by John Irving
The god was short and fat, but surpassingly beautiful to his believers; Lord Ganesha’s elephant face was as red as a China rose and he sported the lotus smile of a perpetual daydreamer. His four human arms swarmed with bees—doubtless attracted by the perfume of the ichor flowing in his godly veins—and his three all-seeing eyes looked down upon Bombay with a benevolence that challenged Dhar’s sneer. Lord Ganesha’s potbelly hung almost to his human feet; his toenails were as long and brightly painted as a woman’s. In the sharply angled light, his one unbroken tusk gleamed.
“That elephant is everywhere!” exclaimed the Jesuit. “What happened to its other tusk?”
The myth that Farrokh had loved best as a child was that Lord Ganesha broke off his own tusk and threw it at the moon; the moon had mocked the elephant-headed god for his portliness and for being clumsy. Old Lowji had liked this story; he’d told it to Farrokh and Jamshed when they were small boys. Only now did Dr. Daruwalla wonder if this was a real myth, or if it was only Lowji’s myth; the old man wasn’t above making up a myth of his own.
There were other myths; there was more than one story about Ganesh’s birth, too. In a South Indian version, Parvati saw the sacred syllable “Om,” and her mere glance transformed it into two coupling elephants, who gave birth to Lord Ganesha and then resumed the form of the sacred syllable. But in a darker version, which attests to the reputed sexual antagonism between Parvati and her husband, Lord Shiva, a considerable jealousy attended Shiva’s feelings for Parvati’s son, who—not unlike the baby Jesus—was never described as being born from Parvati in the “natural” manner.
In the darker myth, it was Shiva’s evil eye that beheaded the newborn Ganesh, who wasn’t born with an elephant’s head. The only way the child could live was if someone else’s head—someone facing north—was found and attached to the headless boy. What was found, after a great battle, was an unfortunate elephant, and in the violent course of the elephant’s beheading, one tusk was broken.
But because he’d first heard it as a boy, Farrokh preferred the myth of the moon.
“Excuse me—did you hear me?” Martin asked the doctor. “I was inquiring what happened to that elephant’s other tusk.”
“He broke it himself,” Dr. Daruwalla replied. “He got pissed off and threw it at the moon.” In the rearview mirror, the dwarf gave the doctor the evil eye; a good Hindu, Vinod wasn’t amused by Dr. Daruwalla’s blasphemy. Surely Lord Ganesha was never “pissed off,” which was strictly a mortal weakness.
The missionary’s sigh was intended to convey his long-suffering patience with whatever vexatious mood the doctor was in. “There you go again,” the Jesuit said. “Still keeping something from me.”
24
THE DEVIL HERSELF
Getting Ready for Rahul
Although Deputy Commissioner Patel had insulted Mr. Sethna, the disapproving steward relished his new role as a police informant, for self-importance was Mr. Sethna’s middle name; also, the deputy commissioner’s stated objective of entrapping the second Mrs. Dogar greatly pleased the old Parsi. Nonetheless, Mr. Sethna faulted Detective Patel for not trusting him more completely; it irritated the steward that he was given his instructions without being informed of the overall plan. But the extent of the intrigue against Rahul was contingent on how Rahul responded to John D.’s sexual overtures. In rehearsing Inspector Dhar’s seduction of Mrs. Dogar, both the real policeman and the actor were forced to consider more than one outcome. That was why they’d been waiting for Farrokh to come back from the circus; not only did they want the screenwriter to provide Dhar with some dialogue—Dhar also needed to know some alternative conversation, in case his first advances were rebuffed.
This was vastly more demanding dialogue than Dr. Daruwalla was accustomed to writing, for it was not just that he was required to anticipate the various responses that Rahul might make; the screenwriter also needed to guess what Mrs. Dogar might like—that is, sexually. Would she be more attracted to John D. if he was gentlemanly or if he was crude? For flirtation, did she favor the discreet approach or the explicit? A screenwriter could only suggest certain directions in which the dialogue might roam; Dhar could charm her, tease her, tempt her, shock her, but the particular approach that the actor chose would necessarily be a spontaneous decision. John D. had to rely on his instincts for what would work. After Dr. Daruwalla’s most revealing conversations with Dhar’s twin, the doctor could only wonder what John D.’s “instincts” were.
