cigarette?’
I tilt my head. ‘What do you mean?’
He pulls a pack out of his shirt pocket. ‘Reds?’
‘Reds.’
He lights one for me, taking a long drag without coughing. ‘Here you go.’
I take it from him. ‘I thought you’d quit.’
‘I have. That was my first puff in years.’
Suddenly I’m aware of a connection I haven’t felt in a long time, a bond of boyhood trust and affection. I look atOzi and see my old friend’s image, a younger face projected onto this fatter, balder screen. A hundred of my teenage adventures must have begun with Ozi inhaling a cigarette and blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth, the same side that smiles when he flashes his usual half-grin. That grin used to make me wonder what it would take to pull a full smile out of him. And his crazy ideas were like answers to that question. I remember the time we jumped the wall of Ayesha’s house and her father set his Dobermans on us, whether because he thought we were robbers or because he was overprotective of his daughter, we never discovered. We had to climb a mango tree to get out: the top of the wall was too high to reach by jumping. And Ozi let me climb first.
I take a hit, jointlike, from the cigarette he’s given me, filling my lungs and holding it in. ‘Thanks, yaar.’
He looks away.
I shut my eyes and savor the smoke.
When I open them again, he’s watching me.
‘I’ve been having some problems with Mumtaz,’ he says unexpectedly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think she’s unhappy.’
I feel guilt pinch me on the ass and grab a quick feel. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, yaar.’
‘What makes you think she’s unhappy?’
‘Little things. She never wants to talk. She’s always tired. She’s snappish with Muazzam.’
‘Lahore isn’t New York. Maybe she doesn’t like the city.’
‘That isn’t it. She was like this in New York. Besides, she wanted to come back.’
‘Then what do you think it is?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe you should ask her.’
‘I have. I do. I ask her all the time.’
‘What does she say?’
‘She says she’s unhappy.’
‘Then she probably is.’
He smiles. ‘I know.’
‘How long has she been like this?’
‘Months. Maybe a year.’
‘It could have nothing to do with you. People go through difficult times.’
‘But I don’t like to see her this way. I miss her.’
I nod, finishing off the cigarette and stubbing it out on the table. One more burn mark in a constellation of burn marks.
Ozi is pinching the point of his chin as though he’s discovered he missed a spot shaving this morning.
‘You know,’ I say, trying to cheer him up, ‘they really might nuke Lahore.’
He stops playing with his chin. ‘We’re going to test, too.’
‘When?’
‘Who knows. I hope we do it soon.’
‘Why? We know we have the bomb.’
‘We want them to know.’
‘They know.’ I say it casually. As casually as I can. Because unsaid between Ozi and me, unsayable, is a possibility, a doubt: What if our bomb doesn’t work?
Ozi’s sweating. His face shines and he wipes it with the tips of four curved fingers held together. ‘It’s damn hot. How long has the power been gone?’
‘Just a couple of hours,’ I lie.
‘Load-shedding or a breakdown?’
I shrug.
‘You need a generator,’ he tells me.
Ah, Ozi. You just can’t resist, can you? You know I can’t afford a generator. ‘Do I?’
‘Of course. How can you survive without one?’
‘Most people do manage to, you know.’
‘I wonder if we still have the small one from the old house. If we do, you might as well take it.’
‘I’m fine.’ I don’t need your secondhand generator, thanks very much. And I don’t have the money to buy fuel for it in any case.
‘I’m surprised I didn’t notice the heat until now.’
‘Nothing like nuclear escalation to make people forget their problems.’
He winks. ‘And on that note, I’d better push off. Some of us have to work, you
I tilt my head. ‘What do you mean?’
He pulls a pack out of his shirt pocket. ‘Reds?’
‘Reds.’
He lights one for me, taking a long drag without coughing. ‘Here you go.’
I take it from him. ‘I thought you’d quit.’
‘I have. That was my first puff in years.’
Suddenly I’m aware of a connection I haven’t felt in a long time, a bond of boyhood trust and affection. I look atOzi and see my old friend’s image, a younger face projected onto this fatter, balder screen. A hundred of my teenage adventures must have begun with Ozi inhaling a cigarette and blowing the smoke out the side of his mouth, the same side that smiles when he flashes his usual half-grin. That grin used to make me wonder what it would take to pull a full smile out of him. And his crazy ideas were like answers to that question. I remember the time we jumped the wall of Ayesha’s house and her father set his Dobermans on us, whether because he thought we were robbers or because he was overprotective of his daughter, we never discovered. We had to climb a mango tree to get out: the top of the wall was too high to reach by jumping. And Ozi let me climb first.
I take a hit, jointlike, from the cigarette he’s given me, filling my lungs and holding it in. ‘Thanks, yaar.’
He looks away.
I shut my eyes and savor the smoke.
When I open them again, he’s watching me.
‘I’ve been having some problems with Mumtaz,’ he says unexpectedly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think she’s unhappy.’
I feel guilt pinch me on the ass and grab a quick feel. ‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, yaar.’
‘What makes you think she’s unhappy?’
‘Little things. She never wants to talk. She’s always tired. She’s snappish with Muazzam.’
‘Lahore isn’t New York. Maybe she doesn’t like the city.’
‘That isn’t it. She was like this in New York. Besides, she wanted to come back.’
‘Then what do you think it is?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Maybe you should ask her.’
‘I have. I do. I ask her all the time.’
‘What does she say?’
‘She says she’s unhappy.’
‘Then she probably is.’
He smiles. ‘I know.’
‘How long has she been like this?’
‘Months. Maybe a year.’
‘It could have nothing to do with you. People go through difficult times.’
‘But I don’t like to see her this way. I miss her.’
I nod, finishing off the cigarette and stubbing it out on the table. One more burn mark in a constellation of burn marks.
Ozi is pinching the point of his chin as though he’s discovered he missed a spot shaving this morning.
‘You know,’ I say, trying to cheer him up, ‘they really might nuke Lahore.’
He stops playing with his chin. ‘We’re going to test, too.’
‘When?’
‘Who knows. I hope we do it soon.’
‘Why? We know we have the bomb.’
‘We want them to know.’
‘They know.’ I say it casually. As casually as I can. Because unsaid between Ozi and me, unsayable, is a possibility, a doubt: What if our bomb doesn’t work?
Ozi’s sweating. His face shines and he wipes it with the tips of four curved fingers held together. ‘It’s damn hot. How long has the power been gone?’
‘Just a couple of hours,’ I lie.
‘Load-shedding or a breakdown?’
I shrug.
‘You need a generator,’ he tells me.
Ah, Ozi. You just can’t resist, can you? You know I can’t afford a generator. ‘Do I?’
‘Of course. How can you survive without one?’
‘Most people do manage to, you know.’
‘I wonder if we still have the small one from the old house. If we do, you might as well take it.’
‘I’m fine.’ I don’t need your secondhand generator, thanks very much. And I don’t have the money to buy fuel for it in any case.
‘I’m surprised I didn’t notice the heat until now.’
‘Nothing like nuclear escalation to make people forget their problems.’
He winks. ‘And on that note, I’d better push off. Some of us have to work, you
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