by John Irving
John D. was nowhere to be seen. Dr. Daruwalla knew that the actor was always the first to board a plane—any plane—but the doctor kept looking for him. Aesthetically, Farrokh would have been disappointed if Inspector Dhar and Martin Mills met in the security lineup; the screenwriter wanted the twins to meet on the plane. Ideally, they should be sitting down, Dr. Daruwalla thought.
As he waited in line and then shuffled forward, and then waited again, Martin looked almost normal. There was something pathetic about his wearing the tropical-weight black suit over the Hawaiian shirt; he’d surely have to buy something warmer in Zürich, the expense of which had prompted Dr. Daruwalla to hand him several hundred Swiss francs—at the last minute, so that Martin had no time to refuse the money. And there was something barely noticeable but odd about his habit of closing his eyes while he waited in line. When the line stopped moving, Martin closed his eyes and smiled; then the line would inch forward, Martin with it, looking like a man refreshed. Farrokh knew what the fool was doing. Martin Mills was making sure that Jesus Christ was still in the parking lot.
Not even a mob of Indian workers returning from the Gulf could distract the former Jesuit from the lastest of his spiritual exercises. The workers were what Farrokh’s mother, Meher, used to call the Persia-returned crowd, but these workers weren’t coming from Iran; they were returning from Kuwait—their two-in-ones or their three-in-ones were blasting. In addition to their boom boxes, they carried their foam mattresses; their plastic shoulder bags were bursting with whiskey bottles and wristwatches and assorted aftershaves and pocket calculators—some had even stolen the cutlery from the plane. Sometimes the workers went to Oman—or Qatar or Dubai. In Meher’s day, the so-called Persia-returned crowd had brought back gold ingots in their hands—at least a sovereign or two. Nowadays, Farrokh guessed, they weren’t bringing home much gold. Nevertheless, they got drunk on the plane. But even as he was jostled by the most unruly of these Persia-returned people, Martin Mills kept closing his eyes and smiling; as long as Jesus was still in that parking lot, all was right with Martin’s world.
For his remaining days in Bombay, Dr. Daruwalla would regret that, when he closed his eyes, he saw no such reassuring vision; no Christ—not even a parking lot. He told Julia that he was suffering the sort of recurring dream that he hadn’t had since he’d first left India for Austria; it was a common dream among adolescents, old Lowji had told him—for one reason or another, you find yourself naked in a public place. Long ago, Farrokh’s opinionated father had offered an unlikely interpretation. “It’s a new immigrant’s dream,” Lowji had declared. Maybe it was, Farrokh now believed. He’d left India many times before, but this was the first time he would leave his birthplace with the certain knowledge that he wasn’t coming back; he’d never felt so sure.
For most of his adult life, he’d lived with the discomfort (especially in India) of feeling that he wasn’t really Indian. Now how would he feel, living in Toronto with the discomfort of knowing that he’d never truly been assimilated there? Although he was a citizen of Canada, Dr. Daruwalla knew he was no Canadian; he would never feel “assimilated.” Old Lowji’s nasty remark would haunt Farrokh forever: “Immigrants are immigrants all their lives!” Once someone makes such a negative pronouncement, you might refute it but you never forget it; some ideas are so vividly planted, they become visible objects, actual things.
For example, a racial insult—not forgetting the accompanying loss of self-esteem. Or one of those more subtle Anglo-Saxon nuances, which frequently assailed Farrokh in Canada and made him feel that he was always standing at the periphery; this could be simply a sour glance—that familiar dour expression which attended the most commonplace exchange. The way they examined the signature on your credit card, as if it couldn’t possibly comply with your signature; or when they gave you back your change, how their looks always lingered on the color of your upturned palm—it was a different color from the back of your hand. The difference was somehow greater than that difference which they took for granted—namely, between their palms and the backs of their hands. (“Immigrants are immigrants all their lives!”)
