A Son of the Circus

by John Irving

  Tell him—tell him now! Farrokh told himself, but the words wouldn’t come. Dr. Daruwalla could say only to himself what he wanted to say to Martin.

  You don’t have to deal with Danny’s remains. Probably Neville Eden is your father, and Neville’s remains were settled many years ago. You don’t have to assist your mother, who’s worse than a bitch. You don’t know what she is, or all that she is. And there’s someone you might like to know; you might even be of mutual assistance to each other. He could teach you how to relax—maybe even how to have some fun. You might teach him a little candor—maybe even how not to be an actor, at least not all the time.

  But the doctor didn’t say it. Not a word.

  Dr. Daruwalla Decides

  “So … he’s a quitter,” said Inspector Dhar, of his twin.

  “He’s confused, anyway,” Dr. Daruwalla replied.

  “A thirty-nine-year-old man shouldn’t still be finding himself,” John D. declared. The actor delivered the line with almost perfect indignation, never hinting that the matter of “finding himself” was at all familiar to him.

  “I think you’d like him,” Farrokh said cautiously.

  “Well, you’re the writer,” Dhar remarked with almost perfect ambiguity. Dr. Daruwalla wondered: Does he mean that the matter of whether or not they meet is in my hands? Or does he mean that only a writer would waste his time fantasizing that the twins should meet?

  They were standing on the Daruwallas’ balcony at sunset. The Arabian Sea was the faded purple of John D.’s slowly healing lower lip. The splint on his broken pinky finger provided the actor with an instrument for pointing; Dhar liked to point.

  “Remember how Nancy responded to this view?” the actor asked, pointing west.

  “All the way to Iowa,” the doctor remarked.

  “If you’re never coming back to Bombay, Farrokh, you might give the deputy commissioner and Mrs. Patel this apartment.” The line was delivered with almost perfect indifference. The screenwriter had to marvel at the hidden character he’d created; Dhar was almost perfectly mysterious. “I don’t mean actually give it to them—the good detective would doubtless construe that as a bribe,” Dhar went on. “But perhaps you could sell it to them for a ridiculous sum—a hundred rupees, for example. Of course you could stipulate that the Patels would have to maintain the servants—for as long as Nalin and Roopa are alive. I know you wouldn’t want to turn them out on the street. As for the Residents’ Society, I’m sure they wouldn’t object to the Patels—every apartment dweller wants to have a policeman in the building.” Dhar pointed his splint west again. “I believe this view would do Nancy some good,” the actor added.

  “I can see you’ve been thinking about this,” Farrokh said.

  “It’s just an idea—if you’re never coming back to Bombay,” John D. replied. “I mean really never.”

  “Are you ever coming back?” Dr. Daruwalla asked him.

  “Not in a million years,” said Inspector Dhar.

  “That old line!” Farrokh said fondly.

  “You wrote it,” John D. reminded him.

  “You keep reminding me,” the doctor said.

  They stayed on the balcony until the Arabian Sea was the color of an overripe cherry, almost black. Julia had to clear the contents of John D.’s pockets off the glass-topped table in order for them to have their dinner. It was a habit that John D. had maintained from childhood. He would come into the house or the apartment, take off his coat and his shoes or sandals, and empty the contents of his pockets on the nearest table; this was more than a gesture to make himself feel at home, for the source lay with the Daruwallas’ daughters. When they’d lived at home, they liked nothing better than wrestling with John D. He would lie on his back on the rug or the floor, or sometimes on the couch, and the younger girls would pounce on him; he never hurt them, just fended them off. And so Farrokh and Julia never chastised him for the contents of his pockets, which were messily in evidence on the tabletop of every house or apartment they’d ever lived in, although there were no children for John D. to wrestle with anymore. Keys, a wallet, sometimes a passport … and this evening, on the glass-topped table of the Daruwallas’ Marine Drive apartment, a plane ticket.

  “You’re leaving Thursday?” Julia asked him.

  “Thursday!” Dr. Daruwalla exclaimed. “That’s the day after tomorrow!”

  “Actually, I have to go to the airport Wednesday night—it’s such an early-morning flight, you know,” John D. said.

  “That’s tomorrow night!” Farrokh cried. The doctor took Dhar’s wallet, keys and plane ticket from Julia and put them on the sideboard.

