The Shah of Chicago II

Chapter Two

Three weeks later Jack stepped off an rattley jumbo jet at Islamabad International and into the heart-stopping heat of a mid-summer morning. Inside the terminal passengers jostled, heaved and elbowed each other as they fought their way towards passport control with the determination and pace of spermatozoa swimming toward the womb. Tempers were short and the ceiling fans were busted.

‘Next,’ yawned an Immigration Officer with a handlebar moustache and watery canine eyes.

Jack shuffled forward with a mix of fatigue and finely-tuned cool and tossed his passport onto the desk, like a pack of cigarettes onto a bar.

The Immigration man detected a hint of stale alcohol as Jack took a deep breath of the sticky pre-monsoon air. He stared as Jack rubbed his orange, bloodshot eyes with an open palm. He opened the passport but watched Jack pick at a food stain on his white cotton shirt that hung out of a pair of stiff new jeans. On top he wore a double-breasted blazer: dark blue with faux brass buttons. His shoes were shiny black wingtips just out of the box. No socks, the officer noted.

The Immigration man held Jack’s passport open with one hand. The photo on the front page showed the same face as stood before him now: balding head, medium build, delicate ears with detached lobes. A smile floating somewhere between murderous and mischievous. Jack’s eyes weren’t orange in the photo though. They were soft, pale brown and almost see- through. Two muddy whirlpools that sucked you in.

‘Your birth place?’ the tired official asked.

‘What?’ Jack seemed surprised to be addressed.

‘In which city you were born, sir?’

‘This shit hole.’ Jack reached up to retrieve his passport but the Immigration man pulled it away.

What’s with this dickhead? Just stamp the damn thing and give it back. Jack looked around for a toilet. Got to piss something awful.

‘You are American?’

Jack’s whirlpool eyes narrowed. ‘Damn tootin’.’

The Immigration man didn’t respond; just kept studying the passport, then the man standing in front of him, flipping slowly through the pages of the document, staring vacantly at each pink and blue page.

‘It’s the genuine article. Issued in Chicago last week.’

The officer was beginning to piss Jack off. Stress always came to his feet first, making his toes stand up stiff and rigid, like the ears on a gazelle suddenly alert to danger. The more angry or anxious or irritated Jack got the stiffer his toes became. He registered his dislike of people in his toes , and always trusted the vibes they sent him. A lot of times he’d be just hanging out with someone when he’d realise that his toes were as hard as rock. Without thinking, Jack would walk away, trusting the signals emanating from inside his shoes.

‘This is your passport?’ the officer asked still thumbing through the passport’s pages.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Jack’s big toe was erect, rubbing against the inside of his new shoes. The signals coming up his leg were strong and clear. He flared his nostrils at the Immigration man.

Before leaving Chicago Jack had considered using his old passport but thought better of it. Every federal and state computer, probably every county computer, between Chicago and LA, and the other way, too, as far east as Boston, had the name Jacob Lord hidden in one of its databases. In all sorts of columns: possession with intent, grand larceny, attempting to impersonate a police officer, jumping parole. He would have been less visible with an electronic tag around his neck and a Santa Claus hat on his head than with the old passport. With some of the money Uncle Jalal had given him he was able to score a fake Social Security Card through an old contact in Calumet. The new passport, made out in his new name, arrived a week before he was scheduled to depart.

On the plane Jack had put the finishing touches to his plan. He would need only two months, three at the outside, to tie everything together. Peshawar, up on the Afghan border: the place was thick with smugglers and heroin factories. Head up there first thing, impress everyone with his American ways and sophistication. A deposit would get him the first shipment which would pay for the second. Three or four shipments of the best smack in the world and Jack would really be King. The King of Chicago. Thirty nine thousand feet over the Persian Gulf, sipping a vodka and orange juice, Jack smiled at the thought. Sweetness!

There was a problem though; he only had slightly under fifteen hundred bucks. Uncle Jalal had insisted on buying the ticket-- ‘no loan Jack, it is a gift. I’m so happy you are going home’--and gave him two thousand dollars. More cash than he’d seen in four years but hardly enough for a down payment on a consignment of ‘H’. As hard as he tried to think of another way, Jack knew that the only place he could locate the kind of money to make his plan a success was with his family. But getting his hands on even a tiny bit of their millions would be neither easy nor straightforward. Uncle Jalal was one thing, Jack knew every one of his buttons; he’d been pushing them for years. But the rest of his family barely knew him.

