A Son of the Circus

by John Winslow Irving

  “I can’t imagine what’s become of the hippie!” Dr. Daruwalla blurted out suddenly. “It’s inconceivable—a woman like that, with Deputy Commissioner Patel!”

  “Lunch is tempting, if only to see what she looks like… after twenty years,” said Inspector Dhar.

  He’s just acting, thought Dr. Daruwalla. Dhar didn’t care what Nancy looked like; something else was on the actor’s mind.

  “So… you’ll come to lunch?” the doctor asked.

  “Sure. Why not?” the actor said. But Dr. Daruwalla knew that John D. wasn’t as indifferent as he seemed.

  As for Inspector Dhar, he’d never intended to miss the lunch at the Duckworth Club, and he thought he would rather be murdered by Rahul than resign his membership under a threat so coarse that it had to be left in a dead man’s mouth. It was not how Nancy looked that mattered to him; rather, he was an actor—a professional—and even 20 years ago he’d known that Nancy had been acting. She wasn’t the young woman she’d pretended to be. Twenty years ago, even the young John D. could tell that Nancy had been terrified, that she’d been bluffing.

  Now the actor wanted to see if Nancy was still bluffing, if she was still pretending. Maybe now, Dhar thought, Nancy had stopped acting; maybe now, after 20 years, she simply let her terror show.

  Something Rather Odd

  It was 6:45 in the morning when Nancy awoke in her husband’s arms. Vijay was holding her the way she loved to be held; it was the best way for her to wake up, and she was astonished at what a good night’s sleep she’d had. She felt Vijay’s chest against her back; his delicate hands held her breasts, his breath slightly stirred her hair. Detective Patel’s penis was quite stiff, and Nancy could feel its light but insistent pulse against the base of her spine. Nancy knew she was fortunate to have such a good husband, and such a kind one. She regretted how difficult she was to live with; Vijay took such pains to protect her. She began to move her hips against him; it was one of the ways he liked to make love to her—to enter her from behind while she was on her side. But the deputy commissioner didn’t respond to the rolling motion of his wife’s hips, although he truly worshiped her nakedness—her whiteness, her blondness, her voluptuousness. The policeman let go of Nancy’s breasts, and simultaneously (with his retreating from her) she noticed that the bathroom door was open; they always went to sleep with the door closed. The bedroom smelled fresh, like soap; her husband had already had his morning shower. Nancy turned to face Vijay—she touched his wet hair. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

  “It’s almost seven o’clock,” the detective told her.

  Detective Patel was normally out of bed before 6:00; he usually left for Crime Branch Headquarters before 7:00. But this morning he’d let her sleep; he’d showered and then he’d got back into bed beside her. He’d merely been waiting for her to wake up, Nancy thought; yet he hadn’t been waiting to have sex.

  “What are you going to tell me?” Nancy asked him. “What have you not told me, Vijay?”

  “It’s really nothing—just a little lunch,” Patel replied.

  “We are—at the Duckworth Club,” the policeman told her.

  “With the doctor, you mean,” Nancy said.

  “With the actor, too, I imagine,” the detective said.

  “Oh, Vijay. No… not Dhar!” she cried.

  “I think Dhar will be there,” Vijay told her. “They both know Rahul,” he explained. It sounded crude to him, to put it the way he’d said it yesterday, to the doctor (“to compare notes”), and so he said, “It could be valuable, just to hear what all of you remember. There might be some detail that would help me …” His voice trailed off. He hated to see his wife so withdrawn. Then she was suddenly wracked with sobs.

  “We’re not members of the Duckworth Club!” Nancy cried.

  “We’ve been invited—we’re guests,” Patel told her.

  “But they’ll see me, they’ll think I’m horrible,” Nancy moaned.

  “They know you’re my wife. They just want to help,” the deputy commissioner replied.

  “What if Rahul sees me?” Nancy asked him. She was always raising this question.

  “Would you recognize Rahul?” Patel asked. The detective thought it was unlikely that any of them would recognize Rahul, but the question was spurious; Nancy wasn’t in disguise.

  “I don’t think so, but maybe,” Nancy said.