Farrokh wasn’t prepared to find Detective Patel and Inspector Dhar waiting for him in his Marine Drive apartment. To begin with, Dr. Daruwalla wondered why they were so well dressed; he still didn’t realize it was New Year’s Eve—not until he saw what Julia was wearing. Then it puzzled him why everyone had dressed for New Year’s Eve so early; no one ever showed up for the party at the Duckworth Club before 8:00 or 9:00.
But no one had wanted to waste time dressing when they could be rehearsing, and they couldn’t properly rehearse Dhar’s options for dialogue until after the screenwriter was home from the circus and had written the lines. Farrokh felt flattered—having first suffered the keenest disappointment for being left out of the process—but he was also overwhelmed; he’d been writing for the last three nights, and he feared he might be written-out. And he hated New Year’s Eve; the night seemed to prey on his natural inclination toward nostalgia (especially at the Duckworth Club), although Julia did enjoy the dancing.
Dr. Daruwalla expressed his regret that there wasn’t time to tell them what had happened at the circus; interesting things had transpired there. That was when John D. said something insensitive by stating that preparing himself for the seduction of the second Mrs. Dogar was “no circus”; those were the disparaging words he used—meaning that the doctor should save his silly circus stories for another, more frivolous time.
Detective Patel came to the point even more bluntly. The top half of the silver ballpoint pen had not only revealed Rahul’s fingerprints; a speck of dried blood had been removed from the pocket clasp—it was human blood, of Mr. Lal’s type. “May I remind you, Doctor,” said the deputy commissioner, “it is still necessary to determine what Rahul would have been doing with the top half of the pen … during the murder of Mr. Lal.”
“It’s also necessary for Mrs. Dogar to admit that the top half of the pen is hers,” John D. interrupted.
“Yes, thank you,” Patel said, “but the top half of the pen isn’t incriminating evidence—at least not by itself. What we really need to establish is that no one else could have made those drawings. I’m told that drawings like those are as identifiable as a signature, but it’s necessary to induce Mrs. Dogar to draw.”
“If there was a way for me to suggest to her that she should show me what it might be like … between us,” Dhar told the screenwriter. “Maybe I could ask her to give me just a hint of what she preferred—I mean, sexually. Or I could ask her to tease me with something—I mean, something sexually explicit,” the actor said.
“Yes, yes—I get the picture,” Dr. Daruwalla said impatiently.
“And then there are the two-rupee notes,” the real policeman said. “If Rahul is thinking of killing anyone else, perhaps there exist some notes with the appropriate warnings or messages already typed on the money.”
“Surely that would be incriminating evidence, as you call it,” Farrokh said.
“I would prefer all three—a connection to the top half of the pen, a drawing and something typed on the money,” Patel replied. “That would be evidence enough.”
“How fast do you want to go?” Farrokh asked. “In a seduction, there’s usually the setting up—some kind of mutual sexual spark is ignited. Then there’s the assignation—or at least a discussion of the trysting place, if not the actual tryst.”
It was of small comfort to the screenwriter when Inspector Dhar said ambiguously, “I think I’d prefer to avoid the actual tryst, if it’s possible—if things don’t have to go that far.”
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br /> “You think! You don’t know?” Dr. Daruwalla cried.
“The point is, I need dialogue to cover every contingency,” the actor said.
“Precisely,” said Detective Patel.
“The deputy commissioner showed me the photographs of those drawings,” John D. said; his voice dropped away. “There must also be private drawings—things she keeps secret.” Again Farrokh was reminded of the boy who’d cried out, “They’re drowning the elephants! Now the elephants will be angry!”