Jack’s half brother, Shafi, lived in Singapore where he ran the family’s Southeast Asian interests. They had never been close and in fact, hadn’t seen or talked to each other in more than twenty years. Lina and Mina, the twin sisters, had both married doctors and settled in suburban Toronto. Connection with them had been severed when Jack was locked away for the first time, back in the early eighties. Jack’s mother had died before he’d moved to America and his father, Ali Hassan Shah, advisor to the President, multi-millionaire hotelkeeper and all round industrialist of Pakistan, hated his youngest child with a passion unbound. Jack would have slit his own throat before asking the old man for a penny.

Uncle Jalal may have had a soft spot for Jack but even he wouldn’t have agreed to buy Jack’s ticket had he known about his nephew’s plan. Only Nanima, his mother’s mother, might be sympathetic. She had been the only one to cry when Uncle Jalal had taken him to Chicago and every year, without fail, she sent him a garish card to commemorate Eid. The day he was released from Pontiac, Uncle Jalal handed him four of them, wrapped together with a rubber band. His only mail in four years. Before leaving, Jack had tucked one of the envelopes with his grandmother’s address on it into his pocket. She was his only hope.

‘It is stated here that your birthplace...aap ki paidaish idharhi hai,’ the Immigration officer still wanted to know where Mr Jack King had been born.

‘My father is Pakistani, leastwise was, last time I saw him. But me? No way, Jose. Red white and blue all the way.’ Jack reached over to collect his passport. This time the Immigration man picked up a heavy stamp with a well-worn wooden handle and banged it down on the first page of the new passport as if he was killing a snake or something equally dangerous. He took one last look at the photo then slowly handed the passport over.

‘Take it!’ he snapped. But as Jack reached out the Immigration man grabbed his wrist and said, ‘You have no socks.’

Jack glowered at the man and tried to fight the rage that cut his gut as the memory of that day when the old man had humiliated him way back when. The last day he’d ever put on socks. Jack yanked his wrist free and pulled away from the desk. Jerk.

‘Next,’ barked the Immigration man.

\*\*\*\*\*

Jack dropped his two bags onto an airport trolley and shuffled toward the rank of yellow and black taxis. Before he got halfway across the road cabbies were over him like white on rice, pulling his arms, grabbing his luggage, yelling unintelligible things in his face. Despite his protestations, and without any real say in the process, Jack was deposited into the back seat of a new Daewoo. Memories of the Casa del Amour massage parlour back home flooded over him as the driver slammed the door. Cheesy pink plastic roses protruded from the dashboard. Brown velvety curtains on the back and side windows. About as much light as you’d find in a darkroom. But what really did it was the aroma (like rotting mangoes) of overly sweet perfume. As he fell into the taxi Jack closed his eyes and for a second caught a glimpse of Mitsy, the cute one from Manila, her stockinged-legs crossed, pouting teasingly. Beckoning him with a thin index finger crowned with a long pink nail. Hoo wee! More than four years without a woman. There in the backseat of the taxi, for just a moment, Mitsy seemed real real. But when he opened his eyes the only person in the taxi was a huge man with pockmarks on his potato nose. He turned the ignition key.

‘Hold it,’ Jack pulled off his blazer. ‘How y’all breathe in this heat?’

The atmospheric pressure was high. Slate-colored clouds were moving in at a steady pace, darkening the early morning sky. The monsoon would break any day now. A fat crow shrieked as it swooped down right by the taxi’s window. Jack jumped. Other taxis were honking, the drivers were yelling for the Daewoo to get a move on.

The driver wiped his wet forehead with his sleeve and squinted, searching his mind for an English word. ‘Islamabad?’ was all he could come up with.

Jack reached into his blazer pocket and pulled out a packet of Kents, which he handed over to the driver with a nod that he should help himself. ‘Hold on. I got it here.’ Jack pulled out a crumpled envelope from his pants, unfolded it and held it up so the driver could read the address. ‘Granny’s place. Nanima.’ Jack stabbed a finger at the address. ‘Take me there.’