  Deputy Commissioner Patel dressed himself and left her while she was still naked in the bedroom; Nancy was aimlessly searching through her clothes. The dilemma of what she should wear to the Duckworth Club was gradually overwhelming her. Vijay had told her that he would come home from the police station to drive her to the Duckworth Club; Nancy wouldn’t have to get herself there. But the detective doubted that she’d heard him. He’d have to come home early, because he suspected she would still be naked in the bedroom; possibly she’d have progressed to trying on her clothes.

  Sometimes (on her “good days”) she wandered into the kitchen, which was the only room where the sun penetrated the apartment, and she would lie on the countertop in a long patch of sunlight; the sun came through the open window for only two hours of the morning, but it was enough to give her a sunburn if she didn’t apply some protection to her skin. Once, she’d stretched herself out on the countertop, completely naked, and a woman from a neighboring flat had called the police. The caller had described Nancy as “obscene.” After that, she’d always worn something, even if it was only one of Vijay’s shirts. Sometimes she wore sunglasses, too, although she liked to have a nice tan and the sunglasses gave her “raccoon eyes,” she said.

  She never shopped for food, because she said the beggars assailed her. Nancy was a decent cook but Vijay did the shopping. They didn’t believe in grocery lists; he brought home something that appealed to him and she would think of a way to prepare it. Once or twice a month, she went out to buy books. She preferred shopping curbside, along Churchgate and at the intersection of Mahatma Gandhi and Hornby roads. She liked secondhand books best, especially memoirs; her favorite was A Combat Widow of the Raj—a memoir that ended with a suicide note. She also bought a lot of remaindered American novels; for one of these novels, she rarely paid more than 15 rupees—sometimes as little as 5. She said that beggars didn’t bother people who bought books.

  Once or twice a week, Vijay took her out to dinner. Although they’d still not spent all of the dildo money, they thought they couldn’t afford the hotel restaurants, which were the only places where Nancy could feel she was anonymous—among foreigners. Only once had they argued about it; Vijay had told her that he suspected she preferred the hotel restaurants because she could imagine that she was only a tourist, just passing through. He’d accused her of wishing that she didn’t live in India—of wanting to be back in the States. She’d showed him. The next time they went to their regular restaurant—a Chinese place called Kamling, at Churchgate—Nancy had summoned the owner to their table. She’d asked the owner if he knew that her husband was a deputy commissioner; indeed, the Chinese gentleman knew this—Crime Branch Headquarters was nearby, just opposite Crawford Market.

  “Well, then,” Nancy wanted to know, “how come you never offer us a free meal?”

  After that, they always ate there for free; they were treated splendidly, too. Nancy said that, with the money they’d saved, they could afford to go to one of the hotel restaurants—or at least to one of the hotel bars—but they rarely did so. On those few occasions, Nancy mercilessly criticized the food; she would also pick out the Americans and say hateful things about them.

  “Don’t you dare tell me that I want to go back to the States, Vijay,” she said; she only had to say it once. The deputy commissioner never suggested it again, and Nancy could tell he was pleased; all of it had needed saying. This was how they lived, with a delicate passion—with something usually held back. They were so careful. Nancy felt it was unfair that a lunch at the Duckworth Club could completely undo her.

  She put on one
of the dresses that she knew she would never wear to the club; she didn’t bother with underwear, because she supposed she would just keep changing it. Nancy went into the kitchen and made some tea for herself. Then she found her sunglasses and she stretched out on her back in the long patch of sunlight on the countertop. She’d forgotten to put any sunscreen on her face—it was hard to find sunscreen in Bombay—but she told herself that she would lie there for only an hour; in a half hour, she’d take the sunglasses off. She didn’t want “raccoon eyes,” but she wanted Dr. Daruwalla and Inspector Dhar to see that she was healthy, that she took care of herself.

  Nancy wished the apartment had a view; she would have liked to see a sunrise or a sunset. (What were they saving the dildo money for?) Coming from Iowa, Nancy would have especially appreciated a view of the Arabian Sea, which was the view to the west. Instead, she stared out the open window; she could see other women in the windows of other apartments, but they were constantly in motion, too busy to notice her. One day, Nancy hoped she might spot the woman who’d called the police and told them that she was “obscene.” But Nancy didn’t know how she would ever recognize the anonymous caller.

