ZM: Criminal, crime, and conspiracy. That’s why everyone is talking about it?
JS: One more thing: sex, which is purple. This box is covered with it. Painted. Smeared. Naturally, if there is a big purple box lying around, people will stare. That’s why everyone is talking about it.
ZM: And do you think he’s guilty?
JS: That, my dear, ah, Mr Manto, I just don’t know. From my experience, Daru is completely crazy. Quick-tempered, oversensitive, inconsistent. But so am I, and I haven’t killed anyone, yet.
ZM: Thank you.
JS: It has been my good fortune, I assure you.
5
three
May arrives with a burst of heat that leaves nine dead in Jacobabad, but one evening a flirtatious breeze makes the trees swell and it looks just bearable enough for me to step outside with a cigarette in my mouth and another behind my ear. These are my last two smokes and I smoke them like an addict consuming all that’s left of his stash, half-preoccupied with the thought that each drag brings me closer to the point where I have to get some more.
Just as I flick the second butt over the wall and turn to head indoors, I hear a rickshaw sputter up to the gate and honk. Murad Badshah’s massive form is squished into the driver’s area, and he waves a hello when he sees me, sending a stream of paan-red spit over his shoulder. I open the gate and he pulls inside like an adult riding a tricycle. ‘Greetings!’ he exclaims, hauling himself out of the rickshaw with some difficulty.
‘Hello, gangster,’ I say to him.
Murad Badshah’s my dealer: occasionally amusing, desperately insecure, and annoyingly fond of claiming that he’s a dangerous outlaw. He speaks what he thinks is well-bred English in an effort to deny the lower-class origins that color the accent of his Urdu and Punjabi. But like an overambitious toupee, his artificial diction draws attention to what it’s meant to hide.
His hand engulfs mine, and I find myself pulled into a damp and smelly embrace, the side of my face pressed against his shoulder. ‘A very good evening to you, old boy,’ he says.
‘Do you have any cigarettes?’
‘But of course.’
‘My savior.’
‘More than you know.’ He flashes a grin down at me. ‘I also have some first-class, A-one quality charas.’
We climb a rickety ladder to the roof of my house and sit down on the bench I keep up there for pot smoking and kite fighting. I roll a joint, and as we smoke it, Murad Badshah asks me how my job search is going.
‘Badly. They want foreign qualifications or an MBA.’
‘It’s all about connections, old boy.’ He takes a hit. ‘How did you get your previous job?’
‘Through a family friend,’ I admit. Ozi’s father, as a matter of fact.
Murad Badshah grins. ‘Perhaps you should see the gentleman again. What he did once he can do twice.’
‘Maybe he can.’ But I don’t want to ask for Khurram uncle’s help.
I look up, squinting into the sun. A hawk circles in the sky over my neighbor’s house, where a baby lies naked on a sheet on the lawn. His ayah keeps a careful eye on him: he’s too big for a hawk to carry away, but not too big for one to try.
‘Quite frankly, Darashikoh Shezad, you’re better off this way. Pinstriped suits are cages for the soul.’
‘At least a caged soul is well fed by its handlers.’
‘Well fed, my left buttock, if you’ll pardon the expression. A man who works for another man is a slave.’
I take the joint back from him. ‘Yes, but you need capital to start a business. I’m broke. The other day I received a notice that my electricity is about to be disconnected.’
‘All you need is human capitaclass="underline" a strong mind and an obedient body.’
I look at Murad Badshah’s obedient body. Even in the loose folds of his shalwar kurta, I can see the love handles sagging away from his waist.
‘I have a proposition for you,’ he says suddenly.
‘What?’
‘I don’t want to shock you, old boy.’
‘Just don’t ask me to drive one of your rickshaws.’
He reaches under his kurta and pulls a silver revolver out of the waistband of his shalwar. It gleams like well-polished cutlery, big and shiny and more than a little ridiculous.
‘Is it real?’ I ask him.
He looks offended. ‘Of course,’ he says.
‘Why are you carrying it around?’
‘Darashikoh Shezad, do you listen to nothing that I say?’
‘You don’t need to impress me.’
He snorts. ‘Here, take it.’
I drop my joint and put it out with my shoe. The gun is heavier than it looks.
‘You are holding a Python. Three-fifty-seven magnum.’
I nod and hand it back to him. ‘I don’t like guns.’
‘Why don’t you fire off a few rounds?’ he asks. ‘Just point it up in the air. But be carefuclass="underline" it jumps.’
I think of my mother and look away. ‘No thanks,’ I say. Sometimes indulging Murad Badshah can take more effort than it’s worth. ‘Can you get me some ex?’ I ask, reminding him that he’s my dealer first and my friend only a very distant second.
Murad Badshah looks at me as if he wants to say more about his proposal. Then he seems to decide against it and says, ‘What is ex?’
‘Never mind. It’s a drug.’
‘The best I can do is charas, old boy. And heroin. I can always get you heroin. But I wouldn’t recommend it.’ He puts his arm around me. ‘Come. Let’s roll another joint.’
I’m thirsty, and the smell from Murad Badshah’s armpit is overpowering. I want to get rid of him. ‘Can I offer you a beer?’ I ask, standing up.
He shakes his head, still seated. ‘You know me better than that, old boy. I want the pleasures of the afterlife. Charas is a gray area, but alcohol is explicitly forbidden.’
‘Some men drink the blood of other men, all I drink is wine,’ I quote.
‘Saqia aur pila. Wonderful qawali. But I think the verse refers to the wine of faith, my friend.’
Once I’ve paid Murad Badshah for the pot and I’m alone again, I open a bottle of Murree beer. I don’t like it when low-class types forget their place and try to become too frank with you. But it’s my fault, I suppose: the price of being a nice guy.
Settling in front of the television, I watch videos on Channel V, and remind myself that when I have some cash coming in I need to call a technician to adjust my satellite dish. The sound quality just isn’t what it should be. I eat my dinner on a TV tray and open a beer. Manucci has fallen asleep at my feet. He loves to sleep in the living room when the air conditioner is on, and I don’t blame him, because the servant quarters are too hot in the summertime.
The phone rings and wakes me up. I’ve dozed off in front of the television. Manucci’s still asleep.
It’s a woman’s voice, husky, like she’s just gotten out of bed. ‘Daru?’ she says.
‘Nadira?’
There’s laughter on the other end. ‘It’s Mumtaz. Who’s Nadira?’
My mouth tastes awful. ‘No one,’ I say. ‘Just a friend.’
‘Listen, Daru, can you do me a favor?’
‘Is everything all right? Where’s Ozi?’
‘Everything’s fine. Ozi’s in Switzerland on business. I need to go to the old city, but I don’t know the roads in that part of Lahore and I don’t want to take a driver. Do you think you could come with me?’
This is very strange. Why is Ozi’s wife calling me up in the middle of the night to go for a drive? ‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but it’s important to me and I’d appreciate your help.’