\*\*\*\*\*

Twenty years. Twenty four and a half to be exact. Nearly twenty five. A quarter of a century! However he counted it, he had been away a long time. Jack pulled back the curtains to check out the countryside. Beyond the black tarmac strip lay dry fields, low boxy buildings covered with Urdu advertisements and a few scraggly trees, their leaves brown and heavy with dust. Ugly. No other word for it. Just plain, butt ugly. Jack had tried to erase Pakistan from his mind ever since leaving all those years ago, so he couldn’t say what he expected to find, but the colorless, simmering landscape before him seemed to fit. One big faded black and white movie.

That was the way he always remembered Pakistan: in black and white. White, the colour of his mother’s favorite daisies in the garden. And of her burial shroud. Before she died she used to sit in the garden with Jack giving orders to the gardeners, telling them how far back to trim the rose bushes and how much water to give the elephant-eared plants. How many times in prison, alone with only his thoughts, had Jack felt like his head was in her soft, comforting lap? He had been her last and slightly unexpected child and she loved him with a special tenderness. The scent of her body, warm and clean, came back to him a lot the older he became. If there was one thing he wished for more than any other, it was that he could see her just one more time. Or maybe just hear her say that she loved him before she turned out the light. She died slowly over many months but on the day she expired her fair skin turned the consistency and color of paper.

After she died Jack’s father became twisted and life turned black. The garden, his mother’s passion, became shadowy and a frightening place, as did the hallways of the old house. How many times when the old man was in a bitched up mood did his belt--thick and glistening black--slither down like a snake and strike? How many times in the blackness of night had Jack been coaxed into sleep by hate for his father?

Twenty-five years. May as well be twenty five hundred, man.

The desiccated fields had turned into a tiny bazaar. The taxi veered and bumped off the highway and took a detour. Traffic moved at a snail’s pace. They inched their way through lanes barely wide enough for the taxi to get through. Local residents went about their morning business oblivious to the steady stream of cars, mini buses and trucks that choked their neighborhood streets. Jack positioned himself exactly in the middle of the back seat to get the best view out of both windows, but also not to be too close to either door. Who knows what these people are capable of? Stick their hands in and make a grab for my watch or I might catch something. I mean lookit there. Guy’s hacking up right by that kid who’s taking a leak and oh my God...Jack turned away and looked out the other window when he saw a scrawny dog humping another one which had only three legs. Ugliness and ignorance. Very reason I left this shithole country to begin with.

They had moved out of the narrow alleys and onto a wider street riddled with potholes, some so big the whole taxi lowered itself into them. ‘Where we at? Kaunsi jagah?’ Jack could hear how bad his accent was, but who cared? He had already decided that he was going to use only as much Urdu as he needed to get by...like with this cabbie. Otherwise it was English all the way. Not even English. Not the language he learned in Burnhall Academy all ‘wherefore art thou’ and ‘what a smashing idea’. No, he was going to speak his own language: American. Damn right buddy. Good old Americanese. Shit yeah!

Movement became impossible. Vehicles, traders’ carts, animals and masses of the public gummed up the street. The driver turned off the engine and waited. Dripping with sweat, Jack contemplated getting out of the taxi for a breather but was stopped by a weird sensation. His body became suddenly as light as a feather and his heart took off at a sprint. All the heat, ugliness, chaos and full throttle noise of the street began closing in on him, pressing him down, invading his space. Somewhere outside he could hear a policeman yelling at a bus driver: ‘Your head lamps are not working. One hundred rupees fine. Pay over there.’ Hawkers seemed to be screaming the price of their wares from inside his head. The sounds of the noisy world outside were muffled but in a way that made him feel cold and scared; like something was separating him from it. Everyone was on that side. Over here he was all alone. The black and white movie had turned into an acid trip with a soundtrack cranked up way too loud. A shiver started in his toes and worked its way up his legs then quickly through his body and to his head. His skin turned clammy and the hairs on his arms stood up. He lay down on the seat and rubbed his eyes. Icicles poked up through his skin. The driver’s bloodshot eyes glared at him from the rear-view mirror like a hungry octopus. Jack clenched his eyes and breathed hard. He started to pray, but then just as quickly as it had come, it passed. His head thumped and his ears rang. What was that? He rubbed his temples and sat up. Man, this is too weird. I’ve come back to hell. If he could have, he would have told the driver to turn around and take him back to the airport but they were moving forward again, like they were being carried forward against their will. His head, the traffic, the world, everything was out of control.

