Moth Smoke by Mohsin Hamid Page A

know.’
    He says it as though he’d like to be unemployed.
    I feel myself getting angry, and the connection between us snaps in silence. ‘Not if they nuke Lahore,’ I say under my breath.
    He leans over and puts the pack of reds on my bedside table. I don’t want it now. But, as with all his gifts, I take it anyway.
    My back is better by the time Ozi kills the boy.
    It’s a Sunday, the neighborhood nuclear test count is up to five, and I’m on my way to Jamal’s office. Strange that my sixteen-year-old cousin should have an office, but he’s been working for a week now, on weekends and in the evenings, after school.
    The address he’s given me turns out to be a house in Shadman with two nameplates: a white one above with Alam in faded black lettering and a sleek silver rectangle below which reads chipkali internet services. I enter through a side door marked Headquarters and shut it silently behind me, feeling the chill of air-conditioning at full blast.
    Jamal and his partner, a short boy with bad posture and a white boil on his neck, just under the straight line of his clipped hair, sit with their backs to me, staring at a computer screen the size of a television. Various pieces ofhightech equipment are scattered about the room, connected by wires and plugged into an enormous surge protector. I sneak up on them and tap Jamal on his shoulder.
    He turns, startled, then smiles and gets up. His partner looks embarrassed.
    ‘What are you two doing?’ I ask. ‘Looking at naughty pictures?’
    They blush together and begin to explain.
    ‘No, Daru bhai –’
    ‘We were just –’
    I move them apart with my hands and glance between their shoulders at the monitor. But instead of naked women I see a jerkily expanding mushroom cloud, a burst of digital pastels. ‘What’s this?’ I ask.
    ‘We downloaded it from one of the sites covering the nuclear tests,’ Jamal tells me.
    We watch the clip run through in somber silence. People have begun to say we might be attacked before we can get our own bombs ready.
    ‘But I thought their tests were underground,’ I say.
    ‘This isn’t one of theirs. It’s an American test. An H-bomb.’
    ‘We’re going to use it for a client’s site,’ his friend adds, his voice a nasal whine.
    I pull my eyes away from the screen. ‘A client? You have clients?’
    ‘Three,’ he says proudly.
    ‘And what do you do for them?’
    ‘We design and host Web sites,’ Jamal explains. ‘Completely customized, maintained on our server.’
    I smile. ‘And how much do they pay you?’
    ‘It depends on the work. They can pay us once, up front, a lifetime fee that covers design, maintenance, everything. Or they can pay us monthly.’
    ‘And how much do you expect to make on average, from one client?’
    Jamal tells me. And I’m shocked.
    ‘But why would they have you guys do the work? Why wouldn’t they go to professionals?’
    Jamal’s friend turns his face away haughtily. ‘We are professionals.’
    I’ve decided I don’t like him.
    ‘We’re cheap,’ Jamal says. ‘And we’re really good, Daru bhai. Besides, we’re learning fast. And our first three clients aren’t paying that much. We’re giving them a discount, as an introductory offer, you know, as we get started.’
    ‘How much of a discount?’
    ‘Ninety percent.’
    ‘That still isn’t bad. And have they paid you?’
    ‘Not yet.’
    ‘I’m expecting a dinner from you when they do.’ It’s a joke, but immediately after I’ve said it, I feel ashamed, because I could actually use a free meal.
    ‘Of course, Daru bhai.’
    They offer me a chair and take me on a tour of their handiwork, showing me sites they admire and want to copy, as well as the Chipkali Internet Services home page, which they designed themselves. I’m happy to see Jamal so excited, but the more he tells me, the more worried I become. The equipment all belongs to his friend. The office is in his friend’s house. The clients have come to