Duty Free (15 page)

“What rat-shat,
yaar
? You don’t want nice house and cars and servants,
haan
?”

“I already have a house. And servants. And a car.”

“No you don’t. Miss Shumaila took it.”

“I’ve bought another.”

“And you have flat in London also? On backside of Harrods,
haan
? Where you can go and stay the whole of summers and do shopping all day, all night? That also you have?”

“So
that’s
the lure. The flat in London.”

“Girl is not bad also, Jonkers. She’s quiet, mediocre type. Like you wanted. All she needs is a make-out. I’ll get her a
fab new wardrope and Loubootin platforms and then I’ll take her to Nabeela’s and she’ll give her a fab haircut and pluck her eyebrows thin, thin and put highlights—”

“Apa, if there’s one thing that my marriage ought to have told you, it’s that I’m not looking for money.”

“Jonkers, you are crack.”

“Besides I want to tell you something. I’ve met—”

“I’m not interested.” And I slammed the phone.

Today is Holloween. Kulchoo’s been invited to a fancy dress party thrown by the daughter of General Shaheed Bull. General Bull is owner of Punjab Chemicals. They have huge house on Main Boulevard with fifteen-foot walls outside with barb-wire on top. Just the kind of people Kulchoo should be making friends with. I shouldn’t say this because he’s my son but unfortunately, Kulchoo is becoming antisocialist loser—just like his father. He won’t go to the Chemicals party because he says it won’t be a good scene. So I told him the scene would be very nice because Sunny tells me the floors are of Italian marble and there are fountains inside and—

“Not
that
kind of scene,” he groaned.

“Then what type scene?”

“The social scene. You don’t know the kind of kids who’ll be there.”

“I know them. They are all nice, rich children from nice, rich homes.”

“Yeah, right. They’re all obnoxious, rich kids who get high on coke, and then go looking for a
phudda.
”

“So who’s asking you to fight with them? You sit on one
side talking nicely and if they offer you Coke, you say no thanks, I’ll take Fanta.”

“Jeez, mum, not
that
Coke. Forget it. I’m going to Farhad’s house. More my thing.”

See what I mean about antisocialist loser? Farhad’s father has a small business doing land-escape gardening. His mother does dramas in the TV about bore, bore things like honour killings and child marriages and female infanty-side, all the unpatriotic things that give bad impression about us to foreigners. She wears cotton saris and her glasses on a string round her neck and her hair in a grey bun. Bore NGO-type, if you know what I mean. And they live in a small house near the Ganda Nala. Farhad wants to be an artist. Not a business magnet, not a politician, not a general but an artist. Loser. He makes these big, big paintings with cartoon-type people fighting with sticks against really loud, gody yellow and red baggrounds and Janoo says they are clever and witty but I think so they are useless.

Last time Farhad was here I asked him why he didn’t make nice scenes of fields and trees and clouds in greens and beiges that matched my curtains and sofas? That way he would become Lahore’s top artist because all my friends would buy. But before he could make a reply, Kulchoo grabbed him by the arm and said, “Farhad,
yaar
, come and see this fantastic new computer game I’ve got,” and pushed him out of the room. I don’t know
where
Kulchoo’s manners have gone. Honestly.

I said to Janoo, last year we were invited to three Holloween parties and this year we’ve only been invited to one. Why are
there no more witches’ and monsters’ parties this year? And Janoo said it was because everyday life had become a waking nightmare. Why wait till 31 October, when horror was being visited on us every day? And I said to Janoo, I said, “Janoo, I think so you need to go on Prozac.”

I told Janoo about Jonkers’ refusal to marry fundo Farva’s dwarf daughter. Janoo said we should all give three chairs for Jonkers. And I said that Jonkers was biggest crack in Gulberg, if not Lahore. And that he, Janoo, was crack number two. He said no, I was the one who was crack for even getting involved in people’s marriage proposals in the first place and how did I know who would suit Jonkers and who wouldn’t and couldn’t I find something better to do with my time?
Uff, aik tau
I’m so bored of that lecture of his. Honestly, he’s doing time-wasting sewing wheat and cotton on his lands. He should be a schoolmaster. But then I wouldn’t have married him because you can’t even buy one Mulberry wallet with a schoolmaster’s pay.

So I said to him, “What is better than helping people find happiness? I’m better than you who just sits and rats and raves about the world’s problems. And, besides, it is a duty of all Muslims to help others find happiness. Ever since ancient times in Mecca good Muslims have been doing it.”

“And ever since ancient times good Muslims in Mecca have also been riding on camels,” said that traitor Kulchoo, who was also sitting there. Father and son laughed like hyenas and said
maybe I should sell my air-conditioned Toyota and buy a camel. To be like good Muslim of ancient times.

