A Son of the Circus

by John Irving

  “He never spoke my name,” Martin told the doctor. “I remember thinking that he was Satan, and that Satan had chosen to look like me, to take my own form—what a horror! I thought you were my dark side, my evil half.”

  “Your smarter half, you mean,” John D. would invariably reply.

  “He was just like the Devil. He was frighteningly arrogant,” Martin told Farrokh.

  “I simply told him that I knew who he was,” John D. argued.

  “You said nothing of the kind,” Martin interjected. “You said, ‘Fasten your fucking seat belt, pal, because are you ever in for a surprise!’ ”

  “That sounds like what you’d say,” Farrokh told the former Dhar.

  “I couldn’t get a word in edgewise,” John D. complained. “Here I knew all about him, but he was the one who wouldn’t stop talking. All the way to Zürich, he never shut up.”

  Dr. Daruwalla had to admit that this sounded like what Martin Mills would do.

  “I kept thinking: This is Satan. I give up the idea of the priesthood and I meet the Devil—in first class! He had this constant sneer,” Martin said. “It was a Satanic sneer—or so I thought.”

  “He started right out about Vera, our sainted mother,” John D. related. “We were still crossing the Arabian Sea—utter darkness above and below us—when he got to the part about the roommate’s suicide. I hadn’t said a word!”

  “That’s not true—he kept interrupting me,” Martin told Farrokh. “He kept asking me, ‘Are you gay, or do you just not know it yet?’ Honestly, I thought he was the rudest man I’d ever met!”

  “Listen to me,” the actor said. “You meet your twin brother on an airplane and you start right out with a list of everyone your mother’s slept with. And you think I’m rude.”

  “You called me a ‘quitter’ before we’d even reached our cruising altitude,” Martin said.

  “But you must have started by telling him that you were his twin,” Farrokh said to John D.

  “He did nothing of the kind,” said Martin Mills. “He said, ‘You already know the bad news: your father died. Now here’s the good news: he wasn’t your father.’ ”

  “You didn’t!” Dr. Daruwalla said to John D.

  “I can’t remember,” the actor would say.

  “The word ‘twin’—just tell me, who said it first?” the doctor asked.

  “I asked the flight attendant if she saw any resemblance between us—she was the first to say the word ‘twin,’ ” John D. replied.

  “That’s not exactly how it happened,” Martin argued. “What he said to the flight attendant was, ‘We were separated at birth. Try to guess which one of us has had the better time.’ ”

  “He simply exhibited all the common symptoms of denial,” John D. would respond. “He kept asking me if I had proof that we were related.”

  “He was utterly shameless,” Martin told Farrokh. “He said, ‘You can’t deny that you’ve had at least one homosexual infatuation—there’s your proof.’ ”

  “That was bold of you,” the doctor told John D. “Actually, there’s only a fifty-two percent chance …”

  “I knew he was gay the second I saw him,” the retired movie star said.

  “But when did you realize how much … else you had in common?” Dr. Daruwalla asked. “When did you begin to recognize the traits you shared? When did your obvious similarities emerge?”

  “Oh, long before we got to Zürich,” Martin answered quickly.

  “What similarities?” John D. asked.

  “That’s what I mean by arrogant—he’s arrogant and rude,” Martin told Farrokh.

  “And when did you decide not to go to New York?” the doctor asked the ex-missionary. Dr. Daruwalla was especially interested in the part of the story where the twins told Vera off.

  “We were working on our telegram to the bitch before we landed,” John D. replied.

  “But what did the telegram say?” Farrokh asked.

  “I don’t remember,” John D. would always answer.

  “Of course you remember!” cried Martin Mills. “You wrote it! He wouldn’t let me write a word of the telegram,” Martin told Dr. Daruwalla. “He said he was in the business of one-liners—he insisted on doing it himself.”

  “What you wanted to say to her wouldn’t have fit in a telegram,” John D. reminded his twin.

  “What he said to her was unspeakably cruel. I couldn’t believe how cruel he could be. And he didn’t even know her!” Martin Mills told the doctor.

  “He asked me to send the telegram. He had no second thoughts,” John D. told Farrokh.

  “But what was it that you said? What did the damn telegram say?” Dr. Daruwalla cried.

  “It was unspeakably cruel,” Martin repeated.

