I go to my room with a candle and fish the heroin Murad Badshah gave me out of one of the drawers. Heroin and charas mixed. ‘I’ll call you hairy,’ I say, pleased with the name. My curiosity has been killing me, but I haven’t yet tried the stuff. Tonight I feel reckless, feel like having sex on the roof in the moonlight, except that Mumtaz hasn’t called since that crazy night, and this hairy will have to do.
I roll a jay, or maybe I should call it an aitch, since I’m using hairy. It frightens me a little bit, so I use about half the amount I would if it were hash. I light up and puff delicately, but it doesn’t taste so different from what I’m used to, and it doesn’t seem to be any more harsh on my throat. I finish the aitch and sit back to see what it does to me.
The first feeling is jointy, a head throb from unfiltered nicotine in the tobacco. A light hash buzz slides in after that, nothing spectacular, just a medium-level high. I wait to see if anything else will follow, relaxing into the sofa and shutting my eyes. When I open them again, the candle has gone out and the moon is riding higher in the sky, its faint colorless light peeling off the wall opposite me. Long shadows. Should light another candle, but feel very comfortable, in no rush to move. My watch says an hour has passed. Skin itches, but in a good way, and hand slips under shirt to scratch it. Soon the moon’s so high that I’m sitting in shadowless dark, but my eyes have adjusted and I can see well enough without a candle, so I stay put.
I would like a cigarette, though. Where are my cigarettes? I just made an aitch, so I must have some. Ah, here they are in my shirt pocket. How convenient. Now if I could find a lighter without getting up I would be so happy. Open the pack and there one is. Wonderful. Now the next question: aitch or cigarette? Aitch’s too much work. But cigarette’s boring. What the hell. Sit up. Roll one.
Light up.
Ahhhhh. World floats at body temperature. Very nice, very nice. I’m in a good mood. My head is clear. Thoughts are coming one at a time, nicely formed. I like this. Well, I might as well admit it: this hairy is damn pleasant. Damn pleasant, do you say? I do indeed, my dear sir, damn pleasant. Nice little interior dialogue, that.
What do you know? It’s three o’clock. Well, Daru, time for you to give your bladder a release. Get up now, that’s a good fellow. One, two, three. Up. There you go. Takes a lot of effort, and energy level seems low, but no problem with motor control here. Stroll over to the bathroom. Turn on the light. Oops, no electricity. What’s this? A little nausea? Let it out, then. There. That wasn’t bad at all. And again? No problem. Just let it come on up. Perfect. Now sit down, let your bladder relax, too. Great. Rinse your mouth and head back to the couch. Take a detour for a glass of water. Here’s a glass. Here’s the water.
Sit down on that couch and have some rest. You’ve earned it. What time is it? Four in the morning. That’s a surprise. You should give Mumtaz a call. Can’t: Ozi. But Ozi’s out of town. Should you, then? Pick up the phone. Ringringrrring. Hang up. Don’t want to wake her.
Well, you can chill out by yourself. This is nice. Must thank Murad Badshah. Look, the sky is getting lighter. Just slightly, from black to blue. Shocking. Time for bed. This couch is so comfortable. Pull your feet up and stretch out and exhale.
Hhhhhhhh.
I’m woken in the evening by Manucci shaking my arm. ‘Go away,’ I tell him, desperate to return to sleep.
‘Your guest is here, Daru saab.’
I feel a moment of panic. I don’t want to face anyone at home, with no electricity and nothing to offer, unshaven because I don’t have a job. ‘What guest?’ I ask, opening an eye.
‘Mumtaz baji,’ he says, looking down like a blushing bride.
Relief comes twice, a double release, because the guest is the one person I want to see, and because it’s been a week with no contact since we made love and I was beginning to get anxious.
‘Tell her I’m coming down.’
I head into the bathroom and grip the sink. The sun is setting and it’s getting dark, but I can make out the circles around my eyes and I can see the uneven stubble of my beard, the growth thickest above and below my mouth. I feel my gorge rising and spit once, but there’s no real nausea, so I brush my teeth with a mangled toothbrush, white bristles spread and soft from too much use. I scrub my tongue and palate, unable to banish the bad taste I woke up with.
I need a shower, but haven’t the time. I wash my face without soap, feeling as I rub them that my nose and eyelids are greasy. Then I throw on a pair of jeans and a white shirt, the only semi-ironed one I have, and head downstairs.
At least I had a haircut.
Mumtaz is sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, with Manucci squatting on the floor beside her. He’s chatting away, which annoys me, because I don’t like it when the boy forgets his place. It makes me look bad, as though I’ve fallen so far my servant thinks there’s no longer any need for him to behave formally.
‘It was hard to catch me, Mumtaz baji,’ he’s saying. ‘I ran very fast. I knew all the hiding places.’
‘But when they did catch you?’ she asks.
‘Then sometimes they beat me.’
‘Is he telling you about his adventures?’ I ask loudly, in the ringing tones of a master of the house making his presence known. Manucci falls silent. ‘He has the soul of a poet. It’s hard to stop him once he gets started.’
Mumtaz looks me in the eyes and smiles. ‘Hello, Daru saab,’ she says.
I feel awkward with Manucci in the room, uncertain whether I should give her a kiss on the cheek. I do my best to seem calm and in control, but I find myself confused, very conscious of her physical presence.
Mumtaz is perfectly at ease. ‘Quite the early riser, I see.’
‘Bring tea,’ I tell Manucci.
‘Saab, there’s no milk.’
I open my wallet like a card player, as casually as I can but very careful to tilt it toward me so Mumtaz can’t see how little it contains. ‘Run to the market and get some,’ I say, handing Manucci a fifty.
‘Hi,’ Mumtaz says once he’s gone.
‘Hi.’ I feel silly sitting across from her. ‘How have you been?’
‘Good. I’m working on a new article.’
‘About what?’
She lights a cigarette. ‘All the money that left the country before the government announced the freeze on foreign currency accounts.’
‘What’s the story?’
‘It depends on who you ask,’ she says, inhaling. ‘The version I like is that they knew they would have to freeze the accounts when they tested, because it was obvious every-one would be nervous about sanctions and start converting rupees into dollars, and our foreign exchange reserves would have been too low to keep up. But of course some of them had their own money in those accounts. So they tipped off a few insiders, and just hours before the accounts were frozen, millions of dollars left the country.’
‘And Zulfikar Manto is trying to discover whether this happened and who was involved?’
‘Precisely, my dear Daru,’ she says.
‘I should give you the names of some banker friends of mine who might tell you who pulled their money out.’ I think of my numerous c.v.’s dangling in the water with not even a nibble. ‘Hopefully they’ll be more helpful to you than they have been to me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing. My job hunt isn’t going particularly well. It isn’t going at all, actually. The economy is completely dead right now, with the rupee skyrocketing on the black market and bank accounts frozen.’
‘Have you ever thought of finishing your Ph.D.?’
‘I can’t afford to.’
‘I thought tuition was basically free.’