‘Bring me the fly swatter,’ I tell him.
‘No, saab.’
I hit him across the top of his head, not too hard and with an open hand, but forcefully enough to let him know that I won’t put up with any impertinence. ‘What do you mean, No, saab?’
‘Please, saab,’ he says, cringing. ‘Watch.’
The moth circles lower, bouncing like a drunk pilot in turbulence. I could clap him out of existence but I don’t, because I’m getting a little curious myself.
The moth starts to make diving passes at the candle.
‘He’s an aggressive fellow, this moth,’ I say to Manucci.
‘Love, saab,’ he replies.
‘I never knew you were such a romantic.’
He blushes. ‘The poets say some moths will do anything out of love for a flame.’
‘How do you know what the poets say?’
‘I used to sneak into Pak Tea House to listen.’
The moth stops swooping, enters a holding pattern about two feet above the candle, and then lands on the wall in front of us. It’s gray with a black dot on its back that looks like an eye.
‘That’s an ugly moth,’ I say.
I wait for Manucci’s response, but he says nothing.
The moth doesn’t move.
‘He’s afraid,’ Manucci says.
‘He should be. Love’s a dangerous thing.’ I look carefully. Dark streaks run down the moth’s folded wings. ‘Maybe he’s burnt himself.’
The moth takes off again, and we both step back, because he’s circling at eye level now and seems to have lost rudder control, smacking into the wall on each round. He circles lower and lower, spinning around the candle in tighter revolutions, like a soap sud over an open drain. A few times he seems to touch the flame, but dances off unhurt.
Then he ignites like a ball of hair, curling into an oily puff of fumes with a hiss. The candle flame flickers and dims for a moment, then burns as bright as before.
Moth smoke lingers.
I lift the candle and look around the mantelpiece for the moth’s body, but I can’t find it.
For a moment I think I smell burning flesh, and even though I tell myself it must be my imagination, I put the candle down feeling more than a little disgusted.
The city plays host to a fundo convention the weekend after the kamikaze moth’s last flight. The bearded boys are celebrating our latest firecracker with parades, marches, and speeches. The score is 6 to 5, and we’re up. I suppose it’s 6 all if you count their first one in ’74, but that was arguably another match, and either way, we’re certainly not behind, even if we’re also not clearly ahead.
One night a very serious Ozi comes to see me.
He’s here to talk, but it’s too hot for him inside and I don’t want to sit in his Pajero with the air conditioner on and the engine running, so we compromise by climbing up to the roof, where it’s a bit cooler.
The last time Ozi and I were up here together was the night before he left for America, eleven years ago. That night I was the angry one, angry because he was leaving me behind, because Lahore was about to become lonely, because I’d done better than he at school, on the tests, and he was the one going abroad for college. I’d studied with the richest boys in the city, been invited to the homes of the best families. And money had never really felt like a chain until the summer they all left. Five of our class fellows were on Ozi’s flight the next day. I remember their names. And dozens of other boys we knew were flying out over the next few weeks. Nadira would be in Lahore a little longer, until September. She was our biggest crush. Ozi joked I’d never have the guts to do anything by then, and afterwards he would be the one to get her because I’d be too far away. He was wrong: I kissed Nadira many years later, after she came back to Lahore, but before she launched her husband hunt, before she left me to pursue men with Pajeros.
I have no doubt why Ozi has come. He must have found out that I’ve been seeing Mumtaz behind his back. He probably wants to beat the hell out of me. I’d let him do it, because I know I deserve it, because I’ve betrayed him in my mind, even if little has actually happened. But Ozi knows I could thrash him if I wanted, and if he was going to beat me up he’d have come with some of his father’s men. He’s here alone because he’s decided to hit me with guilt instead of hired fists.
He still hasn’t spoken, so I ask, to make it easy for him, ‘Where’s Mumtaz?’
‘At home,’ he answers. ‘Muazzam has a fever. But I wanted to talk to you about the accident. Did you tell the police?’
‘No,’ I say, surprised.
‘Good. I wouldn’t want to get my father involved.’ He looks at me. ‘So you haven’t told anyone?’
Remembering that day, digging it out from under a month of charas and sweat, I start to get angry. ‘No,’ I answer.
‘Thanks, yaar. I must admit, I’ve been pissed off with you. I didn’t like the way you acted. It wasn’t what I expected from a friend.’
‘Really’ is all I can say.
‘We’re not the boys we were when we were seventeen,’ Ozi says. ‘But my view on friendship hasn’t changed. Friends support each other no matter what. Do you agree?’
He’s right. That’s what friends do. I’m not sure if I have any now, but when I did, when I was younger and it was easier to have friends, that’s how I thought of them. ‘I agree,’ I say.
‘Good. I still consider you my friend. I’m ready to forget the way you acted after the accident.’
‘Thanks,’ I find myself saying, suddenly too sad to say anything else. ‘I’m sorry.’
We shake hands and embrace. But for me, holding Ozi now, this moment marks an end. I hold him tight because I’ll miss him. I already do. But he’s a bastard, and I don’t owe him a thing. And if his wife wants to see me without telling him, there’ll be no pain in my guts over it.
I say so long to Ozi tonight, and I mean it.
As the five hundred rupees I made from the hash deal with Raider quickly disappear, I consider doing it again. It seems easy enough: buy the stuff cheap from Murad Badshah and sell it dear to acquaintances with money to burn. Most of the party crowd smokes, and so does the younger banking and business community. And everyone complains about being out of hash.
The problem is that selling hash seems sleazy somehow. Lower class. I still like to think of myself as a professional, not rich, but able to stand on my own, with a decent income and a job that doesn’t involve bribing or being bribed, helping my friends with a little hash when they’re out, getting a little booze from them when I am.
But I’m not a professional anymore. And I need the money. Temporarily.
I decide to do it again.
I buy another five hundred rupees’ worth from Murad Badshah, split it into four little balls that I flatten into pancakes and wrap in plastic, and head out to a popular spot for business lunches near Mini Market. I recognize a dozen faces as soon as I come in, and a couple of people invite me to join their tables, but I turn them down because I see Akmal sitting by himself, sipping a soup while he chats on his mobile. He was one of my clients at the bank. His family sent him to Lahore a few years ago, when they thought they’d have to leave Karachi because of all the kidnappings, and he stayed, living off the income of a million-plus U.S. that he has sitting in his bank account. He does some small-time business ventures, but mainly he’s a man of leisure, twice divorced and a big pot smoker.
I stand by the door, feeling a little embarrassed, and wait until Akmal hangs up.
‘Sit,’ he says as we shake hands.
‘Why not?’ I take a seat and pick up a menu.
‘My new account officer doesn’t know the first thing about client relations,’ he says. ‘I offered him a Scotch when he came by my place and he said he doesn’t drink.’