A Son of the Circus

by John Winslow Irving

  When Dhar asked the Sorabjees’ daughter to dance, a new tension could be felt throughout the main dining room and the Ladies’ Garden. Even with her back to the action, Nancy knew that something unscripted had happened.

  “He’s asked someone else to dance, hasn’t he?” she said; her face and the nape of her neck were flushed.

  “Who’s that young girl? She’s not part of our plan!” said Detective Patel.

  “Trust him—he’s a great improviser,” the screenwriter said. “He always understands who he is and what his role is. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Nancy was pinching a pearl on her necklace; her thumb and index finger were white. “You bet he knows,” she said Julia turned around, but she couldn’t see the ballroom—only the look of loathing that was unconcealed on Mrs. Dogar’s face.

  “It’s little Amy Sorabjee—she must be back from school,” Dr. Daruwalla informed his wife.

  “She’s only a teenager!” Julia cried.

  “I think she’s a little older,” the real policeman replied.

  “It’s a brilliant move!” the screenwriter said. “Mrs. Dogar doesn’t know what to think!”

  “I know how she feels,” Nancy told him.

  “It’ll be all right, sweetie,” the deputy commissioner told his wife. When he took her hand, she pulled it away.

  “Am I next?” Nancy asked. “Do I wait in line?”

  Almost every face in the main dining room was turned toward the ballroom. They watched the unstoppable sweating movie star with his bulky shoulders and his beer belly; he was twirling little Amy Sorabjee around as if she were no heavier than her clothes.

  Although the Sorabjees and the Daruwallas were old friends, Dr. and Mrs. Sorabjee had been surprised at Dhar’s spur-of-the-moment invitation—and that Amy had accepted. She was a silly girl in her twenties, a former university student who hadn’t merely come home for the holiday; she’d been withdrawn from school. Granted, Dhar wasn’t mashing her; the actor was behaving like a proper gentleman—excessively charming, possibly, but the young lady seemed delighted. Theirs was a different kind of dancing from Dhar’s performance with Muriel; the friskiness of the youthful girl was appealingly offset by the sure, smooth quality of the older man’s gestures.

  “Now he’s seducing children!” Mr. Dogar announced to his wife. “He’s going to dance his way through all the women—I’m sure he’ll ask you, too, Promila!”

  Mrs. Dogar was visibly upset. She excused herself for the ladies’ room, where she was reminded of how she hated this aspect of being a woman—waiting to pee. There was too long a line; Rahul slipped through the foyer and into the closed and darkened administrative offices of the old club. There was enough moonlight for her to type by, and she rolled a two-rupee note into the typewriter that was nearest a window. On the money, the typed message was as spontaneous as her feelings at the moment.

  A MEMBER NO MORE

  This was a message meant for Dhar’s mouth, and Mrs. Dogar slipped it into her purse where it could keep company with the message she’d already typed for her husband.

  …BECAUSE DHAR IS STILL A MEMBER

  It comforted Mrs. Dogar to have these two-rupee notes in place; she always felt better when she was prepared for every contingency. She slipped back through the foyer and into the ladies’ room, where the line ahead of her wasn’t so long. When Rahul returned to her table in the main dining room, Dhar was dancing with a new partner.

  Mr. Sethna, who’d been happily monitoring the conversation between the Dogars, was thrilled to note Mr. Dogar’s observation to his coarse wife: “Now Dhar’s dancing with that hefty Anglo who came with the Daruwallas. I think she’s the white half of a mixed marriage. Her husband looks like a pathetic civil servant.”

  But Mrs. Dogar was prevented from seeing the new dancers. Dhar had wheeled Nancy into the part of the ballroom that wasn’t visible from the main dining room. Only intermittently did a glimpse of them appear. Earlier, Rahul had taken little notice of the big blonde. When Mrs. Dogar glanced at the Daruwallas’ table, the Daruwallas were bent in conversation with the out-of-place “pathetic civil servant,” as her husband had described him. Maybe he was a minor magistrate, Rahul guessed—or some controlling little guru who’d met his Western wife in an ashram.