\*\*\*\*\*

The taxi was whizzing down a wide highway once again. With the wind battering his face Jack was starting to recover. Woods on both sides and hills in the background. Once they were into Islamabad proper, the streets became wide, clean and perfectly straight. Just like back home. Some of the cars even had white people in them. That made him feel even better.

They drove straight up the main road, all the way almost to the foot of the mountains, where a huge mosque with sleek pointy minarets stood like a spaceship ready for blastoff. They turned right and then left into a leafy, shady neighborhood right at the foot of the hills.

The taxi stopped outside a huge, multi-storied house with marble exterior and a humungus black wrought iron gate standing at least nine feet in the air. The cabbie jumped out and opened the trunk to recover Jack’s bags but Jack couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Holy shit, Batman,’ he muttered.

In front of the gate stood a small sentry box and just as Jack got out of the car, a guard with a red turban and starched white uniform strode forward and asked firmly, ‘Kya kaam?’

‘I’m looking for Nanima.’ He stared at the house. There’s got to be at least seven or eight bedrooms in that place. And lookit that marble! He walked toward the gate but the guard immediately jumped between him and the house. ‘Arey, pagal. Kis se milna?’

‘Looking for grannie. Mrs. Wahida Akhtar.’ Jack was banging the pockets of his blazer. Where’d I put those shades? ‘That’s some marble. Make the blind see.’

The guard snapped to attention. ‘One minute, sir.’ He jumped back into the sentry box and picked up a phone, dialed, said something to someone and after a few seconds stuck his head out. ‘What is name, sir?’

‘Mr Jack King,’ said Jack but added quickly, ‘Tell her her grandson is here. All the way from America!’

Jack still couldn’t believe his eyes. A mansion, right here at the foot of the Margalla hills. And just four weeks ago home had been a nine by six cell in Pontiac Correctional Center. Good thing I kept that envelope. An old tree, like a giant umbrella hung over the gate. The front lawn was being trimmed by two boys who jumped around on their hunches tending to rose beds and pots of leafy green plants with an ancient pair of shears. An equally pre-modern push mower with its twisted blades gummed up with grass stood ready for more action.

Another man emerged from inside the mansion and greeted Jack. ‘You are Begum Wahida’s grandson? From America?’ Jack nodded, still taking in the size of the building and expanding the scope of his plan by the second. ‘Most welcome, sir. Begum sahiba, your nani, is very pleased you have come.’

‘How she be?’ Jack asked as he stepped forward leaving the turbaned guard to deal with the bags.

‘She is old and sometimes is becoming ill, especially in rainy season. Arthritis, sahib.’

‘Jack to you, dude. Jack King.’

‘Excuse me sir?’

‘Name is Jack. Mr Jack King. Don’t call me sahib. Understand?’

‘As you like, sir. Jacking. Very good name.’

Jack stopped suddenly and shot his arm across the man’s chest. ‘Let’s get this correct, from the git go. I’m not jacking,’ he made a masturbatory motion with his hand. ‘It’s Jack King. Two words. Jack. Followed by King.’ He lowered his head and glared at the man over the top of his Raybans.

The man nodded gravely, unsure what sort of creature he was ushering into the house, one who made such nasty gestures in public. ‘Jack. King. Of course, sir.’ He opened the giant, polished wood doors and stood aside for Jack to step into a darkened room. Air conditioners hummed in the dimness. The servant closed the door, kicked off his sandals, motioned Jack to sit down, then hurried upstairs to inform the lady of the house that her grandson, Mr Jack. King. was waiting.

Chintzy pieces of baroque furniture, overly crafted and painted white, gold and a shocking shade of pink, surrounded Jack like heavily made-up teeny boppers at their first dance. Overstuffed seats and stiff backs. He’d never seen so many lace doilies in his life; on every piece of furniture, under every lamp. The sofa had gilt legs and green and white satin upholstery. A mirror with an elaborate white and pink frame hung the entire length and breadth of one wall. Lampshades like those in a maharajah’s palace, all oversized and stitched up tight. In the middle of the menagerie, like a bulldog guarding the room, stood a squat coffee table with an onyx top and stout shiny brass legs.