And then I said loudly, “Listen to me, Sheikh Ilyas and Farva are
seedha-saadha
, honest—”

“Sheikh Ilyas, did you say?” said Janoo. “The Sheikh Ilyas of the betting syndicate and gold-smuggling ring? The same Sheikh Ilyas who, a couple of years back, when things got too hot for him, took off for Dubai for several months? That one? I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s wanted by the law-enforcing agencies of several countries. No wonder he’s ready to bestow the London flat on Jonkers. He probably can’t go near it himself.”

For two full minutes, I
tau
passed away in shock. Look at Mulloo. Doing this to us. She’s always been so greedy. Thanks God I found out in time. But between you, me, and the four walls, I
tau
immediately knew Farva and all were bad news the second I slapped eyes on them. First expressions are always right.

“So, Mum, when can we meet our new smuggler cousins-in-law?” asked Kulchoo. “Do they have four-wheel drives with smoky windows? And a white house? With white columns and a dome? And barbed wire and spiky glass on their walls?”

“Ask her if Sheikh Saab has gold teeth,” whispered Janoo to Kulchoo, plodding him on. “And if the wife wears a gold bullet in her navel.”

“Shut up, you two. And for your information I didn’t meet Sheikh Saab. He wasn’t there.”

“So the rest is all true? The white house, the four-wheelers, the—”

“I’m not talking to you both time-wasters,” I said and pounced out of the room, with my nose in the air. Even after I’d shut the door, I could hear their laughter down the corridor. Stuppids.

Thanks God I’ve finally found a new maidservant. Her name is Ameena. I stole her from Faiza. I knew that Faiza gave her eight thou a month so I offered her five hundred more (I sent her a message through Faiza’s driver who is a cousin of our driver, Muhammad Hussain) and so she immediately dropped Faiza and she came. Just look at these people. They don’t even have this much of loyalty.

Nice thing about her is that she’s all trained and everything. Knows which clothes have to be hung and which folded. Which shoes go with which clothes and so on and so fourth. Basically, she knows how to talk, how to walk, how to be. Isn’t a stuppid, illitred villager. So I won’t have to kill my brains teaching her everything from snatch.

I called Mummy and told her that I’d got a new maid to replace that she-snake, Jameela.

“See, I told you Allah takes with one hand and gives with the other. Name?” asked Mummy.

“Well, Mummy, you know He has ninety-nine names. Which one do you—?”

“No, no, the maid. The
maid’s
name.”

“Oh,
her
. Her name’s Ameena.”

“She can’t be called Ameena.”

“She
is
called Ameena.”

“Well, she can’t stay Ameena. You
know
Ameena was my aunt’s name. My father’s only sister. Change her name. Call her Shameem or Naseem or whatever. But I won’t have a servant in your house called by my aunt’s name. It’s rude to my aunt’s memory.”

So I called in Ameena, sorry, Shameem and said, “From now your name is Shameem.”

“But my name’s Ameena.”

“Listen, I give you eight thou five hundred. Your name is Shameem.”

Ameena’s cheeks blew up for a bit after that. But I think so she’ll get used to. She’d better.

Then I said, “I haven’t done your interview.”

Just then Jonkers called me on the phone.

“Apa, may I speak to you?” he asked.

“Whenever you want, Jonkers. Except now. I’m in middle of an interview.” And I put the phone down.

So Am—Shameem said that I’d been seeing her for the last four years whenever I went to Faiza’s place. I must be knowing her by now. I told her that seeing was all very well but still there were some things I needed to know about her. So she said what did I want to know. I asked her if she knew any foreigners. She looked a bit surprised but she said no. Next I asked her if she had any rellies working in Abu Dhabi or Dubai or Oman or Saudi or any of those sandy-type places. Again she looked taken back and asked why I wanted to know
but I said, “You just answer, ji.” She said her cousin had once gone to work on a construction sight in Dubai but he’d died there in an accident and after that no one had gone from her family.

“Very good,” I said. “And now tell me, is your mother alive?”

“No, she died three years ago.”

“She’s not likely to die again, is she?”

Now she looked at me as if I’d really gone crack. But I damn care. I’m not getting stabbed in the back again by a sharpie maid.

Just as I finished my interview Kulchoo came in, all sweaty and red as a tomato in the face.

“
Hai Allah!
What’s happened to you?” I said. “Are you having a heart attack?” Mummy told me you sweat a lot when you have a heart attack. “Ameena, I mean, Shameem, go quickly and call Muhammad Hussain to the car. I’m taking Kulchoo Saab to the hospital.” And I grabbed my bag and stood up.

“Mum, I’ve just done three laps of the park,” panted Kulchoo. “I need a cold drink, not a stretcher.”

Oh thanks God! Honestly, the sooner Jonkers gets married the better. Otherwise
tau
my nerves will shatter.