We are first off the plane but there is a press of people behind us. Mike grabs my hand luggage and Mahsood grabs my documents and passport.
‘Follow close, please …’ Mahsood takes off at speed through the masses pouring off incoming flights. Mike and I dash after him as he navigates a passage through the crowds.
‘Don’t take your eyes off his back,’ Mike says. ‘Or we will lose him.’
Easy to say, but there are people pushing in all directions, struggling with parcels and bundles and small children, all pushing relentlessly forward before coming to an anxious halt at one of the numerous security checks.
Mahsood guides us to the head of a queue, like VIPs. We stand awkwardly to one side as he offers up our passports to moustached officials. Even Mahsood cannot hurry the deliberately slow perusal of our papers. Dark eyes flick over us from stiff official faces. I am relieved when we eventually reach the baggage carousel.
‘My God,’ I say to Mike. ‘I wouldn’t like to go through this airport on my own.’
‘It’s hell. I wouldn’t even try without Mahsood.’
Mahsood keeps us close to him like a sheepdog, his eyes ranging nervously across the airport as if danger might come from any direction. When I ask to go to the lavatory, he comes to the door and stands guard until I return.
As we wait for our luggage Mike chats to some PAA airport officials. Other than the briefest of nods I remain unacknowledged. I feel like a stranded alien in the middle of a dizzying island of chaos and I have my first glimpse of what it might be like to be a woman in Pakistan.
I am relieved when we have our luggage and Mahsood is herding us briskly out of the terminal. It is early evening and the sun is low. There is the smell of dust and petrol and, faintly, of sewerage. The world is tinged in an orange glow and I feel a visceral pull, as if I am standing on the edge of a still photograph about to plunge into lives both unknown and familiar.
Mike smiles at me. ‘Okay? The worst bit is over!’
Armed soldiers are weaving between the taxis, looking into the boots of cars. I can see there is a heavily guarded checkpoint in and out of the airport. Mike had not mentioned there were guns everywhere. It is a bit of a shock.
Noor, Mike’s Pashtun driver, is standing by his car waiting for us.
‘Welcome to Pakistan, mem.’
He is a young, stocky man with extraordinary, luminous green eyes and a big smile.
‘Thank you.’ I hold out my hand and Noor grasps it.
Mahsood climbs into the front seat and the car is waved through the checkpoint. Mike leans towards me.
‘Gabby, women don’t offer their hands to men in Pakistan. I just thought I would tell you …’
‘Oh,’ I say, surprised. ‘Noor did not seem to mind.’
Mike laughs. ‘Of course he didn’t mind. He will have taken it as a compliment …’
After a few miles, Noor turns off the dusty road and stops in the middle of a treeless square. Apartments as bleak and lifeless as a Russian suburb rise up in the distance. Mahsood slides out of the car and disappears into the shadows like a moth.
I stare after him. ‘That’s spooky. Where does he go? It’s pure John le Carré …’
‘I presume Mahsood lives in one of those flats,’ Mike says.
As we join the main throughway traffic thunders with frightening speed on both sides of the car. There are entire families on motorcycles weaving and wobbling through the traffic. Toddlers are wedged between their parents; babies are literally dangling over handlebars.
Mike and Noor laugh at my horrified face. ‘It still rush hour, mem,’ Noor says.
Fascinated, I peer out of the window at the explosion of vehicles and roar of sound. Intricately painted buses, lopsided with people, sway past like decorated elephants. I catch glimpses of gold-ringed fingers and frangipani bangles on thin wrists. Everywhere there are fleeting flashes of colour like the sun blazing through trees. There are saris and shalwar kameez, in red, gold and aquamarine.
Eyes rest for fleeting seconds on mine as they shoot past. Rings glitter on exquisite noses. Dupattas are drawn over glossy dark hair. Horns blare, insults are exchanged, accidents averted by a whisker. This is not so much a journey but an abrupt and terrifying assault on the senses. I am captivated.
When we reach the gates of the Hotel Shalimar there is a checkpoint. Armed security guards peer into the bonnet of the car and run a bomb detector over the passenger seats and floor and then under the car.
We drive up a small drive with another ramp and Noor parks outside the large glass entrance. He places our luggage on an X-ray conveyer belt that slides into the hotel. A uniformed doorman scans Mike’s wallet, my bag and our mobile phones.
I follow Mike through the glass doors. It certainly is a secure hotel. The foyer has a marbled floor and is full of lighted chandeliers, potted plants and soft music. Two women in beautiful shalwar kameez stand smiling behind the reception desk.
‘Mr Michael! Welcome back! Welcome, welcome, Mrs Michael, to the Shalimar Hotel! We are so happy that you have come to visit Karachi …’
I can see Mike is pleased at their effusive welcome.
‘Gabby, this is Rana, the head receptionist at the Shalimar, and this is Pansy, Rana’s able assistant. They are magicians and will find you anything you need …’
Rana, the older woman, shakes my hand. She has a sweet open face. ‘Indeed, Mrs Michael, we are here to help …’
Pansy places her hands together in a shy bow. She is well named. She is an exotic little flower.
A boy puts our luggage on a trolley and then heads for the lifts.
‘It’s good to be back,’ Mike calls to the two women as he guides me after him. ‘Thank you both for a lovely welcome …’
‘Please, to let us know if anything is missing for the comfort of your wife, Mr Michael …’ Rana calls after us as the lift doors open.
In the lift, Mike starts to laugh. ‘Rana and Pansy are usually off-duty by this time. They were obviously determined to catch a glimpse of you before they went home. Rana can seem a bit overwhelming in her desire to help, but it is the hospitable Pakistani way. She genuinely wants everyone in the hotel to feel at home …’
On the third floor we walk down a long empty corridor. Mike puts his card in the lock of a door and pushes it open. He waves me inside with a little flourish and tips the boy with the luggage.
The main room is huge, with picture windows from floor to ceiling that frame the reddening city below. There are dusty crimson drapes everywhere, even around the double bed that lies in state at one end.
It is as if time has stopped. The rooms are full of dust motes caught in the last swirling rays of the sun. Everything is faded by sunlight. A defunct old fan is still attached to the ceiling. I can almost feel the colonial swish of it displacing the air.
The shabby drapes hold a hint of tobacco smoke deep in their folds. I turn round in the middle of the room, captivated by a feeling of other lives, other tongues, lost worlds.
In the shadows lies a disappeared Pakistan, filled with dignitaries who drank and smoked and partied with impunity. There is a little smoking room with sagging sofas and two bathrooms with yellowing cracked baths.
There is such an evocative, dilapidated glamour in Mike’s new home. A place frozen in time; a place of ghosts, a place to paint, to write books or dream.
Mike is watching me. ‘I know it’s a bit shabby …’
I turn and stare at him. ‘Shabby? It’s wonderful,