Absolutely pitiful.

‘Beta, is that you?’ A thin, frail voice came from the shadows to his right. Jack turned quickly and nearly gave his grandmother a heart attack. Her face was as wrinkled as discarded wrapping paper and her teeth were nearly all gone. Behind the glasses--lenses as thick as bottle bottoms, heavy black plastic frames--a pair of soft lively eyes blinked up at Jack. Man, she’s got to do something about that beard. But as soon as his grandmother reached out a creased and shaky hand, and touched his face, Jack broke down in tears.

Chapter Three

‘Your journey has exhausted you, heh na?’ Nanima spoke a sophisticated dialect of Urdu. Though she would never presume to wear fancy or expensive clothes Nanima’s entire demeanour was that of a cultured and cloistered dowager who only rarely ventured out into the practicalities of life. She passed most of her day in recitation of the Koran and prayer, leaving the running of her palatial house to a handful of servants whom she bombarded with alternating and equal amounts of disdain and tenderness. ‘Why your father did not inform me, beta?’ Nanima set her frail body down into an armchair with a puff of old age. Although she had been schooled in the British colonial educational system, Nanima refused to speak English, a language she had always considered distinctly inferior to mellifluous Urdu.

Jack considered, for a moment, what language he should answer in. ‘He doesn’t know I’m here,’ he said eventually, picking out each Urdu word with care, hoping he was putting them together in the right order. The last time he had spoken his native language regularly had been during the first couple of years in America when he was married to Nasreen. But as their relationship fell apart, more often then not the only words they had for each other were curses and insults. When he finally moved out of the house he left most of his things behind in a closet. Just slammed the door on everything. Including the Urdu language.

‘You are surprising him!’ Nanima made a wrinkly smile. ‘He must be so proud of you. Look.’ She gave Jack a weak tweak of the cheek. ‘So handsome and smart you are, but beta, did someone steal your socks? Thieves will steal anything, heh na? Their blood is that way.’

‘Nanima, father and me,’ Jack paused. ‘Father does not speak to me. Not a word since nineteen eighty-seven.’ He said the year in English. He’d completely forgotten how to say numbers that big.

‘Tobah!’ Nanima grabbed her ears in horror and Jack prepared himself for an onslaught of recrimination, but instead, she said, ‘Such a selfish man that Ali Hassan. Greedy as well. His stomach is never full...always gobbling up more and more. And see!’ She stopped to catch her breath. ‘His very own children are left without adequate clothing.’ Jack’s bare feet still held her attention. Suddenly, Jack was wrapped up by Nanima’s frail but surprisingly firm arms. This time she was the one in tears. Years ago, after his mother had died, she used to do this sort of thing all the time. She is gone but she is watching us, beta. Nanima used to stroke his hair every night to make him fall asleep. Yes, she loved you very much. You were her special boy. I love you too, beta, you must be brave.

Her attitude toward his old man came as a pleasant surprise. This was not bad at all. Jack knew that he was going to need a sympathetic ally if his plan was going to work but to find one so soon, well, he told himself, the plan is just meant to be.

When she recovered, Nanima gushed forth, slipping between Punjabi and Urdu, with the occasional word of English tossed in, like a bit of mango pickle, to spice up the conversation. She told her grandson about all the marriages, deaths, court cases and mental cases that had hit every branch of the family, most of whom Jack had never heard of. As she spoke Jack considered how to bring up the reason for his unannounced return to Pakistan. How to get her to shell out the cash? Does she even have the dough? She’s got to, look at this place. The servants and that Land Cruiser in the drive. No sweat. She’s got it but how do I borrow me some of it?

Nanima was explaining how a cousin, Shahid, had a house in F7 that was vacant and how he had been meaning to clean it up and sell it. ‘But I will make sure he gives it to you, beta. You can live there indefinitely.’ She told the houseboy to bring the phone so she could call Shahid right away and tell him the good news. Her grandson had come back from America, so handsome and smart and all.