Julia went to help Nancy finish dressing. Nancy had brought a suitcase of her clothes to the Daruwallas’, for she couldn’t make up her mind about what to wear to the New Year’s Eve party—not without Julia’s help. The two women decided on something surprisingly demure; it was a gray sleeveless sheath with a mandarin collar, with which Nancy wore a simple string of pearls. Dr. Daruwalla recognized the necklace because it was Julia’s. When the doctor retired to his bedroom and his bath, he brought a clipboard and a pad of lined paper with him; he also brought a bottle of beer. He was so tired, the hot bath and the cold beer made him instantly sleepy, but even with his eyes closed he was seeing the possible options for dialogue between John D. and the second Mrs. Dogar—or was he writing for Rahul and Inspector Dhar? That was a part of the problem; the screenwriter felt he didn’t know the characters he was writing dialogue for.
Julia told Farrokh how Nancy had become so agitated-trying to decide what to wear—that the poor woman had worked herself into a sweat; she’d had to take a bath in the Daruwallas’ tub, a concept that caused the screenwriter’s mind to wander. There was a lingering scent in the bathroom—probably not a perfume or a bath oil but something unfamiliar, not Julia’s—and the strangeness of it mingled with the doctor’s memory of that time in Goa. The foremost issue to resolve, in order to initiate the opening line of Inspector Dhar’s dialogue, was whether or not to have John D. know that Mrs. Dogar was Rahul. Shouldn’t he tell her that he knew who she was—that he knew her former self—and shouldn’t this be the first phase of the seduction? (“I always wanted you”—that kind of thing.)
The decision to have Nancy dress so demurely—she even wore her hair pulled up, off her neck—had sprung from Nancy’s desire not to be recognized by Rahul. Although the deputy commissioner had repeatedly told his wife that he very much doubted Rahul would recognize her, Nancy’s fear of being recognized persisted. The only time Rahul had seen her, Nancy had been naked and her hair was down. Now Nancy wanted her hair up; she’d told Julia that her choice of dress was “the opposite of naked.”
But if the gray sheath was severe, there was no hiding the heavy womanliness of Nancy’s hips and breasts; also, her heavy hair, which usually rested on her shoulders, was too thick and not quite long enough to be held neatly up and kept off her neck—especially if she danced. Strands of her hair would come loose; Nancy would soon look uncontained. The screenwriter decided that he wanted Nancy to dance with Dhar; after that, the possible scenes began to flow.
Farrokh put a towel around his waist and poked his head into the dining room, where Julia was serving some snacks; although it would be a long time before the midnight supper at the Duckworth Club, no one really wanted to eat. The doctor decided to send Dhar down to the alley, where the dwarf was waiting in the Ambassador. Dr. Daruwalla knew that Vinod was acquainted with many of the exotic dancers at the Wetness Cabaret; possibly there was one who owed the dwarf a favor.
“I want to get you a date,” Farrokh told John D.
“With a stripper?” John D. asked.
“Tell Vinod the more tarted up she is, the better,” the screenwriter replied. He guessed that New Year’s Eve was an important night at the Wetness Cabaret; whoever the exotic dancer was, she’d have to leave the Duckworth Club early. That was fine with Farrokh; he wanted the woman to make something of a production over leaving before midnight. Whoever she was, the screenwriter knew that her choice of dress would be the opposite of demure—she certainly wouldn’t look very Duckworthian. She’d be sure to get everyone’s attention.
On such short notice, Vinod wouldn’t have a wide range of choices; of the women at the Wetness Cabaret, the dwarf picked the one with the exotic-dancing name of Muriel. She’d impressed Vinod as being more sensitive than the other strippers. After all, someone in the audience had thrown an orange at her; such blatant disrespect had upset her. To be hired for a little dancing at the Duckworth Club—particularly, to be asked to dance with Inspector Dhar—would be quite a step up in the world for Muriel. Short notice or not, Vinod delivered the exotic dancer to the Daruwallas’ apartment in a hurry.
When Dr. Daruwalla had finished dressing, there was barely time for John D. to rehearse the dialogue. Both Nancy and Muriel needed coaching, and Detective Patel had to get Mr. Sethna on the phone; the detective recited quite a long list of instructions to the steward, which doubtless left the old eavesdropper with a surfeit of disapproval. Vinod would drive Dhar and the exotic dancer to the Duckworth Club; Farrokh and Julia would follow with the Patels.
