A Son of the Circus

by John Irving

  It was Chinese Day at the Duckworth Club, the culinary low point of the week. In the old days, there’d been a Chinese chef among the kitchen staff, and Chinese Day had been an epicure’s delight. But the Chinese chef had left the club to open his own restaurant, and the present-day collection of cooks could not concoct Chinese; yet, one day a week, they tried.

  “It’s probably safest to stick with something vegetarian,” Farrokh recommended.

  “By the time you saw the bodies,” Nancy suddenly began, “I suppose they were pretty bad.”

  “Yes—I’m afraid the crabs had found them,” Dr. Daruwalla replied.

  “But I guess the drawing was still clear, or you wouldn’t have remembered it,” Nancy said.

  “Yes—indelible ink, I’m sure,” said Dr. Daruwalla.

  “It was a laundry-marking pen—a dhobi pen,” Nancy told him, although she appeared to be looking at Dhar. With her sunglasses on, who knew where she was looking? “I buried them, you know,” Nancy went on. “I didn’t see them die, but I heard them. The sound of the spade,” she added.

  Dhar continued to stare at her, his lip not quite sneering. Nancy took her sunglasses off and returned them to her purse. Something she saw in her purse made her pause; she held her lower lip in her teeth for three or four seconds. Then she reached in her purse and brought out the bottom half of the silver ballpoint pen, which she’d carried with her, everywhere she’d gone, for 20 years.

  “He stole the other half of this—he or she,” Nancy said. She handed the half-pen to Dhar, who read the interrupted inscription.

  “ ‘Made in’ where?” Dhar asked her.

  “India,” said Nancy. “Rahul must have stolen it.”

  “Who would want the top half of a pen?” Farrokh asked Detective Patel.

  “Not a writer,” Dhar replied; he passed the half-pen to Dr. Daruwalla.

  “It’s real silver,” the doctor observed.

  “It needs to be polished,” Nancy said. The deputy commissioner looked away; he knew his wife had polished the thing only last week. Dr. Daruwalla couldn’t see any indication that the silver was dull or blackened; everything was shiny, even the inscription. When he handed the half-pen to Nancy, she didn’t put it back in her purse; instead, she placed it alongside her knife and spoon—it was brighter than both. “I use an old toothbrush to polish the lettering,” she said. Even Dhar looked away from her; that he couldn’t meet her eyes gave her confidence. “In real life,” Nancy said to the actor, “have you ever taken a bribe?” She saw the sneer she’d been looking for; she’d been expecting it.

  “No, never,” Dhar told her. Now Nancy had to look away from him; she looked straight at Dr. Daruwalla.

  “How come you keep it a secret … that you write all his movies?” Nancy asked the doctor.

  “I already have a career,” Dr. Daruwalla replied. “The idea was to create a career for him.”

  “Well, you sure did it,” Nancy told Farrokh. Detective Patel reached for her left hand, which was on the table by her fork, but Nancy put her hand in her lap. Then she faced Dhar.

  “And how do you like it? Your career …” Nancy asked the actor. He responded with his patterned shrug, which enhanced his sneer. Something both cruel and merry entered his eyes.

  “I have a day job … another life,” Dhar replied.

  “Lucky you,” Nancy told him.

  “Sweetie,” said the deputy commissioner; he reached into his wife’s lap and took her hand. She seemed to go a little limp in the rattan chair. Even Mr. Sethna could hear her exhale; the old steward had heard almost everything else, too, and what he hadn’t actually heard he’d fairly accurately surmised from reading their lips. Mr. Sethna was a good lip-reader, and for an elderly man he could move spryly around a conversation; a table for four posed few problems for him. It was easier to pick up conversation in the Ladies’ Garden than in the main dining room, because only the bower of flowers was overhead; there were no ceiling fans.

  From Mr. Sethna’s point of view, it was already a much more interesting lunch than he’d anticipated. Dead bodies! A stolen part of a pen? And the most startling revelation—that Dr. Daruwalla was the actual author of that trash which had elevated Inspector Dhar to stardom! In a way, Mr. Sethna believed that he’d known it all along; the old steward had always sensed that Farrokh wasn’t the man his father was.

