A Son of the Circus

by John Irving

  For a moment, Dr. Daruwalla smiled openly at this Madonna and Child; they were so clearly illuminated under their lamppost, the doctor should have known that they could see him standing under his lamppost—just as clearly. But Farrokh had forgotten where he was—not in India—and he’d overlooked the racial wariness he might provoke in the woman, who now regarded his unfamiliar face in the streetlight (and in the whiteness of the falling snow) as she might have regarded the sudden appearance of a large, unleashed dog. Why was this foreigner smiling at her?

  The woman’s obvious fear both offended and shamed Dr. Daruwalla; he quickly stopped smiling and looked away. Then the doctor realized that he was standing on the wrong corner of the intersection. Julia had plainly instructed him to stand on the northwest corner of Lonsdale and Russell Hill Road, which was exactly where the mother and her son were standing. Farrokh knew that by crossing the street and standing beside them, he would probably create mayhem in the woman’s mind—at best, extreme apprehension. At worst, she might scream for help; there would be accusations that could rouse the neighbors—conceivably, summon the police!

  Therefore, Dr. Daruwalla crossed Russell Hill Road awkwardly, sidling head-down and furtively, which doubtless gave the woman all the more cause to suspect him of criminal behavior. Slinking across the street, Farrokh looked full of felonious intentions. He passed the woman and child quickly, scuttling by without a greeting—for a greeting, the doctor was sure, would startle the woman to such a degree that she might bolt into the traffic. (There was no traffic.) Dr. Daruwalla took up a position that was 10 yards away from where Julia was expecting to spot him. There the doctor stood, like a pervert getting up his nerve for a cowardly assault; he was aware that the streetlight barely reached to the curb where he waited.

  The mother, who was of medium height and figure—and now thoroughly frightened—began to pace, dragging her small son with her. She was a well-dressed young woman in her twenties, but neither her attire nor her youth could conceal her struggle to combat her rising terror. From her expression, it was clear to Dr. Daruwalla that she believed she understood his heinous intentions. Under his seemingly tasteful topcoat, which was black wool with a black velvet collar and black velvet lapels, there surely lurked a naked man who was dying to expose himself to her and her child. The mother turned her trembling back on the doctor’s reprehensible figure, but her small son had also noticed the stranger. The boy was unafraid—just curious. He kept tugging on his distraught mother’s arm; with his little tongue still sticking straight out into the snow, the child couldn’t take his eyes off the exotic foreigner.

  Dr. Daruwalla tried to concentrate on the snow. Impulsively, the doctor stuck out his tongue; it was a reflex imitation of what he’d seen the small boy do—it hadn’t occurred to Dr. Daruwalla to stick out his tongue for years. But now, in the falling snow, the young mother could see that the foreigner was radically deranged; his mouth lolled open, with his tongue sticking out, and his eyes blinked as the snowflakes fell on his lashes.

  As for his eyelids, Farrokh felt they were heavy; to the casual observer, his eyelids were puffy—his age, his tiredness, the years of beer and wine. But to this young mother, in her growing panic, they must have struck her as the eyelids of the demonic East; slightly beyond illumination in the streetlight, Dr. Daruwalla’s eyes appeared to be hooded—like a serpent’s.

  However, her son had no fear of the foreigner; their tongues in the snow seemed to connect them. The kinship of their extended tongues took immediate effect on the small boy. Farrokh’s childish, unconscious gesture must have overridden the boy’s natural reluctance to speak to strangers, for he suddenly broke free of his mother’s grasp and ran with outstretched arms toward the astonished Indian.

  The mother was too terrified to give clear utterance to her son’s name. She managed only a gargling sound, a strangled gasp. She hesitated before stumbling after her son, as if her legs had turned to ice or stone. She was resigned to her fate; how well she knew what would happen next! The black topcoat would open as she approached the stranger, and she would be confronted with the male genitalia of the truly inscrutable East.

  In order not to frighten her further, Dr. Daruwalla pretended not to notice that the child was running to him. He could imagine the mother thinking, Oh—these perverts are sly! Particularly those of us who are “of color,” the doctor thought bitterly. This was precisely the situation that foreigners (especially those “of color”) are taught to dread. Absolutely nothing was happening; yet the young woman was sure that she and her son teetered on the brink of a shocking, possibly even a scarring, episode.

  Farrokh nearly cried out: Excuse me, pretty lady, but there is no episode here! He would have run away from the child, except that he suspected the boy could run faster; also, Julia was coming to pick him up, and there he would be—running away from a mother and her small son. That would be too absurd.