  “She had it coming, and you know it,” said the ex-Inspector Dhar.

  Whatever the telegram said, Dr. Daruwalla knew that Vera didn’t live very long after she received it. There was only her hysterical phone call to Farrokh, who was still in Bombay; Vera called the doctor’s office and left a message with Ranjit.

  “This is Veronica Rose—the actress,” she told Dr. Daruwalla’s secretary. Ranjit knew who she was; he would never forget typing the report on the problem Vera had with her knees, which turned out to be gynecological—“vaginal itching,” Dr. Lowji Daruwalla had said.

  “Tell the fucking doctor I know that he betrayed me!” Vera said to Ranjit.

  “Is it your … knees again?” the old secretary had asked her.

  Dr. Daruwalla never returned her call. Vera never made it back to California before she died; her death was related to the sleeping pills she regularly took, which she’d irregularly mixed with vodka.

  Martin would stay in Europe. Switzerland suited him, he said. And the outings in the Alps—although the former scholastic had never been athletically inclined, these outings with John D. were wonderful for Martin Mills. He couldn’t be taught to downhill-ski (he was too uncoordinated), but he liked cross-country skiing and hiking; he loved being with his brother. Even John D. admitted, albeit belatedly, that they loved being with each other.

  The ex-missionary kept himself busy; he taught at City University (in the general-studies program) and at the American International School of Zürich—he was active at the Swiss Jesuit Centre, too. Occasionally, he would travel to other Jesuit institutions; there were youth centers and students’ homes in Basel and Bern, and adult-education centers in Fribourg and Bad Schönbrunn—Martin Mills was doubtless effective as an inspirational speaker. Farrokh could only imagine that this meant more Christ-in-the-parking-lot sermonizing; the former zealot hadn’t lost his energy for improving the attitudes of others.

  As for John D., he continued in his craft; the journeyman actor was content with his roles at the Schauspielhaus Zürich. His friends were in the theater, or affiliated with the university, or with a publishing firm of excellent reputation—and of course he saw a great deal of Farrokh’s brother, Jamshed, and Jamshed’s wife (and Julia’s sister), Josefine.

  It was to this social circle that John D. would introduce his twin. An oddity at first—everyone is interested in a twins-separated-at-birth story—Martin made many friends in this community; in three years, the ex-missionary probably had more friends than the actor. In fact, Martin’s first lover was an ex-boyfriend of John D.’s, which Dr. Daruwalla found strange; the twins made a joke of it—probably to exasperate him, the doctor thought.

  As for lovers, Matthias Frei died; the onetime terror of the Zürich avant-garde had been John D.’s longstanding partner. It was Julia who informed Farrokh of this; she’d known for quite some time that John D. and Frei were a couple. “Frei didn’t die of AIDS, did he?” the doctor asked his wife. She gave him the same sort of look that John D. would have given him; it was that smile from movie posters of faded memory, recalling the cutting sneer of Inspector Dhar.

  “No, Frei didn’t die of AIDS—he had a heart attack,” Julia told her husband.

  No one
ever tells me anything! the doctor thought. It was just like that twinly conversation on Swissair 197, Bombay to Zürich, which would occupy a sizable part of Farrokh’s imagination, largely because John D. and Martin Mills were so secretive about it.

  “Now, listen to me, both of you,” Dr. Daruwalla would tell the twins. “I’m not prying, I do respect your privacy—it’s just that you know how much dialogue interests me. This feeling of closeness between you, for it’s obvious to me that the two of you are close … did it come from your very first meeting? It must have happened on the plane! There’s surely something more between you than your mutual hatred of your late mother—or did the telegram to Vera really bring you together?”

  “The telegram wasn’t dialogue—I thought you were interested only in our dialogue,” John D. replied.

  “Such a telegram would never have occurred to me!” said Martin Mills.

  “I couldn’t get a word in edgewise,” John D. repeated. “We didn’t have any dialogue. Martin had one monologue after another.”

  “He’s an actor, all right,” Martin told Farrokh. “I know he can create a character, as they say, but I’m telling you I was convinced he was Satan—I mean the real thing.”

  “Nine hours is a long time to talk with anyone,” John D. was fond of saying.

  “The flight was nearly nine hours and fifteen minutes, to be more exact,” Martin corrected him.