  Then Dhar and the heavy woman danced into view. Mrs. Dogar sensed the strength with which they gripped each other—the woman’s broad hand held fast to Dhar’s neck, and the biceps of his right arm was locked in her armpit (as if he were trying to lift her up). She was taller than he was; from the way she grasped his neck, it was impossible for Rahul to tell if Nancy was pulling Dhar’s face into the side of her throat or if she was struggling to prevent him from nuzzling her. What was remarkable was that they were whispering fiercely to each other; neither one of them was listening, but they were talking urgently and at the same time. When they danced out of her sight again, Rahul couldn’t stand it; Mrs. Dogar asked her husband to dance.

  “He’s got her! I told you he could do it,” said Dr. Daruwalla.

  “This is only the beginning,” the deputy commissioner replied. “This is just the dancing.”

  Happy New Year

  Fortunately for Mr. Dogar, it was a slow dance. His wife steered him past several faltering couples, who were disconcerted that Muriel’s fallen sequins still crunched underfoot Mrs. Dogar had Dhar and the big blonde in her sights.

  “Is this in the script?” Nancy was whispering to the actor. “This isn’t in the script, you bastard!”

  “We’re supposed to make something of a scene—like an old lovers’ quarrel,” Dhar whispered.

  “You’re embracing me!” Nancy told him.

  “You’re squeezing me back,” he whispered.

  “I wish I was killing you!” Nancy whispered.

  “She’s here,” Dhar said softly. “She’s following us.”

  With a pang, Rahul observed that the blond wench had gone limp in Dhar’s arms—and she’d been resisting him; that had been obvious. Now it appeared to Mrs. Dogar that Dhar was supporting the heavy woman; the blonde might otherwise have fallen to the dance floor, so lifelessly was she draped on the actor. She’d thrown her arms over his shoulders and locked her hands behind his back; her face was buried in his neck—awkwardly, because she was taller. Rahul could see that Nancy was shaking her head while Dhar went on whispering to her. The blonde had that pleasing air of submission about her, as if she’d already given up; Rahul was reminded of the kind of woman who’d let you make love to her or let you kill her without a breath of complaint—like someone with a high fever, Rahul thought.

  “Does she recognize me?” Nancy was whispering; she trembled, and then stumbled. Dhar had to hold her up with all his strength.

  “She can’t recognize you, she doesn’t recognize you—she’s just curious about what’s between us,” the actor replied.

  “What is between us?” Nancy whispered. Where her hands were locked together, he felt her dig her knuckles into his spine.

  “She’s coming closer,” Dhar warned Nancy. “She doesn’t recognize you. She just wants to look. I’m going to do it now,” he whispered.

  “Do what?” Nancy asked; she’d forgotten—she was so frightened of Rahul.

  “Unzip you,” Dhar said.

  “Not too far,” Nancy told him.

  The actor turned her suddenly; he had to stand on tiptoe to look over her shoulder, but he wanted to be sure that Mrs. Dogar saw his face. John D. looked straight at Rahul and smiled; he gave the killer a sly wink. Then he unzipped the back of Nancy’s dress while Rahul watched. When he felt the clasp of Nancy’s bra, he stopped; he spread his palm between her bare shoulder blades—she was sweating and he felt her shudder.

  “Is she watching?” Nancy whispered. “I hate you,” she added.

  “She’s right on top of us,” Dhar whispered. “I’m going to go right at her. We’re changing partners now.”

  “Zip me up first!” Nancy whispered. “Zip
me up!”

  With his right hand, John D. zipped Nancy up; with his left, he reached out and took the second Mrs. Dogar by the wrist—her arm was cool and dry, as sinewy as a strong rope.

  “Let’s switch partners for the next number!” said Inspector Dhar. But it was still the slow dance that played. Mr. Dogar staggered briefly; Nancy, who was relieved to be out of Dhar’s arms, forcefully drew the old man to her chest. A lock of her hair had come undone; it hid her cheek. No one saw her tears, which might have been confused with her sweat.

  “Hi,” Nancy said. Before Mr. Dogar could respond, she palmed the back of his head; his cheek was pressed flat between her shoulder and her collarbone. Nancy moved the old man resolutely away from Dhar and Rahul; she wondered how long she had to wait until the band changed to a faster number.

  What was left of the slow dance suited Dhar and Rahul. John D.’s eyes were level with a thin blue vein that ran the length of Mrs. Dogar’s throat; something deep-black and polished, like onyx—a single stone, set in silver—rested in the perfect declivity where her throat met her sternum. Her dress, which was an emerald green, was cut low but it fit her breasts snugly; her hands were smooth and hard, her grip surprisingly light. She was light on her feet, too; no matter where John D. moved, she squared her shoulders to him—her eyes locked onto his eyes, as if she were reading the first page of a new book.