‘Nanima,’ Jack coughed. He set his cup on the squat onyx-topped table and adjusted himself in the rigid, uncomfortable chair.

‘Ji, beta. What is it?’

‘I’m happy to stay here with you. Don’t bother Shahid. You see I’m back but not for long.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Two months only, three at the most.’

‘After a lifetime you return for three months! Stay three years then we can think of releasing you again.’ She reached over and tugged once again at the flesh on his cheek. ‘So sweet you are, beta.’

‘I’d love to, really, but you know how it is. The reason I’ve come is,’ now how do I phrase this?, ‘business.’

She was motioning urgently for the houseboy to bring the phone closer so she could dial Shahid. ‘We are a business minded family.’

‘I’ve come here to make some contacts. The business will be in Chicago. Where I live in America.’

‘But what sort of life are you living there?’ Nanima shot yet another glance at Jack’s sock-free feet. ‘Are you married again? Who is looking after you? Tell me beta, eh? There is more to life than making money. That is where your father went wrong, beta. Isn’t it? You forget business for some time and just relax here in your homeland. Your associates can manage your affairs while you are here. Shahid is saying the world is all remote control now, push this button from Karachi and the money flies to London. Fsshhh.’ She made a hissing sound with her old lips and an unexpectedly lively sweep of her arm. ‘No need for walking about, this and that. You stay in Pakistan and do your remote control button, push push, from here.’

‘I’m here to meet some people who can help me expand my business.’

‘Who are these people?’

How could he tell her the truth? That his ‘associates’ were ex-cons, flake dealers and junkies. Big time losers and scam freaks.

‘Got a few names and ideas.’

She commanded the houseboy to dial a number and grabbed the phone from him while he was in the midst of doing it. ‘Ideas. Names,’ she muttered. She let loose another galloping string of words to someone on the other end of the line. Shahid probably. The name didn’t ring a bell. Whose kid is he anyway? Nanima hung up. ‘Shahid will come round just now. He’s so happy that you are here again.’

‘Who is Shahid?’

‘Auntie Hafeeza’s eldest, beta. Shahid Malik. He is a journalist and the owner of some business.’

The sketch did nothing for Jack. ‘I feel strange to impose on someone I’ve never met.’

‘Families never impose. What nonsense you speak, beta. Go wash now. Shahid will be here soon.’ She terminated the conversation with another grand swooping gesture.

Jack hadn’t counted having to do the social rounds. The prodigal son comes home. Ah man! Just need the cash, do the deal and get me back in Chicago. Plus, Jack wondered, how much did this Shahid know about him?

\*\*\*\*\*

Shahid, twenty eight years old, assistant editor of the Capital Crescent tabloid, exclusive provincial distributor for several mobile phone companies, hereditary multimillionaire, single, overweight and bored, wore a light cotton waistcoat over white shalwar qameez and finely crafted leather sandals. His pudgy cheeks suggested a person rotted by excessive comfort. Shahid’s expression reminded Jack of a puppy, eager to please and waiting for a pat of reassurance. Nanima had said Shahid was glad to have Jack back in town, but it was obvious that his cousin had never heard of him until Nanima had called.

The houseboy laid out another round of tea and cakes but Jack didn’t touch the stuff. He was thinking it was time for a Bloody Mary or even just a beer. Shahid was asking Jack about his business and said that he hoped to visit America himself next year, after he got married. Shahid’s English was good but you could tell by the way his deep brown eyes stopped moving around in his tubby face that he had no idea what some of Jack’s expressions meant. They talked and shared a couple of smokes from a packet of 555s. ‘A British brand,’ Shahid said with pride but to Jack the tobacco tasted stale.

‘You are most welcome to stay in our house in F7. Only we will need some time to carry out the necessary repairs.’

‘Be gone by the time the place is ready…don’t bother.’

‘You must stay for some time with us. Don’t disappear so quickly. We are your family.’

Jack knew he wouldn’t be able tolerate too many happy conversations with long lost cousins like Shahid. ‘I’ve come back to take care of business, not for a family reunion. No offence, dude.’