  This thought led her to wondering if she would recognize Rahul; it was of more concern to Nancy that Rahul might recognize her. What if she was alone, just buying a book, and Rahul saw her and knew who she was?

  She lay on the countertop, staring at the sun until it was blocked by an adjacent building. Now I’ll have raccoon eyes, she told herself, but another thought obsessed her: that she would one day be standing right next to Rahul and she wouldn’t know who Rahul was; yet Rahul would know who she was. That was her fear.

  Nancy removed the sunglasses but she remained motionless, on her back on the countertop. She was thinking about the curl to Inspector Dhar’s lip. He had an almost perfect mouth, and she recalled how the curl to his lip had first struck her as friendly, even inviting; then she’d realized he was sneering at her.

  Nancy knew she was attractive to men. In 20 years, she’d gained 15 pounds, but only a woman would have been troubled by the way she’d put on the weight. The 15 pounds had spread themselves over her generously; they hadn’t all ended up in her face, or on the backs of her thighs. Nancy’s face had always been round, but it was still firm; her breasts had always been good—now, for most men, they were better. Certainly, they were bigger. Her hips were a little fuller, her waist a little thicker; the exaggerated curvaceousness of her body lent to her overall figure a voluptuous definition. Her waist, however thickened, still went in; her breasts and her hips still stood out. She was about Dhar’s age, not quite 40, but it was not only her blondness or the fairness of her skin that made her seem younger; it was her nervousness. She was as awkward as a teenager who believes everyone is staring at her. This was because she was convinced that Rahul was watching her, everywhere she went.

  Unfortunately, in a crowd, or in a new place where people would look at her—and people tended to look at her, both men and women—Nancy became so self-conscious that she found it difficult to speak. She thought that people stared at her because she was grotesque; on her good days, she thought she was merely fat. And whenever she was around strangers, she would recall Dhar’s sneer. She’d been a pretty girl then, but he hadn’t noticed; she’d shown him a huge dildo, and she’d asked him (quite suggestively) to unscrew it for her. She’d added that she was sparing him… to not let him see what was inside the thing. Yet, in his sneer, there’d not been the smallest measure of attraction to her; Nancy believed that she’d disgusted him.

  She wandered back into the bedroom, where she removed the unsuitable dress; once again, she stood naked. She was surprised at herself for wanting to look her best for Inspector Dhar; she thought she hated him. But the strangest conviction was compelling her to dress herself for him. She knew he wasn’t a real inspector, but Nancy believed that Dhar had certain powers. Nancy believed that it would not be her beloved husband, Vijay Patel, who would catch the killer; nor would the funny doctor be the hero. There was no reason for it—none beyond the authority of an actor’s sneer—but Nancy believed that Inspector Dhar would be Rahul’s undoing.

  But what exactly did Dhar like? He must like something rather odd, Nancy decided. A faint ridge of blond fuzz extended from her pubic hair to her navel, which was especially long and deep. When Nancy rubbed her belly with coconut oil, this blond streak of fur would darken slightly and become more noticeable. If she wore a sari, she could leave her navel bare. Maybe Dhar would like her furry navel. Nancy knew that Vijay liked it.

  19. OUR LADY OF VICTORIES

  Another Author in Search of an Ending

  The second Mrs. Dogar also suspected Dhar of unconventional sexual interests. It was frustrating to the former Rahul that Inspector Dhar had not returned the recently married woman’s attentions. And although both the disapproving Mr. Sethna and Dr. Daruwalla had observed the unrequited flirtations of Mrs. Dogar, neither gentleman had truly appreciated the seriousness of Mrs. Dogar’s designs. The former Rahul did not suffer rejection lightly.

  While Farrokh had been struggling to begin his first artistic screenplay, his first quality picture, the second Mrs. Dogar had also undertaken the first draft of a story-in-progress; she had hatched a plot. Last night at the Duckworth Club, the second Mrs. Dogar had loudly denounced her husband for having had too much to drink. Mr. Dogar had had no more than his usual one whiskey and two beers; he was surprised at his wife’s accusations.

  “This is your night to drive—this is my night to drink!” Mrs. Dogar had said.