  “That was rather crude—and clumsy, too,” the second Mrs. Dogar said.

  “I’m tired of trying to ignore you,” the actor told her. “I’m sick of pretending that I don’t know who you are… who you were,” Dhar added, but her grip maintained its even, soft pressure—her body obediently followed his.

  “Goodness, you are provincial!” Mrs. Dogar said. “Can’t a man become a woman if she wants to?”

  “It’s certainly an exciting idea,” said Inspector Dhar.

  “You’re not sneering, are you?” Mrs. Dogar asked him.

  “Certainly not! I’m just remembering,” the actor replied. “Twenty years ago, I couldn’t get up the nerve to approach you—I didn’t know how to begin.”

  “Twenty years ago, I wasn’t complete,” Rahul reminded him. “If you had approached me, what would you have done?”

  “Frankly, I was too young to think of doing” Dhar replied. “I think I just wanted to see you!”

  “I don’t suppose that seeing me is all you have in mind today,” Mrs. Dogar said.

  “Certainly not!” said Inspector Dhar, but he couldn’t muster the courage to squeeze her hand; she was everywhere so dry and cool and light of touch, but she was also very hard.

  “Twenty years ago, I tried to approach you,” Rahul admitted.

  “It must have been too subtle for me—at least I missed it,” John D. remarked.

  “At the Bardez, I was told you slept in the hammock on the balcony,” Rahul told him. “I went to you. The only part of you that was outside the mosquito net was your foot. I put your big toe in my mouth. I sucked it—actually, I bit you. But it wasn’t you. It was Dr. Daruwalla. I was so disgusted, I never tried again.”

  This was not the conversation Dhar had expected. John D.’s options for dialogue didn’t include a response to this interesting story, but while he was at a loss for words, the band saved him; they changed to a faster number. People were leaving the dance floor in droves, including Nancy with Mr. Dogar. Nancy led the old man to his table; he was almost breathless by the time she got him seated.

  “Who are you, dear?” he managed to ask her.

  “Mrs. Patel,” Nancy replied.

  “Ah,” the old man said. “And your husband …” What Mr. Dogar meant was, What does he do? He wondered: Which sort of civil-service employee is he?

  “My husband is Mr. Patel,” Nancy told him; when she left him, she walked as carefully as possible to the Daruwallas’ table.

  “I don’t think she recognized me,” Nancy told them, “but I couldn’t look at her. She looks the same, but ancient.”

  “Are they dancing?” Dr. Daruwalla asked. “Are they talking, too?”

  “They’re dancing and they’re talking—that’s all I know,” Nancy told the screenwriter. “I couldn’t look at her,” she repeated.

  “It’s all right, sweetie,” the deputy commissioner said. “You don’t have to do anything more.”

  “I want to be there when you catch her, Vijay,” Nancy told her husband.

  “Well, we may not catch her in a place where you want to be,” the detective replied.

  “Please let me be there,” Nancy said. “Am I zipped up?” she asked suddenly; she rotated her shoulders so that Julia could see her back.

  “You’re zipped up perfectly, dear,” Julia told her.

  Mr. Dogar, alone at his table, was gulping champagne and catching his breath, while Mr. Sethna plied him with hors d’oeuvres. Mrs. Dogar and Dhar were dancing in that part of the ballroom where Mr. Dogar couldn’t see them.

  “There was a time when I wanted you,” Rahul was telling John D. “You were a beautiful boy.”

  “I still want you,” Dhar told her.

  “It seems you want everybody,” Mrs. Dogar said. “Who’s the stripper?” she asked him. He had no dialogue for this.

  “Just a stripper,” Dhar answered.

  “And who’s the fat blonde?” Rahul asked him. This much Dr. Daruwalla had prepared him for.

  “She’s an old story,” the actor replied. “Some people can’t let go.”

  “You can have your choice of women—younger women, too,” Mrs. Dogar told him. “What do you want with me?” This introduced a moment in the dialogue that the actor was afraid of; this required a quantum leap of faith in Farrokh’s script. The actor had little confidence in his upcoming line.

  “I need to know something,” Dhar told Rahul. “Is your vagina really made from what used to be your penis?”

