Gatsby

Maha Khan Phillips

 

The music was loud, so loud that she felt the road vibrating underneath her when she got out of the car. They were playing something with a heavy base, something completely incongruous, considering the theme of the party. She shouted into Ahmed’s ear. “Does your friend not realise there was no Hip Hop in Gatsby’s time?”

Her brother pushed her away with practised ease. “Stop being a snob, Ra. It’s New Years’ Eve. Try and have some fun, for once.”

She let him take the lead, weaving his way through the piles of Toyota Corollas and Pajeros that were parked haphazardly all the way down the badly lit street, towards the deceptively small white gate behind which the music was blaring. “I’m just saying, what’s the point of inviting everyone to a Great Gatsby themed party and then having music like this?”

Ahmed stopped and looked at her, and rolled his eyes. “Did you really think three hundred Karachiites want to hang around and listen to jazz? Stop being such a loser, yaar. The point is Prohibition. It’s ironic. Do you know how hard it was for Saqib to get a hold of enough Black Label for tonight? Every bootlegger was out. He had to pay double to that dodgy Korean diplomat who sells his rations.” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you want me to drive you home?”

“No,” she said, reluctantly. Yes. That was exactly what she wanted him to do.

The narrow entrance to Saqib’s house was jam packed with revellers. From the corner of her eye, she could see Anita Thanawalla, already having trouble walking. Her navy blue flapper dress was all glitz and sequins, and she was wearing killer stilettos. Her headband was askew, the feather pointing to the left, instead of straight up.

Anita’s eyes lit up. “Ra! Darling! We haven’t seen you in like forever! Not since Batul…” She flushed. “Well. How are you? I’m so glad you’re finally going out again. You’ve become the opposite of a vampire. Only seen in daylight.”

“Ahmed dragged me.”

Anita looked sympathetic, but was swaying slightly. “I know it’s been tough. She’s my friend too, Ra. But life has to go on. Come on, let’s drink voddy the way we all used to in the good old days, before we could afford wine. We’ll dance our worries away just like the woman in The Great Gatsby did. What a good movie that was. I wonder who thought of it.”

Ra felt Anita’s arms around her and didn’t protest, allowing herself to be pushed forward into the human tide, though in the end, it was her pushing Anita in an attempt to keep her upright. Anita never knew when to stop.

They found themselves in a large front garden, standing under a white marquee lit with hundreds of elegant fairy lights. Its canvas sides were painted with art deco motifs, and there were vases full of daisies and roses on tall round tables. Everything was white and silver, the vases, the flowers, the crystal. It was impressive, even she had to admit that. People had made an effort to dress for the occasion: flappers, gangsters, feathered boas, fringes and tiaras were in abundance. Even the bearers were dressed up in something akin to white tuxedos. This was new. Normally, it was the Sind Club types you would see at these parties, keeping their faces as bland as possible as they poured whisky paani for Club members. These white tuxedo wearing waiters—whoever they were—were carrying around trays of champagne glasses like pros, and no doubt, by the end of the winter social season, anyone who was anyone would be smartening up their staff. Ahmed hadn’t been exaggerating. Saqib really was loaded.

“Fun na?” said Anita, glazed eyed and giggly. “Saqib had an events company flown in from Malaysia to arrange all this, can you imagine? Well, that’s what I’m told. I haven’t actually met the guy yet.” Anita winked. “I’m going to go powder my nose, do you want to come?”

“No thanks.” She could just imagine how many people were already hovering around the bathroom, waiting to get in and do blow. Anita disappeared into the throng, and Ra looked at her brother, who was sweating under his hat, vest, and double-breasted woollen suit. “Just how do you know this guy again?”

Ahmed took off the hat and fanned his face. “Are you going to judge him because he isn’t a member of the Club?”

“Of course not, don’t be silly. I just… I’m surprised our paths have never crossed.”

“Saqib is new in town Ra, I told you that. He used to live in New York. You’ll like him, I promise. He’s just set up an asset management business and he’s going to make all of us some money—he’s got some foreign investors who want to allocate to real estate in Karachi. As I’ve told you before, it’s a good time to be in the market, if you want to diversify your portfolio and take a bit of value-added risk.”

Ra loved her brother, but Ahmed could be so pompous when he talked about his banking job. “I’m not judging, I’m just asking. How does he know so many people in Karachi already?”

Ahmed shrugged. “He’s got booze, a never ending supply. What else do people need to know? Come on, come and meet him, and you’ll see. He’s a great guy.”