Jack picked a tiny piece of dry tobacco from between his teeth and smiled numbly at his cousin. That was the very reason he’d left this screwed up excuse of a country in the first place, to get away from people like Shahid. People who tried to act sophisticated but smoked stale English cigarettes. People with absolutely no clue about the world beyond their air-conditioned sitting rooms filled with doily-covered, overstuffed ghastly furniture. People who liked to invoke the ‘family’ word so they could get you to act and think and live like them. What did rich boy Shahid understand about the life Jack lived back in the States? Scrambling, hustling, no back up, no safety net. No one to lean on. Families don’t impose Nanima had said. Though he respected granny, Jack’s experience had taught him that imposing was exactly the thing families did.

‘I’m in and out. Lots of contacts to make, things to sort out. Won’t have time to set up house.’

Shahid shook a gold watch that dangled from his wrist, checked the time, and figured he’d almost reached the point where he could get back to work without being too rude. He lit another cigarette and asked, ‘What is your business in Chicago?’

‘Diversified services,’ said Jack, surprising even himself.

‘What sort of services?’

‘Commodities. Purchasing and distribution. Some logistics. Whole shooting match.’

‘Business climate is good in Chicago?’

‘Excellent. That’s why I can’t stay too long here.’ Jack was searching the room for a piece of furniture that looked like a liquor cabinet. Nanima had always been a strict Muslim but Nanaji, her husband, had died of a bad liver. Maybe Nanaji had left some booze behind in some forgotten nook.

‘Who are your contacts, may I ask?’ Shahid exhaled through his nose then itched the end of it as if the smoke tickled him.

Jack mumbled that he’d be meeting them soon; Shahid didn’t pursue it. He was interested in leaving now; the time was up.

‘OK, Jack, I’m off. Very nice to meet you again. I will contact Nanima about the house. Khuda hafez.’

Jack waved weakly as Shahid closed the door behind him. ‘Diversified Services. Distribution and Procurement. Damn, I’m good!’

\*\*\*\*\*

The soft but steady monotone of his grandmother reciting her prayers in her room upstairs wakened Jack, who had fallen asleep on the sofa. He shivered. Feel weird, man. The tears that morning had come from some place inside he didn’t even know was sad. But he had felt warm and safe and like a child again when Nanima hugged him. But now that he’d had a bit of a nap and realised where exactly he was, Jack was having second thoughts. You’re a fish out of the water here. For a second he saw the lakefront in Chicago and his favorite bar, Guido’s Italian Saloon, down on Division Street. He was sipping a glass of Chablis and shooting the shit with whoever happened to be hanging out. A depression, as clammy and shadowy as the clouds outside, came over him at the thought of having to spend many long evenings in this strange, boozeless city. Don’t know a goddam soul. How the hell am I going to make it?

Nanima finished her recitation and came downstairs for dinner but by eight, was back upstairs in bed. There was nothing on TV except for some Urdu soap opera which Jack watched just for something to do. The news came on saying that the Prime Minister was on a trip to Singapore and Malaysia accompanied by key advisers. In one of the group shots of the delegation arriving in Malaysia, Jack caught a glimpse of his father, smiling like a hungry fox and standing right behind the Prime Minister. Maybe the Prime Minister’s plane will crash and kill every last one of his key advisers. The Pakistan cricket team had a new captain but had lost its second One Day against Australia. The weather report predicted the monsoon would start within forty-eight hours. When the news was over, a panel of serious-expressioned men in waistcoats and furry hats and thick brush-like beards set about discussing some fine points of Islamic law. Is it Islamic, wondered Jack, for fathers to beat their sons?

The phone rang.

‘Hello,’ Jack said.

‘Is that you, Jack? I am Shahid, speaking.’

‘No, this is Nanima. Jack can’t come to the phone...he’s lost his mind already.’

‘Haha, right. Of course, a silly question.’ Shahid seemed bouncier than this morning. Could he be a bit tipsy?

‘What’s up dude?’ Jack was glad for someone to talk to even if it was Shahid.

There was a party going on, at Mads and Nita’s place, Shahid said. He’s Danish and works for the UN and she’s Bengali and does nothing except get stoned all day. Haha. Haha.

He was tipsy, no doubt about that. ‘What you waiting for, my man? Let’s party.’

‘I’ll come to pick you up soon. Cheerio. Haha