other?
‘No, of course not. Why would he be?’
‘You tell me.’
‘He isn’t. I think he’s just trying to meet new people. He’s been away from Lahore for so long that he feels a little cut off.’
Mumtaz honks until the driver of the car that pulled in behind us, blocking our exit, comes running out of a shop.
Then we’re off to Model Town for our appointment. The palm reader lives in an old house with a crumbling boundary wall. I expect to be led inside, into a dark room with a crystal ball, perhaps, but Mumtaz takes me onto the lawn.
Allima Mooltani is sitting in the shade, on a cushion at the base of an enormous tree, smoking through a long ivory holder. An extension cord snakes through the grass, providing electricity to a pair of pedestal fans. In front of each fan rests a slab of ice covered with motia flowers. Allima’s long hair, mostly white but streaked with gray, moves like a tattered curtain in the wind.
‘This looks like an abandoned ad for menthol cigarettes,’ I tell Mumtaz, but she elbows me. We say our salaams and sit down.
I have to admit that it’s surprisingly pleasant out here, with the ice and fans and shade.
‘I’ve been waiting for you, Darashikoh,’ she says.
‘My God, you know my name!’ I exclaim.
‘Be serious, Daru,’ Mumtaz says.
‘Give me your hands,’ Allima tells me.
I do, and she strokes them with her forearm, front and back. I break out in goosebumps. Her fingernails are long and unpolished.
‘Shut your eyes.’
I do it. She gives me an exquisite hand massage, following the bones of my fingers into my palms, tracing the scabs on my knuckles lightly with her nails.
‘I have bad news for you,’ she says.
‘What?’
But before she can answer a woman calls out from the house. ‘Telephone, Amma. It’s Bilal.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Allima says, jumping up. ‘My son. In Singapore.’
And with that she’s off at a trot. The door slams shut behind her like the distant retort of a howitzer, and I’m left looking at Mumtaz.
‘The suspense is too much,’ she says.
‘If she knows the future she should schedule these palm-reading sessions so they’re not interrupted by phone calls.’
Mumtaz shakes her head. ‘You have no faith.’
I light a smoke, cupping my hands against the best efforts of the pedestal fans.
We hear the unmistakable phirrr of a kite at low altitude and look up. Sure enough, there it is: a red-and-black patang, slim-waisted, wasplike, wing tips curved back like the horns of the devil. On the rooftop, directly above the door that swallowed Allima Mooltani, the patang’s young pilot acknowledges us with a jaunty salute.
Mumtaz waves to him.
And in the driveway, struggling to get aloft, we have the challenger: a battered machhar, its tail a white pom-pom, green-and-purple patches telling tales of battles past. And string in hand, jerking rapidly to capture altitude, is the machhar’s commander, a barefoot servant boy a little taller than the bonnet of the car beside him.
We’re in for a kite fight.
The patang, temporarily denied any more string, catches the wind and soars straight up.
The machhar flips about at tree level, displaying a tendency to circle in a counterclockwise direction. But its minuscule commander manages to use this imbalance to his advantage, timing his tugs to the moment the machhar’s nose points in the direction he wants, finding maneuverability in capriciousness.
And slowly, the machhar climbs.
The patang paces back and forth far above.
Then suddenly, paper screaming in the wind, the patang dives at the machhar. The machhar makes an agile leap to one side, narrowly avoiding having its string hooked, and the patang spins and climbs again.
Mumtaz says a quiet ‘Olé.’
‘He’s in trouble,’ I say. ‘The patang’s not going to let him get high enough for it to be a fair contest.’
Having lost some altitude, the machhar begins to jerk upward again, crisscrossing the sky warily.
Again the patang dives, and again the machhar dances off, too unsteady at this height to have any real chance of winning, but this time their strings entwine and the kite fight is joined.
The patang takes string like a sprinter, streaming away.
The machhar wobbles unsteadily.