She followed her brother once again, right into the middle of the marquee, where the crush of party-goers was at its most intense and where she was surrounded by a haze of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. Ahmed got distracted, pulled into a conversation with an old school friend, and Ra hung around aimlessly for a moment. She felt awkward. Once upon a time, she had been better at this. But that was then. In the days when Batul helped her laugh at herself and take life less seriously. Batul was the party animal, not her.

Was?

She needed some air. She left her brother and left the marquee altogether. She decided to walk by the side of the garden, where she might be alone to catch her breath. How had she already started thinking of Batul in the past tense?

She passed a group of men in shalwar kameez, who were drinking tea on a charpoi. They were either drivers or guards or house staff, she imagined. Ra felt their gaze on her, and flushed. Her dress was pretty short. But it had been all she could pull together for a flapper costume. She should have just come in jeans.

There was a small alleyway, leading, presumably, to the back garden or the staff quarters. She could still hear the music, the tinkle of laughter coming from the party. But it was darker here, and she could see the night sky, feel the sea breeze on her face. It was a welcome relief.

“Are you lost?”

She hadn’t noticed there was a man there, lounging against something—a water geyser—she thought. He was about her age, and had a sharp, angular face. His designer stubble was perfectly manicured. The man was smoking a cigar and was dressed in a beige suit and a green embroidered vest. His shoes had spats on them and he was even wearing a newsboy hat. Everything about him was immaculate, a perfect homage to the 1920s.

“Are you Saqib?”

He appraised her slowly, and then put his cigar out against the wall. “Well, that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“There are four hundred people here, did you know?”

“I thought about three hundred, actually.”

“Nope, I invited three hundred, but four hundred have turned up, my chowkidar’s been counting them on the way in. And you must know them all, if you can pin me down as the one strange face, the newcomer. You’re a tight society, aren’t you?”

“So you are Saqib.”

“And you are Ra.”

“How did you…”

He took a step towards her. “In ancient Egypt, Ra was the God of the Sun. The most powerful being of them all. All forms of life were believed to have been created by Ra, who called each of them into existence by speaking their sacred names. Ra was only truly powerful in daylight though. Nut was the goddess of the night sky, and was covered with stars that touched different parts of her body. Perhaps I should call you Nut, from now on.”

She took a step back. “How did you know who I was?”

He followed her, closing the space between them. Then he stopped and giggled. “Relax. I saw you with your brother earlier. I knew he had a sister named Ra, so I put two and two together.” He stuck out his hand. “I’m Saqib. People around here don’t shake hands so much as air kiss on the cheeks, but I’m still getting used to all that.”

She shook back, automatically. “Can I ask you something, Saqib?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why are you here?”

He crossed his arms and went back to leaning against the wall. “My parents are from Karachi. I grew up abroad, but I’ve returned to set up my business. There’s a lot of potential here, you know. Fastest growing world economy, etc. But… I’m sure you know all that already, the way the gossip vine works.”

“I mean—sorry, I mean, why are you at the back of your house in the darkness. All your guests must be keen to spend time with you.”

He looked amused. “We both know that’s not true. They’re here because they are curious, and because they want to indulge.”

“Then why…”

“Why what?”

She waved her arms around. “Why all this? What’s the point?”

He shrugged. “It’s good for business, and an easy way to mainstream into this closed society of yours. I’m not well connected yet, but I need to be, if I’m to invest here. I know how it works. Contacts are everything. I’ll go press some flesh in a bit. And nobody is going to forget my name in a while.”

“Money is everything,” she corrected him.

“What?”

“You’ll find that these days in Karachi, money is everything. You can easily buy contacts if you have money.”

“In that case, I’ll be fine. But tell me, why are you here?”

“Ahmed insisted I come. I’ve been a little… reclusive of late.”

“I meant, why are you here, at the back of my house?”

“Oh, sorry,” she flushed. “I don’t feel particularly social.”

“Neither do I.”

They looked at each other for a long moment. Then slowly, he offered her his hand. “Shall I give you the Grand Tour?”

 

 

The inside of Saqib’s house was a revelation.

“I see now why you know so much about the Egyptian Gods,” Ra exclaimed, as she walked into his drawing room. There were antiquities—beautifully displayed and lit—in cabinets against all the walls. An alabaster statue of an Egyptian pharaoh, some writings of hieroglyphics, some seals and tablets that she immediately recognised as being from the Indus Valley Civilisation. Many things she didn’t recognise—a bull with gold horns, and a face carved from stone and etched in gold leaf. There was a large, antique globe in one corner. Everything smelt of leather, of old world charm, it was almost…like some scene from a novel by Jules Verne.

She stared at the bull with the gold horns and he came and stood beside her. “Minoan,” he said. “I’ve always loved the Minoans. But not as much as the Egyptians. They really were special.”