  “The point is, I was dying to get off the plane,” John D. told Dr. Daruwalla. “He kept telling me it was God’s will that we met. I thought I was going to go mad. The only time I could get away from him was when I went to the lavatory.”

  “You practically lived in the lavatory! You drank so much beer. And it was God’s will—you see that now, don’t you?” Martin asked John D.

  “It was Farrokh’s will,” John D. replied.

  “You really are the Devil!” Martin told his twin.

  “No, both of you are the Devil!” Dr. Daruwalla told them, although he would discover that he loved them—if never quite equally. He looked forward to seeing them, and to their letters or their calls. Martin wrote lengthy letters; John D. seldom wrote letters, but he called frequently. Sometimes, when he called, it was hard to know what he wanted. Occasionally, not often, it was hard to know who was calling—John D. or the old Inspector Dhar.

  “Hi, it’s me,” he said to Farrokh one morning; he sounded smashed. It would have been early afternoon in Zürich. John D. said he’d just had a foolish lunch; when the actor called his lunch or dinner “foolish,” it usually meant that he’d had something stronger to drink than beer. Only two glasses of wine made him drunk.

  “I hope you’re not performing tonight!” Dr. Daruwalla said, regretting that he sounded like an overcritical father.

  “It’s my understudy’s night to perform,” the actor told him. Farrokh knew very little about the theater; he hadn’t known that there were understudies at the Schauspielhaus—also, he was sure that John D. was currently playing a small supporting role.

  “It’s impressive that you have an understudy for such a little part,” the doctor said cautiously.

  “My ‘understudy’ is Martin,” the twin confessed. “We thought we’d try it—just to see if anyone noticed.”

  Once again Farrokh sounded like an overcritical father. “You should be more protective of your career than that,” Dr. Daruwalla chided John D. “Martin can be a clod! What if he can’t act at all? He could completely embarrass you!”

  “We’ve been practicing,” said the old Inspector Dhar.

  “And I suppose you’ve been posing as him,” Farrokh remarked. “Lectures on Graham Greene, no doubt—Martin’s favorite ‘Catholic interpretation.’ And a few inspirational speeches at those Jesuit centers—a Jesus in every parking lot, more than enough Christs to go around … that kind of thing.”

  “Yes,” John D. admitted. “It’s been fun.”

  “You should be ashamed—both of you!” Dr. Daruwalla cried.

  “You put us together,” John D. replied.

  Nowadays, Farrokh knew, the twins were much more alike in their appearance. John D. had lost a little weight; Martin had put the pounds on—incredibly, the former Jesuit was going to a gym. They also cut their hair the same way. Having been separated for 39 years, the twins took being identical somewhat seriously.

  Then there was that particularly transatlantic silence, with a rhythmic bleeping—a sound that seemed to count the time. And John D. remarked, “So … it’s probably sunset there.” When John D. said “there,” he meant Bombay. Counting 10½ hours, Dr. Daruwalla figured that it would be more or less sunset. “I’ll bet she’s on the balcony, just watching,” John D. went on. “What do you bet?” Dr. Daruwalla knew that the ex-Inspector Dhar was thinking of Nancy and her view to the west.

  “I guess it’s about that time,” the doctor answered carefully.

  “It’s probably too early for the good policeman to be home,” John D. continued. “She’s all alone, but I’ll bet she’s on the balcony—just watching.”

  “Yes—probably,” Dr. Daruwalla said.

  “Want to bet?” John D. asked. “Why don’t you call her and see if she’s there? You can tell by how long it takes her to get to the phone.”

  “Why don’t you call her?” Farrokh asked.

  “I never call Nancy,” John D. told him.

  “She’d probably enjoy hearing from you,” Farrokh lied.

  “No, she wouldn’t,” John D. said. “But I’ll bet you anything she’s on the balcony. Go on and call her.”

  “I don’t want to call her!” Dr. Daruwalla cried. “But I agree with you—she’s probably on the balcony. So … you win the bet, or there’s no bet. She’s on the balcony. Just leave it at that.” Where else would Nancy be? the doctor wondered; he was quite sure John D. was drunk.

  “Please call her. Please do it for me, Farrokh,” John D. said to him.