  “Not there,” Julia told him; she was serving one of their dinner dishes from the sideboard. Therefore, Dr. Daruwalla carried the contents of John D.’s pockets into the foyer and placed them on a low table by the door—that way, the doctor thought, John D. would be sure to see his things and not forget them when he left.

  “Why should I stay longer?” John D. was asking Julia. “You’re not staying much longer, are you?”

  But Dr. Daruwalla lingered in the foyer; he had a look at Dhar’s plane ticket. Swissair, nonstop to Zürich. Flight 197, departing Thursday at 1:45 A.M. It was first class, seat 4B. Dhar always chose an aisle seat. This was because he was a beer drinker; on a nine-hour flight, he got up to pee a lot—he didn’t want to keep climbing over someone else.

  That quickly—by the time Dr. Daruwalla had rejoined John D. and Julia, and even before he sat down to dinner—the doctor had made his decision; after all, as Dhar had told him, he was the writer. A writer could make things happen. They were twins; they didn’t have to like each other, but they didn’t have to be lonely.

  Farrokh sat happily at his supper (as he insisted on calling it), smiling lovingly at John D. I’ll teach you to be ambiguous with me! the doctor thought, but what Dr. Daruwalla said was, “Why should you stay any longer, indeed! Now’s as good a time to go as any.”

  Both Julia and John D. looked at him as if he were having a seizure. “Well, I mean I’ll miss you, of course—but I’ll see you soon, one place or another. Canada or Switzerland … I’m looking forward to spending more time in the mountains.”

  “You are?” Julia asked him. Farrokh hated mountains. Inspector Dhar just stared.

  “Yes, it’s very healthy,” the doctor replied. “All that Swiss … air,” he remarked absently; he was thinking of the airline of that name, and how he would buy a first-class ticket to Zürich for Martin Mills on Swissair 197, departing early Thursday morning. Seat 4A. Farrokh hoped that the ex-missionary would appreciate the window seat, and his interesting traveling companion.

  They had a wonderful dinner, a lively time. Normally, when Dr. Daruwalla knew he was parting from John D., he was morose. But tonight the doctor felt euphoric.

  “John D. has a terrific idea—about this apartment,” Farrokh told his wife. Julia liked the idea very much; the three of them talked about it at length. Detective Patel was proud; so was Nancy. They would be sensitive if they felt the apartment was offered to them as charity; the trick would be to make them think they were doing the Daruwallas a favor by looking after and “maintaining” the old servants. The diners spoke admiringly of the deputy commissioner; they could have talked for hours about Nancy—she was certainly complex.

  It was always easier, with John D., when the subject of conversation was someone else; it was himself, as a subject, that the actor avoided. And the diners were animated in their discussion of what the deputy commissioner had confided to the doctor about Rahul … the unlikelihood of her hanging.

  Julia and John D. had rarely seen Farrokh so relaxed. The doctor spoke of his great desire to see more of his daughters and grandchildren, and he kept repeating that he wanted to see more of John D.—“in your Swiss life.” The two men drank a lot of beer and sat up late on the balcony; they outlasted the traffic on Marine Drive. Julia sat up with them.

  “You know, Farrokh, I do appreciate everythin
g you’ve done for me,” the actor said.

  “It’s been fun,” the screenwriter replied. Farrokh fought back his tears—he was a sentimental man. He managed to feel quite happy, sitting there in the darkness. The smell of the Arabian Sea, the fumes of the city—even the constantly clogged drains and the persistence of human shit—rose almost comfortingly around them. Dr. Daruwalla insisted on drinking a toast to Danny Mills; Dhar politely drank to Danny’s memory.

  “He wasn’t your father—I’m quite sure of that,” Farrokh told John D.

  “I’m quite sure of that, too,” the actor replied.

  “Why are you so happy, Liebchen?” Julia asked Farrokh.

  “He’s happy because he’s leaving India and he’s never coming back,” Inspector Dhar answered; the line was delivered with almost perfect authority. This was mildly irritating to Farrokh, who suspected that leaving India and never coming back was an act of cowardice on his part. John D. was thinking of him, as he thought of his twin, as a quitter—if John D. truly believed that the doctor was never coming back.

  “You’ll see why I’m happy,” Dr. Daruwalla told them. When he fell asleep on the balcony, John D. carried him to his bed.

  “Look at him,” Julia said. “He’s smiling in his sleep.”