She was conscious of his breath against her neck, of his hand casually placed on her shoulder. He smelt of fresh laundry and a spicy cologne.

“So… like, are you actually Indiana Jones?”

He laughed and moved away from her, towards an ornate bar. “I wish! I’m just someone who is passionate about antiquity. It’s a family business—Aba was a historian, before he became a buyer for the Smithsonian. We travelled all around the world when I was a child, collecting antiquities. Imagine his disappointment when I told him I was going to become a banker. Drink?”

“No thanks,” she said.

“Do you mind if I have one?”

She shook her head, and watched as he busied himself at the bar. “So all these antiquities are yours?”

“Most of them—some I pinched some from Aba over the years, and one or two I’ll sell on—Aba launched his own business a few years ago and I get involved from time to time as a middle man. The truth is, it’s far more interesting than banking. I thought about leaving all my pieces in New York—I hear there’s a crime spree happening in Karachi. But I just couldn’t be parted from them. They’re part of my psyche, you know what I mean?”

He came over with his drink, which was pink and had a cherry and an umbrella in it. She looked up at him, amused.

He smiled, and it crinkled his entire face, in the best kind of way. Laughter lines. He had laughter lines, everywhere. “I know, I know, no self-respecting Pakistani male drinks anything that isn’t whisky. I like cocktails, particularly cocktails that look old school. Do you want to try a Gin Rickey? It’s what Gatsby used to drink. Or I make a mean Mojito. Are you sure you won’t have something?”

“Alright then,” she said, surprising herself. “I’ll have a vodka with lime please.”

He looked disappointed. “You could have at least given me a challenge.” He made her drink and brought it over. “You know; a little grenadine would really make that delicious.”

She couldn’t help but smile, even as she shook her head. “I’ll stick to the vodka thanks.” She took a sip of the drink, wincing a little as she did.

“No good?”

“It’s fine. Just stronger than I remember. I haven’t drunk in a while.”

“Any particular reason?”

They had moved now to the sofa and she sat down, tucking her legs underneath her. She looked at him again. He was not at all what she had expected him to be, this eccentric antiquities-loving financier who unashamedly drank pink cocktails with umbrellas in them in a city where people would lose all respect for him. Maybe it was the strong drink, or the dim-lit room, so cosy with all its antiquities and the smell of cigar smoke, but she felt herself relax, for the first time in weeks.

“My best friend is missing,” she blurted. Well, she hadn’t expected to be telling him that.

He put his drink down carefully. “Oh?”

“Her name is Batul. Batul Alibhai. She teaches history at the Lyceum. Actually she studied archaeology at university—you would like her, and she would love all this,” she waved her hands around the room. “Five weeks ago she left work, and she never came home. There’s been no sign of her car, and no sign of her.”

“She was kidnapped?”

Ra swallowed. “We assume so, but we kept waiting for a ransom demand, this being Karachi. But it hasn’t come, and the authorities are not optimistic that it will. Her parents are besides themselves. It’s… it’s tough, not knowing. The waiting. I’ve reconciled myself to the fact that there may be bad news. But the not knowing…”

She looked down at her lap. How could she explain what it was like? She had met Batul at school, at the age of seven. Back then, Ra had been so shy, she made wallflowers look like dancing queens. Then Batul had come along, larger than life, full of gusto, always ready for an adventure. And to her complete shock, Batul had singled her out. “You’re an old soul,” she’d said.

“What does that mean?” Ra had asked.

Batul had shrugged. “I dunno exactly, but it means we should be best friends forever.”

And just like that, they were. How could she explain what a gift Batul had been, that losing her was like losing a sister, walking around with a phantom limb that ached the whole time?

She blinked when she realised that Saqib had put his hand on hers. “I’m so sorry. Could she have been taken by someone she knows? An old boyfriend perhaps, or a greedy uncle? What do the police say?”

She shook her head. “No boyfriends or uncles, not that I ever knew about. We don’t even know if it was planned or a crime of opportunity.”

“I can’t even imagine how you feel.”

“Thanks. It’s just… it’s Karachi. People move on, you know? I just… I just can’t…” There was something building between them, something tangible, Ra could almost feel it. Was he going to kiss her? He looked like he wanted to. He was certainly looking at her intently enough. Did she want him to? Another time maybe, another time when she so dreadfully sad. Besides, her head felt pleasantly fuzzy, she felt like she was floating above her body, rather than in it. Why couldn’t she feel her tongue?

“Do you want to see something really special?” he asked.

“What?”

“I have a bigger collection of antiquities in the basement. There’s some stuff I think you’ll really love.”