John D. managed to pull Dr. Daruwalla aside; the actor steered the screenwriter out on the balcony. When they were alone, Dhar said, “I’ve got a question regarding my character, Farrokh, for you seem to have given me some dialogue that is sexually ambiguous—at best.”
“I was just trying to cover every contingency, as you would say,” the screenwriter replied.
“But I gather that I’m supposed to be interested in Mrs. Dogar as a woman—that is, as a man would be interested in her,” Dhar said. “While at the same time, I seem to be implying that I was once interested in Rahul as a man—that is, as a man is interested in another man.”
“Yes,” Farrokh said cautiously. “I’m trying to imply that you’re sexually curious, and sexually aggressive—a bit of a bisexual, maybe …”
“Or even strictly a homosexual whose interest in Mrs. Dogar is, in part, because of how interested I was in Rahul,” John D. interrupted. “Is that it?”
“Something like that,” said Dr. Daruwalla. “I mean, we think Rahul was once attracted to you—we think Mrs. Dogar is still attracted to you. Beyond that, what do we really know?”
“But you’ve made my character a kind of sexual mystery,” the actor complained. “You’ve made me odd. It’s as if you’re gambling that the weirder I am, the more Mrs. Dogar will go for me. Is that it?”
Actors are truly impossible, the screenwriter thought. What Dr. Daruwalla wanted to say was this: Your twin has experienced decidedly homosexual inclinations. Does this sound familiar to you? Instead, what Farrokh said was this: “I don’t know how to shock a serial killer. I’m just trying to attract one.”
“And I’m just asking you for a fix on my character,” Inspector Dhar replied. “It’s always easier when I know who I’m supposed to be.”
There was the old Dhar, Dr. Daruwalla thought—sarcastic to the core. Farrokh was relieved to see that the movie star had regained his self-confidence.
That was when Nancy came out on the balcony. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she asked, but she went straight to the railing and leaned on it; she didn’t wait for an answer.
“No, no,” Dr. Daruwalla mumbled.
“That’s west, isn’t it?” Nancy asked. She was pointing to the sunset.
“The sun usually sets in the west,” Dhar said.
“And if you went west across the sea—from Bombay straight across the Arabian Sea—what would you come to?” Nancy asked. “Make it west and a little north,” she added.
“Well,” Dr. Daruwalla said cautiously. “West and a little north from here is the Gulf of Oman, then the Persian Gulf …”
“Then Saudi Arabia,” Dhar interrupted.
“Keep going,” Nancy told him. “Keep going west and a little north.”
“That would take you across Jordan … into Israel, and into the Mediterranean,” Farrokh said.
“Or across North Africa,” said Inspector Dhar.
“Well, yes
,” Dr. Daruwalla said. “Across Egypt … what’s after Egypt?” he asked John D.
“Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco,” the actor replied. “You could pass through the Straits of Gibraltar, or touch the coast of Spain, if you like.”
“Yes—that’s the way I want to go,” Nancy told him. “I touch the coast of Spain. Then what?”
“Then you’re in the North Atlantic,” Dr. Daruwalla said.
“Go west,” Nancy said. “And a little north.”
“New York?” Dr. Daruwalla guessed.
“I know the way from there,” Nancy said suddenly. “From there I go straight west.”
Both Dhar and Dr. Daruwalla didn’t know what Nancy would come to next; they weren’t familiar with the geography of the United States.
“Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois,” Nancy told them. “Maybe I’d have to go through New Jersey before I got to Pennsylvania.”
“Where are you going?” Dr. Daruwalla asked.
“Home,” Nancy answered. “Home to Iowa—Iowa comes after Illinois.”
“Do you want to go home?” John D. asked her.
“Never,” Nancy said. “I never want to go home.”
The screenwriter saw that the zipper of the gray sheath dress was a straight line down her back; it clasped at the top of her high mandarin collar.
“If you wouldn’t mind,” Farrokh said to her, “perhaps you could have your husband unfasten the zipper of your dress. If it were unzipped just a little—down to somewhere between your shoulder blades—that would be better. When you’re dancing, I mean,” the doctor added.