  There would be time to mourn Madhu another day. There would be time to worry about Ganesh, the elephant boy, too. And on his next birthday, the doctor would be 60. But right now Dr. Daruwalla was imagining the twins together on Swissair 197. Nine hours in the air should be sufficient for starting a relationship, the doctor thought.

  Julia tried to read in bed, but Farrokh distracted her; he laughed out loud in his sleep. He must be drunk, she thought. Then she saw a frown cross his face. What a shame it was, Dr. Daruwalla was thinking; he wanted to be on the same plane with them—just to watch them, and to listen. Which seat is across the aisle from 4B? the doctor wondered. Seat 4J? Farrokh had taken that flight to Zürich many times. It was a 747; the seat across the aisle from 4B was 4J, he hoped.

  “Four J,” he told the flight attendant. Julia put down her book and stared at him.

  “Liebchen,” she whispered, “either wake up or go to sleep.” But her husband was once again smiling serenely. Dr. Daruwalla was where he wanted to be. It was early Thursday morning—1:45 A.M., to be exact—and Swissair 197 was taking off from Sanar. Across the aisle, the twins were staring at each other; neither of them could talk. It would take a little time for one of them to break the ice, but the doctor felt confident that they couldn’t maintain their silence for the full nine hours. Although the actor had more interesting information, Farrokh bet that the ex-missionary would be the one to start blabbing. Martin Mills would blab all night, if John D. didn’t start talking in self-defense.

  Julia watched her sleeping husband touch his belly with his hands. Dr. Daruwalla was checking to be sure that his seat belt was correctly fastened; then he settled back, ready to enjoy the long flight.

  Just Close Your Eyes

  The next day was Wednesday. Dr. Daruwalla was watching the sunset from his balcony, this time with Dhar’s twin. Martin was full of questions about his plane tickets. The screenwriter evaded these questions with the skill of someone who’d already imagined the possible dialogue.

  “I fly to Zürich? That’s strange—that’s not the way I came,” the ex-missionary remarked.

  “I have connections with Swissair,” Farrokh told him. “I’m a frequent flyer, so I get a special deal.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, I’m very grateful. I hear it’s a marvelous airline,” the former scholastic said. “These are first-class tickets!” Martin suddenly cried. “I can’t repay you for first class!”

  “I won’t allow you to repay me,” the doctor said. “I said I have connections—I get a special deal for first class. I won’t let you repay me because the plane tickets cost me practically nothing.”

  “Oh, I see. I’ve never flown first class,” the recent zealot said. Farrokh could tell that Martin was puzzling over the ticket for the connecting flight, from Zürich to New York. He would arrive in Zürich at 6:00 in the morning; his plane to New York didn’t leave Zürich until 1:00 in the afternoon—a long layover, the onetime Jesuit was thinking … and there was something different about the New York ticket.

  “That’s an open ticket to New York,” Farrokh said in an offhand manner. “It’s a daily nonstop flight. You don’t have to fly to New York on the day you arrive in Switzerland. You have a valid ticket for any day when there’s an available seat in first class. I thought you might like to spend a day or two in Zürich—maybe the weekend. You’d be better rested when you got to New York.”

  “Well, that’s awfully kind of you. But I’m not sure what I’d do in Zürich …” Martin was saying. Then he found the hotel voucher; it was with his plane tickets.

  “Three nights at the Hotel zum Storchen—a decent hotel,” Farrokh explained. “Your room overlooks the Limmat. You can walk in the old town, or to the lake. Have you ever been in Europe?”

  “No, I haven’t,” said Martin Mills. He kept staring at the hotel voucher; it included his meals.

  “Well, then,” Dr. Daruwalla replied. Since the deputy commissioner had found this phrase so meaningful, the doctor thought he’d give it a try; it appeared to work on Martin Mills. Throughout dinner, the reformed Jesuit wasn’t at all argumentative; he seemed subdued. Julia worried that it might have been the food, or that Dhar’s unfortunate twin was ill, but Dr. Daruwalla had experienced failure before; the doctor knew what was bothering the ex-missionary.

  John D. was wrong; his twin wasn’t a quitter. Martin Mills had abandoned a quest, but he’d given up the priesthood when the priesthood was in sight—when it was easily obtainable. He’d not failed to be ordained; he’d been afraid of the kind of priest he might become. His decision to retreat, which had appeared to be so whimsical and sudden, had not come out of the blue; to Martin, his retreat must have seemed lifelong.