“You keep your antiquities in your basement? Why?”

“It keeps them cool,” he said simply. “I’ve only been here for a few weeks and I can already say that Karachi heat is unbearable.”

She laughed again, pleased by the distraction. “It’s winter. Just wait until the real heat kicks in.”

He took her hand and she let him, and he guided her down a corridor, and then opened a door. There were steps, leading down. “There’s no light,” she complained. Really, it was getting hard to focus.

“The bulb’s blown. Don’t worry, there’s a switch at the bottom of the stairs.”

He was right. It was cool. The air smelt damper here, and… full of chemicals. When he turned on the light she could see grey concrete walls. And then…

“No.” She simply said. “It can’t be.”

He smiled. “Would you like to see?”

“How is this possible?” Because there, right in front of her was a sarcophagus. The colours were dull and worn, but it was definitely adorned with a painted image of a woman. The woman had long black hair and kohl rimmed eyes. Her face was impassive, and she was bedecked with jewels. Along her body there were images—not hieroglyphics exactly, but pictures of people and gods and birds and things that even Ra, with her limited exposure, knew were Egyptian.

She moved away. It was one thing for the man to drink pink cocktails, but to keep a sarcophagus in his basement? “I…I think we should go back up now. I’m actually not feeling very well.” It was true, she wasn’t. Her whole body felt stiff, and slow.

“Relax,” he said, walking towards the sarcophagus. “It’s not here permanently. This little lady is in transit. She’s going to a wealthy American. He has a collection. You’d be amazed at how many artefacts are actually in wealthy people’s homes.”

“It would be great if we could go back up now.”

“In a minute,” he said pleasantly. “Wait until I show you what’s inside.”

She felt her legs buckle under her. “Saqib, I’m not kidding, I think there’s something really wrong with me. Please, help me up the stairs. Can we go find Ahmed?”

He ignored her, and reached over the sarcophagus, lifting its lid. “Can you see? No? You could at least try to lift yourself up a bit.”

She was panting now. “Are you drunk? Why aren’t you listening to me? For God’s sake do something.” Her fingers were tingling; she couldn’t feel their tips. What the hell was happening to her? She tried hard to focus, but the room turned upside down.

“Not until you see.”

He reached and pulled her up. “Hurry, please,” she muttered, as her world spun. But instead of turning towards the stairs, he moved towards the sarcophagus.

“I’ve lifted the lid. Aren’t you curious to see what’s inside?”

She leaned over the sarcophagus, and then felt the vomit come, so fast she couldn’t stop it. Batul. It was Batul. Or what was left of her, anyway. Her face was a shrunken grey husk, her jaw open, teeth grinning back at her. Her hair was the only unaltered piece of her, thick and long and still in springy waves around her shoulders. “What… what is this? How did she get here?” And then, as it sunk in. “What have you done to her?”

He giggled. “She’s in the first stages of mummification. It will be another two months before she’s completely dried out. Don’t worry about the vomit. I can wipe that off the sides.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” She felt the tears come, hot and fast. “Who are you? What are you?”

He shrugged, pulling her away from the body. “I’ll let you in on a little secret, Ra. I make my money from forgeries. It’s easy to forge things, on the black market. It’s not as though the buyers can openly admit to owning what they have, or get stuff carbon dated. Yet everyone wants to be special, don’t they? To own what others covet, to have their secrets that make them feel superior. The losers don’t even know they’re getting played.”

She half listened to him, through the thudding in her head. He was saying something about his father now… not an antiquities dealer after all, no, but actually a drunken immigrant taxi driver in New Jersey who disgusted Saqib. Saqib was saying something about his childhood, about the hot shame of his beefy thick-fisted father who couldn’t even speak English, about his own gift for copying things, his ability to break art down into each individual brush stroke, each indent of clay. When he got older he put those skills to use, creating miniature bowls and figurines from various ancient civilisations. A two-year affair with an archaeology student in Brooklyn had helped him learn the business.

“I actually had quite a passing trade going, but it was small bucks. I wanted to make it big, you know? What was the point, otherwise? It took me a while to realise all my efforts would be in vain if I didn’t smarten myself up, didn’t learn to look and act the part and reinvent myself. To be honest, that was the hardest bit. When you don’t grow up summering on Martha’s vineyard you really have to work at it. It’s the little things that give you away. But I find I can mimic people as well as I can reproduce things.” He paused. “Are you still listening to me? I hope so, ‘cause this bit’s important, Ra, to your future. You see, I upped my game. Do you know how much a mummy sells for? Let me tell you. $11 million, easy. I only have to sell one or two of these a year and I’m solid. I’m one of you now, rich, indolent, full of affected ennui. It won’t take me long before they accept me at your Club, before I’m on the board of all your charities. All for the price of some clay and camphor and a dead body.”