  “Don’t be crude,” Mrs. Dogar said; then she started laughing.

  “I wish there was another way to ask the question,” John D. admitted. When she laughed more uncontrollably, her hands gripped him harder; he could feel the strength of her hands for the first time. “I suppose I could have been more indirect,” Dhar continued, for her laughter encouraged him. “I could have said, ‘What sort of sensitivity do you have in that vagina of yours, anyway? I mean, does it feel sort of like a penis?’” The actor stopped; he couldn’t make himself continue. The screenwriter’s dialogue wasn’t working—Farrokh was frequently hit-or-miss with dialogue.

  Besides, Mrs. Dogar had stopped laughing. “So you’re just curious—is that it?” she asked him. “You’re attracted to the oddity of it.”

  Along the thin blue vein at Rahul’s throat, there appeared a cloudy drop of sweat; it ran quickly between her taut breasts. John D. thought that they hadn’t been dancing that hard. He hoped it was the right time. He took her around her waist with some force, and she followed his lead; when they crossed that part of the dance floor which made them visible to Mrs. Dogar’s husband—and to Mr. Sethna—Dhar saw that the old steward had understood his signal. Mr. Sethna turned quickly from the dining room toward the foyer, and the actor again wheeled Mrs. Dogar into the more private part of the ballroom.

  “I’m an actor,” John D. told Rahul. “I can be anyone you want me to be—I can do absolutely anything you like. You just have to draw me a picture.” (The actor winced; he had Farrokh to thank for that clunker, too.)

  “What an eccentric presumption!” Mrs. Dogar said. “Draw you a picture of what?”

  “Just give me an idea of what appeals to you. Then I can do it,” Dhar told her.

  “You said, ‘Draw me a picture’—I heard you say it,” Mrs. Dogar said.

  “I meant, just tell me what you like—I mean sexually,” the actor said.

  “I know what you mean, but you said ‘draw,’” Rahul replied coldly.

  “Didn’t you used to be an artist? Weren’t you going to art school?” the actor asked. (What the hell is Mr. Sethna doing? Dhar
was thinking. John D. was afraid that Rahul smelled a rat.)

  “I didn’t learn anything in art school,” Mrs. Dogar told him.

  In the utility closet, off the foyer, Mr. Sethna had discovered that he couldn’t read the writing in the fuse box without his glasses, which he kept in a drawer in the kitchen. It took the steward a moment to decide whether or not to kill all the fuses.

  “The old fool has probably electrocuted himself!” Dr. Daruwalla was saying to Detective Patel.

  “Let’s try to keep calm,” the policeman said.

  “If the lights don’t go out, let Dhar improvise—if he’s such a great improviser,” Nancy said.

  “I want you not as a curiosity,” Dhar said suddenly to Mrs. Dogar. “I know you’re strong, I think you’re aggressive—I believe you can assert yourself.” (It was the worst of Dr. Daruwalla’s dialogue, the actor thought—it was sheer groping.) “I want you to tell me what you like. I want you to tell me what to do.”

  “I want you to submit to me,” Rahul said.

  “You can tie me up, if you want to,” Dhar said agreeably.

  “I mean more than that,” Mrs. Dogar said. Then the ballroom and the entire first floor of the Duckworth Club were pitched into darkness. There was a communal gasp and a fumbling in the band; the number they were playing persisted through a few more toots and thumps. From the dining room came an artless clapping. Noises of chaos could be heard from the kitchen. Then the knives and forks and spoons began their impromptu music against the water glasses.

  “Don’t spill the champagne!” Mr. Bannerjee called out.

  The girlish laughter probably came from Amy Sorabjee.

  When John D. tried to kiss her in the darkness, Mrs. Dogar was too fast; his mouth was just touching hers when he felt her seize his lower lip in her teeth. While she held him thus, by the lip, her exaggerated breathing was heavy in his face; her cool, dry hands unzipped him and fondled him until he was hard. Dhar put his hands on her buttocks, which she instantly tightened. Still she clamped his lower lip between her teeth; her bite was hard enough to hurt him but not quite deep enough to make him bleed. As Mr. Sethna had been instructed, the lights flashed briefly on and then went out again; Mrs. Dogar let go of John D.—both with her teeth and with her hands. When he took his hands off her to zip up his fly, he lost her. When the lights came on, Dhar was no longer in contact with Mrs. Dogar.