  Mr. Sethna glided in with the drinks; then he glided away. The venomous feelings that the old steward had felt for Dhar were now what Mr. Sethna was feeling for Dr. Daruwalla. A Parsi writing for the Hindi cinema! And making fun of other Parsis! How dare he? Mr. Sethna could barely restrain himself. In his mind, he could hear the sound that his silver serving tray would make off the crown of Dr. Daruwalla’s head; it sounded like a gong. The steward had needed all his strength to resist the temptation to cover that appalling woman’s fuzzy navel with her napkin, which was carelessly lumped in her lap. A belly button like hers should be clothed—if not banned! But Mr. Sethna quickly calmed himself, for he didn’t want to miss what the real policeman was saying.

  “I should like to hear the three of you describe what Rahul would look like today, assuming that Rahul is now a woman,” said the deputy commissioner. “You first,” Patel said to Dhar.

  “Vanity and an overall sense of physical superiority would keep her looking younger than she is,” Dhar began.

  “But she would be fifty-three or fifty-four,” Dr. Daruwalla interjected.

  “You’re next. Please let him finish,” said Detective Patel.

  “She wouldn’t look fifty-three or fifty-four, except maybe very early in the morning,” Dhar continued. “And she would be very fit. She has a predatory aura. She’s a stalker—I mean sexually.”

  “I think she was quite hot for him when he was a boy!” Dr. Daruwalla remarked.

  “Who wasn’t?” Nancy asked bitterly. Only her husband looked at her.

  “Please let him finish,” Patel said patiently.

  “She’s also the sort of woman who enjoys making you want her, even if she intends to reject you,” Dhar said. He made a point of looking at Nancy. “And I would assume that, like her late aunt, she has a caustic manner. She would always be ready to ridicule someone, or some idea—anything.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Dr. Daruwalla impatiently, “but don’t forget, she is also a starer.”

  “Excuse me—a what?” asked Detective Patel.

  “A family trait—she stares at everyone. Rahul is a compulsive starer!” Farrokh replied. “She does it because she’s deliberately rude but also because she has a kind of uninhibited curiosity. That was her aunt, in spades! Rahul was brought up that way. No modesty whatsoever. Now she would be very feminine, I suppose, but not with her eyes. She is a man with her eyes—she’s always looking you over and staring you down.”

  “Were you finished?” the deputy commissioner asked Dhar.

  “I think so,” the actor replied.

  “I never saw her clearly,” Nancy said suddenly. “There was no light, or the light was bad—only an oil lamp. I got just a peek at her, and I was sick—I had a fever.” She toyed with the bottom half of the ballpoint pen on the table, turning it at a right angle to her knife and spoon, then lining it up again. “She smelled good, and she felt very silky—but strong,” Nancy added.

  “Talk about her now, not then,” Patel said. “What would she be like now?”

  “The thing is,” Nancy said, “I think she feels like she can’t control something in herself, like she just needs to do things. She can’t stop herself. The things she wants are just too strong.”

  “What things?” asked the detective.

  “You know. We’ve talked about it,” Nancy told him.

  “Tell them,” her husband said.

  “She’s horny—I think she’s horny all the time,” Nancy told them.

  “That’s unusual for someone who’s fifty-three or fifty-four,” Dr. Daruwalla observed.

  “That’s just the feeling
she gives you—believe me,” Nancy said. “She’s awfully horny.”

  “Does this remind you of someone you know?” the detective asked Inspector Dhar, but Dhar kept looking at Nancy; he didn’t shrug. “Or you, Doctor—are you reminded of anyone?” the deputy commissioner asked Farrokh.

  “Are you talking about someone we’ve actually met—as a woman?” Dr. Daruwalla asked the deputy commissioner.

  “Precisely,” said Detective Patel.

  Dhar was still looking at Nancy when he spoke. “Mrs. Dogar,” Dhar said. Farrokh put both his hands on his chest, exactly where the familiar pain in his ribs was suddenly sharp enough to take his breath away.

  “Oh, very good—very impressive,” said Detective Patel. He reached across the table and patted the back of Dhar’s hand. “You wouldn’t have made a bad policeman, even if you don’t take bribes,” the detective told the actor.