“Why?” she moaned, desperate now. “Why did you do this to her? Why did you even come here?”

He grunted as he pulled her to the corner of the room. “It was an unfortunate error. A year ago, I became friendly with a man named Charles. He was rich, entitled, and useless. Just like half this society of yours. Charles was an addict; he had really messed up his life. But… he was connected to some of the old New York families, and he helped cement my social standing. Then his family disowned him and I figured, why not put him to good use? It wasn’t as though anyone was going to miss him, and a Qatari royal had already requested that I help him find a mummy. I miscalculated though. His rich absentee Daddy was really upset when he went AWOL. He started tearing the city apart, looking for his son. So I left New York, before anyone came asking questions. It’s easier to operate undetected in a city like Karachi. You were right, Ra. Money is everything in this town. It hasn’t been particularly challenging to pay the right people to look the other way. I’ve set up a hell of an operation already, and, once I’m on the board of all your charities and president of the Club with my new identity firmly in place, I will be well and truly insulated from the events of New York. You all do like to protect your own, don’t you?”

“You’re psychotic.” She tried to move away from him, but her body was like lead. She couldn’t feel her legs now, and her lips were numb too. Think! She had to think. Why was it so hard to think?

He placed her on the floor in the corner where she sank, incapable of moving. “I met Batul at an exhibition at Mohatta Palace, did she never tell you? She was quite the flirt, you know. We hung out a couple of times, talking about archaeology, and then I brought her back here—she wanted to buy the Minoan mask—or at least that was the excuse she used for coming back to my place. I figured we’d hook up, and I’d make a quick sale. Two birds with one stone, type of thing. Unfortunately, she was smarter than she looked, questioning the authenticity of all my pieces. She was asking too many questions, so she had to go.”

His voice was growing fainter. “If you look closely at her, you’ll see that I wasn’t gentle enough with extracting her brain—her whole left eye is saggy—see?”

“I can’t see,” she whispered. “I can’t see anything.” It was true, she realised with a shock. The world had gone black. She tried to lift herself up but fell back, her limbs refusing to obey her anymore. “What have you done to me?”

“Oh that’s just the toxin,” he replied casually. She could hear him moving around, dragging something along the floor of the basement. He was breathing heavily. “It’s temporary, don’t worry. You’ll be unconscious soon. You won’t feel a thing, I promise.”

“What… what will you do?”

“Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve been saying? Batul talked about you so much, in between begging for her life and asking me to end her parent’s suffering by letting her contact them. After I killed her and her eye socket started to droop, I thought, it was meant to be. I probably can’t sell her now, she’s too damaged. But I can start again, put another body in the sarcophagus. I have an eager buyer lined up in Austin already. $11 million! Enough to buy plenty of Karachi real estate.”

She could hear his footsteps, getting closer.

“You can replace her. I already have three of my servants upstairs ready to swear that you left the party and got into a white Corolla that was driven by a girl of Batul’s description. The police will have a field day with that, don’t you think? The two of you running away together?” He giggled. “Maybe your parents will think you were secret lovers. Don’t be sad, Ra. You’ll be reunited with her. Won’t that be nice, at least?”

She tried to scream, but she couldn’t take in enough air.

He leaned over her, peering. “Are you still awake? I need you to be unconscious, I don’t want to leave any marks when I kill you, it’s not good for the process. Blink if you can hear me.”

She couldn’t see. She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. But she could hear him, somewhere in the distance.

And then she was in the air, lifted and swung over his shoulders, and the smell of fresh laundry and spicy cologne intermingled with chemicals made her want to gag, but she was so tired, and everything was numb.

“Christ you’re heavier than I thought you would be. Big boned, are we? Easy does it. I just need… uff what did you eat for dinner? I’ve moved Batul out of the sarcophagus, I just need to see how well you fit in here. Egyptian women were smaller, back then. Oh… great, it’s a tight squeeze but you just about fit. See? It was meant to be.”

Was he whistling? She could hear whistling, or roaring, or something rushing past her ears.

“I’m just going to close this lid for a bit, okay? Bend your knees a bit more, that’s a girl. It’ll be dark in there, but you won’t mind, will you? It’s not like you can see anything. A few minutes in here, and you will run out of air. It will be peaceful, I promise you that, Ra.”

The roaring was gone now, she could hear scraping, wood against wood.

“Good night, Ra. Tell Batul I’m sorry about her eye, when you see her.”

And even though she couldn’t see, she could feel it then. A different kind of darkness. She closed her eyes.