  She’d spoken distinctly, and deliberately in the presence of the ever-disapproving Mr. Sethna—one waiter and one busboy had overheard her, too—and she’d chosen to utter her criticism at a lull in the other conversations in the Ladies’ Garden, where the grieving Bannerjees were the only Duckworthians still dining.

  The Bannerjees had been having a late, sober dinner; the murder of Mr. Lal had upset Mrs. Bannerjee too much to cook, and her intermittent conversation with her husband had concerned what efforts they might make to comfort Mr. Lal’s widow. The Bannerjees would never have guessed that the second Mrs. Dogar’s rude outburst was as premeditated as her intentions to soon join Mrs. Lal in the state of widowhood. Rahul had married Mr. Dogar out of eagerness to become his widow.

  Also deliberately, Mrs. Dogar had turned to Mr. Sethna and said, “My dear Mr. Sethna, would you kindly call us a taxi? My husband is in no condition to drive us home.”

  “Promila, please…” Mr. Dogar began to say.

  “Give me your keys,” Mrs. Dogar commanded him. “You can take a taxi with me or you can call your own taxi, but you’re not driving a car.”

  Sheepishly, Mr. Dogar handed her his ring of keys.

  “Now just sit here—don’t get up and wander around,” Mrs. Dogar told him. Mrs. Dogar herself stood up. “Wait for me,” she ordered her husband—the rejected designated driver. When Mr. Dogar was alone, he glanced at the Bannerjees, who looked away; not even the waiter would look at the condemned drunk, and the busboy had slunk into the circular driveway to smoke a cigarette.

  Rahul timed how long everything took. He—or, rather, she (if outward anatomy is the measure of a man or a woman)—walked into the men’s room by the door from the foyer. She knew no one could be in the men’s room, for none of the wait-staff were permitted to use it—except Mr. Sethna, who so disapproved of peeing with the hired help that he made uncontested use of the facilities marked FOR MEMBERS ONLY. The old steward was more in charge of the Duckworth Club than any member. But Mrs. Dogar knew that Mr. Sethna was busy calling a taxi.

  Since she’d become a woman, Mrs. Dogar didn’t regret not using the men’s room at the Duckworth Club; its decor wasn’t as pleasing to her as the ladies’ room—Rahul loathed the men’s room wallpaper. She found the tiger-hunting motif brutal and stupid.

  She moved past the urinals, the toilet stalls, the sinks for shaving, and into the darkened locker room, which ex
tended to the clubhouse and the clubhouse bar; these latter facilities were never in use at night, and Mrs. Dogar wanted to be sure that she could navigate their interiors in darkness. The big windows of frosted glass admitted the moonlight that reflected from the tennis courts and the swimming pool, which was presently under repair and not in service; it was an empty cement-lined hole with some construction debris in the deep end, and the members were already betting that it wouldn’t be ready for use in the hotter months ahead.

  Mrs. Dogar had sufficient moonlight to unlock the rear door to the clubhouse; she found the right key in less than a minute—then she relocked the door. This was just a test. She also found Mr. Dogar’s locker and unlocked it; it took the smallest key on the ring, and Mrs. Dogar discovered that she could easily find this key by touch. She unlocked and relocked the locker by touch, too, although she could see everything in the moonlight; one night, she might not have the moon.

  Rahul could quite clearly make out the shrine of old golf clubs displayed on the wall. These were the clubs of famous Golfers Past and of some living, less famous Duckworthians who had retired from active play. Mrs. Dogar needed to assure herself that these clubs could be easily removed from the wall. After all, it had been a while since Rahul had visited the men’s locker room; she hadn’t been there since she’d been a boy. When she’d handled a few of the clubs to her satisfaction, she went back into the men’s room—after assuring herself that neither Mr. Sethna nor Mr. Bannerjee was using the facilities. She knew her husband wouldn’t leave the table in the Ladies’ Garden; he did what he was told.

  When she could see (from the men’s room) that there was no one in the foyer, she returned to the Ladies’ Garden. She went directly to the Bannerjees’ table—they weren’t friends of the Dogars’s—and she whispered to them, “I’m sorry for my outspokenness. But when he’s like this, he’s virtually a baby—he’s so senile, he’s not to be trusted. And not only in a car. One night, after dinner—he had all his clothes on—I stopped him just before he dove into the club pool.”