  “Mrs. Dogar!” Dr. Daruwalla gasped. “I knew she reminded me of someone!”

  “But there’s something wrong, isn’t there?” Dhar asked the deputy commissioner. “I mean, you haven’t arrested her—have you?”

  “Quite so,” Patel said. “Something is wrong.”

  “I told you he’d know who it was,” Nancy told her husband.

  “Yes, sweetie,” the detective said. “But it’s not a crime for Rahul to be Mrs. Dogar.”

  “How did you find out?” Dr. Daruwalla asked the deputy commissioner. “Of course—the list of new members!”

  “It was a good place to start,” said Detective Patel. “The estate of Promila Rai was inherited by her niece, not her nephew.”

  “I never knew there was a niece,” Farrokh said.

  “There wasn’t,” Patel replied. “Rahul, her nephew, went to London. He came back as her niece. He even gave himself her name—Promila. It’s perfectly legal to change your sex in England. It’s perfectly legal to change your name—even in India.”

  “Rahul Rai married Mr. Dogar?” Farrokh asked.

  “That was perfectly legal, too,” the detective replied. “Don’t you see, Doctor? The fact that you and Dhar could verify that Rahul was there in Goa, at the Hotel Bardez, does not confirm that Rahul was ever at the scene of the crime. And it would not be believable for Nancy to physically identify Mrs. Dogar as the Rahul of twenty years ago. As she told you, she hardly saw Rahul.”

  “Besides, he had a penis then,” Nancy said.

  “But, in all these killings, are there no fingerprints?” Farrokh asked.

  “In the cases of the prostitutes, there are hundreds of fingerprints,” D.C.P. Patel replied.

  “What about the putter that killed Mr. Lal?” Dhar asked.

  “Oh, very good!” the deputy commissioner said. “But the putter was wiped clean.”

  “Those drawings!” Dr. Daruwalla said. “Rahul always fancied himself an artist. Surely Mrs. Dogar must have some drawings around.”

  “That would be convenient,” Patel replied. “But this very morning I sent someone to the Dogar house—to bribe the servants.” The detective paused and looked directly at Dhar. “There were no drawings. There wasn’t even a typewriter.”

  “There must be ten typewriters in this club,” Dhar said. “The typed messages on the two-rupee notes—were they all typed on the same machine?”

  “Oh, what a very good question,” said Detective Patel. “So far, three messages—two different typewriters. Both in this club.”

  “Mrs. Dogar!” Dr. Daruwalla said again.

  “Be quiet, please,” the deputy commissioner said. He suddenly pointed to Mr. Sethna. The old steward attempted to hide his face with his silver serving tray, but Detective Patel was too fast for him. “What is that old snoop’s name?” the detective asked Dr. Daruwalla.

  “That’s Mr. Sethna,” Farrokh said.

  “Please come here, Mr. Sethna,” the deputy commissioner said. He didn’t raise his voice or look in the steward’s direction; when Mr. Sethna pretended that he hadn’t heard, the detective said, “You heard me.” Mr. Sethna did as he was told.

  “Since you’ve been listening to us—Wednesday you listened to my telephone conversation with my wife—you will kindly give me your assistance,” Detective Patel said.

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Sethna said.

  “Every time Mrs. Dogar is in this club, you call me,” the deputy commissioner said. “Every reservation she makes, lunch or dinner, you let me know about it. Every little thing you know about her, I want to know, too—am I making myself clear?”

  “Perfectly clear, sir,” said Mr. Sethna. “She said her husband is peeing on the flowers and that one night he’ll try to dive into the empty pool,” Mr. Sethna babbled. “She said he’s senile—and a drunk.”

  “You can tell me later,” Detective Patel said. “I have just three questions. Then I want you to go far enough away from this table so that you don’t hear another word.”

  “Yes, sir,” Mr. Sethna said.

  “On the morning of Mr. Lal’s death … I don’t mean lunch, because I already know that she was here for lunch, but in the morning, well before lunch … did you see Mrs. Dogar here? That’s the first question,” the deputy commissioner said.

  “Yes, she was here for a bit of breakfast—very early,” Mr. Sethna informed the detective. “She likes to walk on the golf course before the golfers are playing. Then she has a little fruit before she does her fitness training.”