  Because the security checks were so extensive, Martin Mills was required to be at Sanar two or three hours before his scheduled departure. Farrokh felt it would be unsafe to let him take a taxi with anyone but Vinod, and Vinod was unavailable; the dwarf was driving Dhar to the airport. Dr. Daruwalla hired an alleged luxury taxi from the fleet of Vinod’s Blue Nile, Ltd. They were en route to Sanar when the doctor first realized how much he would miss the ex-missionary.

  “I’m getting used to this,” Martin said. They were passing a dead dog in the road, and Farrokh thought that Martin was commenting on his growing familiarity with slain animals. Martin explained that he meant he was getting used to leaving places in mild disgrace. “Oh, there’s never anything scandalous—I’m never run out of town on a rail,” he went on. “It’s a sort of slinking away. I don’t suppose I’m anything more than a passing embarrassment to those people who put their faith in me. I feel the same way about myself, really. There’s never a crushing sense of disappointment, or of loss—it’s more like a fleeting dishonor.”

  I’m going to miss this moron, Dr. Daruwalla thought, but what the doctor said was, “Do me a favor—just close your eyes.”

  “Is there something dead in the road?” Martin asked.

  “Probably,” the doctor replied. “But that’s not the reason. Just close your eyes. Are they closed?”

  “Yes, my eyes are closed,” the former scholastic said. “What are you going to do?” he asked nervously.

  “Just relax,” Farrokh told him. “We’re going to play a game.”

  “I don’t like games!” Martin cried. He opened his eyes and looked wildly around.

  “Close your eyes!” Dr. Daruwalla shouted. Although his vow of obedience was behind him, Martin obeyed. “I want you to imagine that parking lot with the Jesus statue,” the doctor told him. “Can you see it?”

  “Yes, of course,” Martin Mills replied.

  “Is Christ still there, in the parking lot?” Farrokh asked him. The fool opened his eyes.

&nb
sp; “Well, I don’t know about that—they were always expanding the capacity of the parking lot,” Martin said. “There was always a lot of construction equipment around. They may have torn up that section of the lot—they might have had to move the statue …”

  “That’s not what I mean! Close your eyes!” Dr. Daruwalla cried. “What I mean is, in your mind, can you still see the damn statue? Jesus Christ in the dark parking lot—can you still see him?”

  “Well, naturally—yes,” Martin Mills admitted. He kept his eyes tightly closed, as if in pain; his mouth was shut, too, and his nose was wrinkled. They were passing a slum encampment lit only by rubbish fires, but the stench of human feces overpowered what they could smell of the burning trash. “Is that all?” Martin asked, eyes closed.

  “Isn’t that enough?” the doctor asked him. “For God’s sake, open your eyes!”

  Martin opened them. “Was that the game—the whole game?” he inquired.

  “You saw Jesus Christ, didn’t you? What more do you want?” Farrokh asked. “You must realize that it’s possible to be a good Christian, as Christians are always saying, and at the same time not be a Catholic priest.”

  “Oh, is that what you mean?” said Martin Mills. “Well, certainly—I realize that!”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to miss you, but I really am,” Dr. Daruwalla told him.

  “I shall miss you, too, of course,” Dhar’s twin replied. “In particular, our little talks.”

  At the airport, there was the usual lineup for the security checks. After they’d said their good-byes (they actually embraced), Dr. Daruwalla continued to observe Martin from a distance. The doctor crossed a police barrier in order to keep watching him. It was hard to tell if his bandages drew everyone’s attention or if it was his resemblance to Dhar, which leaped out at some observers and was utterly missed by others. The doctor had once again changed Martin’s bandages; the neck wound was minimally covered with a gauze patch, and the mangled earlobe was left uncovered—it was ugly but largely healed. The hand was still mittened in gauze. To everyone who gawked at him, the chimpanzee’s victim winked and smiled; it was a genuine smile, not Dhar’s sneer, yet Farrokh felt that the ex-missionary had never looked like such a dead ringer for Dhar. At the end of every Inspector Dhar movie, Dhar is walking away from the camera; in this case, Dr. Daruwalla was the camera. Farrokh felt greatly moved; he wondered if it was because Martin more and more reminded him of John D., or if it was because Martin himself had touched him.