The first time he saw Suman perform the Skywalk at the Great Royal Circus, Farrokh didn’t believe she could fall; she looked perfect—she was so beautiful and her steps were so precise. Then, one time, he saw her standing in the wing of the main tent before her performance. He was surprised that she wasn’t stretching her muscles. She wasn’t even moving her feet; she stood completely still. Maybe she was concentrating, Dr. Daruwalla thought; he didn’t want her to notice him looking at her—he didn’t want to distract her.
When Suman turned to him, Farrokh realized that she really must have been concentrating because she didn’t acknowledge him and she was always very polite; she looked right past him, or through him. The fresh puja mark on her forehead was smudged. It was the slightest flaw, but when Dr. Daruwalla saw the smudge, he instantly knew that Suman was mortal. From that moment, Farrokh believed she could fall. After that, he could never relax when he saw her skywalking—she seemed unbearably vulnerable. If someone ever were to tell him that Suman had fallen and died, Dr. Daruwalla would see her lying in the dirt with her puja mark smeared. (“Immigrants are immigrants all their lives” was this kind of smudge.)
It might have helped Dr. Daruwalla if he could have left Bombay as quickly as the twins had left. But retiring movie stars and ex-missionaries can leave town faster than doctors; surgeons have their operating schedules and their recovering patients. As for screenwriters, like other writers, they have their messy little details to attend to, too.
Farrokh knew he would never talk to Madhu; at best, he might communicate with her, or learn of her condition, through Vinod or Deepa. The doctor wished the child might have had the good luck to die in the circus; the death he’d created for his Pinky character—killed by a lion who mistakes her for a peacock—was a lot quicker than the one he imagined for Madhu.
Similarly, the screenwriter entertained little hope that the real Ganesh would succeed at the circus, at least not to the degree that the fictional Ganesh succeeds. There would be no skywalking for the elephant boy, which was a pity—it was such a perfect ending. If the real cripple became a successful cook’s helper, that would be ample satisfaction for Farrokh. To this end, he wrote a friendly letter to Mr. and Mrs. Das at the Great Blue Nile; although the elephant-footed boy could never be trained as an acrobat, the doctor wanted the ringmaster and his wife to encourage Ganesh to be a good cook’s helper. Dr. Daruwalla also wrote to Mr. and Mrs. Bhagwan—the knife thrower and his wife-assistant, the skywalker. Perhaps the skywalker would be so kind as to gently disabuse the elephant boy of his silly idea that he could perform the Skywalk. Possibly Mrs. Bhagwan could show Ganesh how hard it was to skywalk. She might let the cripple try it, using the model of that ladderlike device which hung from the roof of her own troupe tent; that would show him how impossible skywalking was—it would also be a safe exercise.
As for his screenplay, Farrokh had again titled it Limo Roulette; he came back to this title because Escaping Maharashtra struck him as overoptimistic, if not wholly improbable. The screenplay had suffered from even the briefest passage of time. The horror of Acid Man, the sensationalism of the lion striking down the star of the circus (that innocent little girl) … Farrokh feared that these elements echoed a Grand Guignol drama, which he recognized as the essence of an Inspector Dhar story. Maybe the screenwriter hadn’t ventured as far from his old genre as he’d first imagined.
Yet Farrokh disputed that opinion of himself which he’d read in so many reviews—namely, that he was a deus-ex-machina writer, always calling on the available gods (and other artificial devices) to bail himself out of his plot. Real life itself was a deus-ex-machina mess! Dr. Daruwalla thought. Look at how he’d put Dhar and his twin together—somebody had to do it! And hadn’t he remembered that shiny something which the shitting crow had held in its beak and then lost? It was a deus-ex-machina world!
Still, the screenwriter was insecure. Before he left Bombay, Farrokh thought he’d like to talk to Balraj Gupta, the director. Limo Roulette might be only a small departure for the screenwriter, but Dr. Daruwalla wanted Gupta’s advice. Although Farrokh was certain that this wasn’t a Hindi cinema sort of film—a small circus was definitely not a likely venue for Balraj Gupta—Gupta was the only director the screenwriter knew.
Dr. Daruwalla should have known better than to talk to Balraj Gupta about art—even flawed art. It didn’t take long for Gupta to smell out the “art” in the story; Farrokh never finished with his synopsis. “Did you say a child dies?” Gupta interrupted him. “Do you bring it back to life?”