  “Second question,” Patel said. “Between breakfast and lunch, did she change what she was wearing?”

  “Yes, sir,” the old steward replied. “She was wearing a dress, rather wrinkled, at breakfast. For lunch she wore a sari.”

  “Third question,” the deputy commissioner said. He handed Mr. Sethna his card—his telephone number at Crime Branch Headquarters and his home number. “Were her shoes wet? I mean, for breakfast.”

  “I didn’t notice,” Mr. Sethna admitted.

  “Try to improve your noticing,” Detective Patel told the old steward. “Now, go far away from this table—I mean it.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Mr. Sethna, already doing what he did best—gliding away. Nor did the prying old steward approach the Ladies’ Garden again during the foursome’s solemn lunch. But even at a considerable distance, Mr. Sethna was able to observe that the woman with the fuzzy navel ate very little; her rude husband ate half her food and all his own. At a proper club, people would be forbidden to eat off one another’s plates, Mr. Sethna thought. He went into the men’s room and stood in front of the full-length mirror, in which he appeared to be trembling. He held the silver serving tray in one hand and pounded it against the heel of his other hand, but he felt little satisfaction from the sound it made—a muffled bonging. He hated policemen, the old steward decided.

  Farrokh Remembers the Crow

  In the Ladies’ Garden, the early-afternoon sun had slanted past the apex of the bower and no longer touched the lunchers’ heads; the rays of sunlight now penetrated the wall of flowers only in patches. The tablecloth was mottled by this intermittent light, and Dr. Daruwalla watched a tiny diamond of the sun—it was reflected in the bottom half of the ballpoint pen. The brilliantly white point of light shone in the doctor’s eye as he pecked at his soggy stir-fry; the limp, dull-colored vegetables reminded him of the monsoon.

  At that time of year, the Ladies’ Garden would be strewn with torn petals of the bougainvillea, the skeletal vines still clinging to the bower—with the brown sky showing through and the rain coming through. All the wicker and rattan furniture would be heaped upon itself in the ballroom, for there were no balls in the monsoon season. The golfers would sit drinking in the clubhouse bar, forlornly staring out the streaked windows at the sodden fairways. Wild clumps of the dead garden would be blowing across the greens.

  The food on Chinese Day always depressed Farrokh, but there was something about the winking sun that was reflected in the bottom half of the silver ballpoint pen, something that both caught and held the doctor’s attention; somet
hing flickered in his memory. What was it? That reflected light, that shiny something … it was as small and lonely but as absolutely a presence as the far-off light of another airplane when you were flying across the miles of darkness over the Arabian Sea at night.

  Farrokh stared into the dining room and at the open veranda, through which the shitting crow had flown. Dr. Daruwalla looked at the ceiling fan where the crow had landed; the doctor kept watching the fan, as if he were waiting for it to falter, or for the mechanism to catch on something—that shiny something which the shitting crow had held in its beak. Whatever it was, it was too big for the crow to have swallowed, Dr. Daruwalla thought. He took a wild guess.

  “I know what it was,” the doctor said aloud. No one else had been talking; the others just looked at him as he left the table in the Ladies’ Garden and walked into the dining room, where he stood directly under the fan. Then he drew an unused chair away from the nearest table; but when he stood on it, he was still too short to reach over the top of the blades.

  “Turn the fan off!” Dr. Daruwalla shouted to Mr. Sethna, who was no stranger to the doctor’s eccentric behavior—and his father’s before him. The old steward shut off the fan. Almost everyone in the dining room had stopped eating.

  Dhar and Detective Patel rose from their table in the Ladies’ Garden and approached Farrokh, but the doctor waved them away. “Neither of you is tall enough,” he told them. “Only she is tall enough.” The doctor was pointing at Nancy. He was also following the good advice that the deputy commissioner had given to Mr. Sethna. (“Try to improve your noticing.”)

  The fan slowed; the blades were unmoving by the time the three men helped Nancy to stand on the chair.

  “Just reach over the top of the fan,” the doctor instructed her. “Do you feel a groove?” Her full figure above them in the chair was quite striking as she reached into the mechanism.

  “I feel something,” she said.

  “Walk your fingers around the groove,” said Dr. Daruwalla.