  There wasn’t much to it. Dr. Daruwalla called his former Marine Drive apartment. The phone rang and rang; it rang so long, the doctor almost hung up. Then Nancy picked up the phone. There was her defeated voice, expecting nothing. The doctor chatted aimlessly for a while; he pretended that the call was of no importance—just a whim. Vijay wasn’t yet back from Crime Branch Headquarters, Nancy informed him. They would have dinner at the Duckworth Club, but a bit later than usual. She knew there’d been another bombing, but she didn’t know the details.

  “Is there a nice sunset?” Farrokh asked.

  “Oh, yes … sort of fading now,” Nancy told him.

  “Well, I’ll let you get back to it!” he told her a little too heartily. Then he called John D. and told him that she’d definitely been on the balcony; Farrokh repeated Nancy’s remark about the sunset—“sort of fading now.” The retired Inspector Dhar kept saying the line; he wouldn’t stop practicing the phrase until Dr. Daruwalla assured him that he had it right—that he was saying it precisely as Nancy had said it. He really is a good actor, the former screenwriter thought; it was impressive how closely John D. could imitate the exact degree of deadness in Nancy’s voice.

  “Sort of fading now,” John D. kept saying. “How’s that?”

  “That’s it—you’ve got it,” Farrokh told him.

  “Sort of fading now,” John D. repeated. “Is that better?”

  “Yes, that’s perfect,” Dr. Daruwalla said.

  “Sort of fading now,” said the actor.

  “Stop it,” the ex-screenwriter said.

  Allowed to Use the Lift at Last

  As a former guest chairman of the Membership Committee, Dr. Daruwalla knew the rules of the Duckworth Club; the 22-year waiting list for applicants was inviolable. The death of a Duckworthian—for example, Mr. Dogar’s fatal stroke, which followed fast upon the news that the second Mrs. Dogar had been beaten to death by her guards—did not necessarily speed up the process of membership. The Membership Committee never crassly viewed a fellow Duckworthian’s death as a matter of making roo
m. Not even the death of Mr. Dua would “make room” for a new member. And Mr. Dua was sorely missed; his deafness in one ear was legendary—the never-to-be-forgotten tennis injury, the senseless blow from the flung racket of his doubles partner (who’d double-faulted). Dead at last, poor Mr. Dua was deaf in both ears now; yet not one new membership came of it.

  However, Farrokh knew that not even the rules of the Duckworth Club were safe from a single most interesting loophole. It was stated that upon the formal resignation of a Duckworthian, as distinct from a Duckworthian’s demise, a new member could be spontaneously appointed to take the resigning member’s place; such an appointment circumvented the normal process of nomination and election and the 22-year waiting list. Had this exception to the rules been overused, it doubtless would have been criticized and eliminated, but Duckworthians didn’t resign. Even when they moved away from Bombay, they paid their dues and retained their membership; Duckworthians were Duckworthians forever.

  Three years after he left India—“for good,” or so he’d said—Dr. Daruwalla still faithfully paid his dues to the Duckworth Club; even in Toronto, the doctor read the club’s monthly newsletter. But John D. did the unexpected, unheard-of, un-Duckworthian thing: he resigned his membership. Deputy Commissioner Patel was “spontaneously appointed” in the retired Inspector Dhar’s stead. The former movie star was replaced by the real policeman, who (all agreed) had distinguished himself in “community leadership.” If there were objections to the big blond wife who went everywhere with the esteemed detective, these objections were never too openly expressed, although Mr. Sethna was committed to remembering Nancy’s furry navel and the day she’d stood on a chair and reached into the mechanism of the ceiling fan—not to mention the night she’d danced with Dhar and left the club in tears, or the day after, when she’d left the club in anger (with Dhar’s dwarf).

  Dr. Daruwalla would learn that Detective Patel and Nancy were controversial additions to the Duckworth Club. But the old club, the doctor knew, was just one more oasis—a place where Nancy might hope to contain herself, and where the deputy commissioner could indulge in a brief respite from the labors of his profession. This was how Farrokh preferred to think of the Patels—relaxing in the Ladies’ Garden, watching a slower life go by than the life they’d lived. They deserved a break, didn’t they? And although it had taken three years, the swimming pool was finally finished; in the hottest months, before the monsoon, the pool would be nice for Nancy.