“No,” Farrokh admitted.
“Can’t a god save the child, or something?” Balraj Gupta asked.
“It’s not that kind of film—that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Farrokh explained.
“Better give it to the Bengalis,” Gupta advised. “If it’s arty realism that you’re up to, better make it in Calcutta.” When the screenwriter didn’t respond, Balraj Gupta said, “Maybe it’s a foreign film. Limo Roulette—it sounds French!”
Farrokh thought of saying that the part of the missionary would be a wonderful role for John D. And the screenwriter might have added that Inspector Dhar, the actual star of the Hindi cinema, could have a dual role; the mistaken-identity theme could be amusing. John D. could play the missionary and he could make a cameo appearance as Dhar! But Dr. Daruwalla knew what Balraj Gupta would say to that idea: “Let the critics mock him—he’s a movie star. But movie stars shouldn’t mock themselves.” Farrokh had heard the director say it. Besides, if the Europeans or the Americans made Limo Roulette, they would never cast John D. as the missionary. Inspector Dhar meant nothing to Europeans or Americans; they would insist on casting one of their movie stars in that role.
Dr. Daruwalla was silent. He presumed that Balraj Gupta was angry with him for putting an end to the Inspector Dhar series; he already knew Gupta was angry with John D. because John D. had left town without doing much to promote Inspector Dhar and the Towers of Silence.
“I think you’re angry with me,” Farrokh began cautiously.
“Oh, no—not for a minute!” Gupta cried. “I never get angry with people who decide they’re tired of making money. Such people are veritable emblems of humanity—don’t you agree?”
“I knew you were angry with me,” Dr. Daruwalla replied.
“Tell me about the love interest in your art film,” Gupta demanded. “That will make you or break you, despite all this other foolishness. Dead children … why not show it to the South Indian socialists? They might like it!”
Dr. Daruwalla tried to talk about the love interest in the screenplay as if he believed in it. There was the American missionary, the would-be priest who falls in love with a beautiful circus acrobat; Suman was an actual acrobat, not an actress, the screenwriter explained.
“An acrobat!” cried Balraj Gupta; “Are you crazy? Have you seen their thighs? Women acrobats have terrifying thighs! And their thighs are magnified on film.”
“I’m talking to the wrong person—I must be crazy,” Farrokh replied. “Anyone who’d discuss a serious film with you is truly certifiable.”
“The telltale word is ‘serious,’ ” Balraj Gupta said. “I can see you’ve learned nothing from your success. Have you lost your bananas? Are you marbles?” the director shouted.
The screenwriter tried to correct the director’s difficulties with English. “The phrases are, ‘Have you lost your marbles?’ and ‘Are you bananas?’—I believe,” Dr. Daruwalla told him.
“That’s what I said!” Gupta shouted; like most directors, Balraj Gupta was always right. The doctor hung up the phone and packed his screenplay. Limo Roulette was the first thing Farrokh put in his suitcase; then he covered it with his Toronto clothes.
Just India
Vinod drove Dr. and Mrs. Daruwalla to the airport; the dwarf wept the whole way to Sahar, and Farrokh was afraid they’d have an accident. The thug driver had lost Inspector Dhar as a client; now, in addition to this tragedy, Vinod was losing his personal physician. It was shortly before midnight on a Monday evening; as if symbolic of Dhar’s last film, the poster-wallas were already covering over some of the advertisements for Inspector Dhar and the Towers of Silence. The new posters weren’t advertising a movie; they were proclamations of a different kind—celebratory announcements of Anti-Leprosy Day. That would be tomorrow, Tuesday, January 30. Julia and Farrokh would be leaving India on Anti-Leprosy Day at 2:50 A.M. on Air India 185. Bombay to Delhi, Delhi to London, London to Toronto (but you don’t have to change planes). The Daruwallas would break up the long flight by staying a few nights in London.
In the intervening time since Dhar and his twin had departed for Switzerland, Dr. Daruwalla was disappointed to have heard so little from them. At first, Farrokh had worried that they were angry with him, or that their meeting had not gone well. Then a postcard came from the Upper Engadine: a cross-country skier, a Langläufer, is crossing a frozen white lake; the lake is rimmed with mountains, the sky cloudless and blue. The message, in John D.’s handwriting, was familiar to Farrokh because it was another of Inspector Dhar’s repeated lines. In the movies, after the cool detective has slept with a new woman, something always interrupts them; they never have time to talk. Perhaps a gunfight breaks out, possibly a villain sets fire to their hotel (or their bed). In the ensuing and breathless action, Inspector Dhar and his lover have scarcely a moment to exchange pleasantries; they’re usually fighting for their lives. But then there comes the inevitable break in the action—a brief pause before the grenade assault. The audience, already loathing him, is anticipating Dhar’s signature remark to his lover. “By the way,” he tells her, “thanks.” That was John D.’s message on the postcard from the Upper Engadine.
By the way, thanks
Julia told Farrokh it was a touching message, because both twins had signed the postcard. She said it was what newlyweds did with Christmas cards and birthday greetings, but Dr. Daruwalla said (in his experience) it was what people did in doctors’ offices when there was a group gift; the receptionist signed it, the secretaries signed it, the nurses signed it, the other surgeons signed it. What was so special or “touching” about that? John D. always signed his name as just plain “D.” In unfamiliar handwriting, on the same postcard, was the name “Martin.” So they were somewhere in the mountains. Farrokh hoped that John D. wasn’t trying to teach his fool twin how to ski!
“At least they’re together, and they appreciate it,” Julia told him, but Farrokh wanted more. It almost killed him not to know every line of the dialogue between them.
When the Daruwallas arrived at the airport, Vinod weepingly handed the doctor a present. “Maybe you are never seeing me again,” the dwarf said. As for the present, it was heavy and hard and rectangular; Vinod had wrapped it in newspapers. Through his sniffles, the dwarf managed to say that Farrokh was not to open the present until he was on the plane.
Later, the doctor would think that this was probably what terrorists said to unsuspecting passengers to whom they’d handed a bomb; just then the metal detector sounded, and Dr. Daruwalla was quickly surrounded by frightened men with guns. They asked him what was wrapped up in the newspapers. What could he tell them? A present from a dwarf? They made the doctor unwrap the newspapers while they stood at some distance; they looked less ready to shoot than to flee—to “abscond,” as The Times of India would report the incident. But there was no incident.
Inside the newspapers was a brass plaque, a big brass sign; Dr. Daruwalla recognized it immediately. Vinod had removed the offensive message from the elevator of Farrokh’s apartment building on Marine Drive.
SERVANTS ARE NOT ALLOWED
TO USE THE LIFT
UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY CHILDREN
Julia told Farrokh that Vinod’s gift was “touching,” but although the security officers were relieved, th
ey questioned the doctor about the source of the sign. They wanted to be sure that it hadn’t been stolen from an historically protected building—that it was stolen from somewhere else didn’t trouble them. Perhaps they didn’t like the message any better than Farrokh and Vinod had liked it.
“A souvenir,” Dr. Daruwalla assured them. To the doctor’s surprise, the security officers let him keep the sign. It was cumbersome to carry it on board the plane, and even in first class the flight attendants were bitchy about stowing it out of everyone’s way. First they made him unwrap it (again); then he was left with the unwanted newspapers.
“Remind me never to fly Air India,” the doctor complained to his wife; he announced this loudly enough for the nearest flight attendant to hear him.
“I remind you every time,” Julia replied, also loudly enough. To any fellow first-class passenger overhearing them, they might have seemed the epitome of a wealthy couple who commonly abuse those lesser people whose chore it is to wait on them. But this impression of the Daruwallas would be false; they were simply of a generation that reacted strongly to rudeness from anyone—they were well enough educated and old enough to be intolerant of intolerance. But what hadn’t occurred to Farrokh or Julia was that perhaps the flight attendants were ill mannered about stowing the elevator sign not because of the inconvenience but because of the message; possibly the flight attendants were also incensed that servants weren’t allowed to use the lift unless accompanied by children.