  That was when the small boy touched him; it was a firm but gentle tug on his sleeve—then the miniature mittened hand grasped the doctor’s gloved index finger and pulled. Dr. Daruwalla had no choice but to look down into the wide-eyed face that was peering up at him; the whiteness of the boy’s cheeks was rose-tinted against the purer whiteness of the snow.

  “Excuse me,” the little gentleman said. “Where are you from?”

  Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? thought Dr. Daruwalla. It was always the question. For his whole adult life, it was the question he usually answered with the literal truth, which in his heart felt like a lie.

  “I’m from India,” the doctor would say, but he didn’t feel it; it didn’t ring true. “I’m from Toronto,” he sometimes said, but with more mischief than authority. Or else he would be clever. “I’m from Toronto, via Bombay,” he would say. If he really wanted to be cute, he would answer, “I’m from Toronto, via Vienna and Bombay.” He could go on, elaborating the lie—namely, that he was from anywhere.

  He could always enhance the European qualities of his education, if he chose; he could create a spicy masala mixture for his childhood in Bombay, giving his accent that Hindi flavor; he could also kill the conversation with his merciless, deadpan Torontonian reserve. (“As you may know, there are many Indians in Toronto,” he could say, when he felt like it.) Dr. Daruwalla could seem as comfortable with the places he’d lived as he was, truly, uncomfortable.

  But suddenly the boy’s innocence demanded of the doctor a different kind of truth; in the child’s face, Dr. Daruwalla could discern only frank curiosity—only the most genuine desire to know. It also moved the doctor that the boy had not let go of his index finger. Farrokh was aware that he had no time in which to formulate a witty answer or an ambiguous remark; the terrified mother would any second interrupt the moment, which would never return.

  “Where are you from?” the child had asked him.

  Dr. Daruwalla wished he knew; never had he so much wanted to tell the truth, and (more important) to feel that his response was as pure and natural as the currently falling snow. Bending close to the boy, so that the child could not mistake a word of his answer, and giving the boy’s trusting hand a reflexive squeeze, the doctor spoke clearly in the sharp winter air.

  “I’m from the circus,” Farrokh said, without thinking—it was utterly spontaneous—but by the instant delight that was apparent in the child’s broad smile and in his bright, admiring eyes, Dr. Daruwalla could tell that he’d answered the question correctly. What he saw in the boy’s happy face was something he’d never felt before in his cold, adopted country. Such uncritical acceptance was the most satisfying pleasure that Dr. Daruwalla (or any immigrant of color) would ever know.

  Then a car horn was blowing and the woman pulled her son away; the boy’s father, the woman’s husband—whoever he was—was helping them into his car. If Farrokh heard nothing of what the mother said, he would remember what the child told the man. “The circus is in town!” the boy said. Then they drove away, leaving Dr. Daruwalla there; the docto
r had the street corner to himself.

  Julia was late. Farrokh fretted that they wouldn’t have time to eat before the interminable Harbourfront readings. Then he needn’t worry that he’d fall asleep and snore; instead, the audience and the unfortunate authors would be treated to his growling stomach.

  The snow kept falling. No cars passed. In a distant window, the lights on a Christmas tree were blinking; Dr. Daruwalla tried to count the colors. The colored lights through the window glass were reminiscent of that light which is reflected in sequins—that glitter which is sewn into the singlets of the circus acrobats. Was there anything as wonderful as that reflected light? Farrokh wondered.

  A car was passing; it threatened to break the spell that the doctor was under, for Dr. Daruwalla was halfway around the world from the corner of Lonsdale and Russell Hill Road. “Go home!” someone shouted to him from the window of the passing car.

  It was an irony that the doctor didn’t hear this, for he was in a position to inform the person that going home was easier said than done. More sounds, torn from the window of the moving car, were muffled by the snow—receding laughter, possibly a racial slur. But Dr. Daruwalla heard none of it. His eyes had risen from the Christmas tree in the window; at first he’d blinked at the falling snow, but then he allowed his eyes to close—the snow coolly covered his eyelids.

  Farrokh saw the elephant-footed boy in his singlet with the blue-green sequins—as the little beggar was never dressed in real life. Farrokh saw Ganesh descending in the spotlight, twirling down—the cripple’s teeth clamped tightly on the dental trapeze. This was the completion of another successful Skywalk, which in reality had never happened and never would. The real cripple was dead; it was only in the retired screenwriter’s mind that Ganesh was a skywalker. Probably the movie would never be made. Yet, in his mind’s eye, Farrokh saw the elephant boy walk without a limp across the sky. To Dr. Daruwalla, this existed; it was as real as the India the doctor thought he’d left behind. Now he saw that he was destined to see Bombay again. Farrokh knew there was no escaping Maharashtra, which was no circus.

  That was when he knew he was going back—again and again, he would keep returning. It was India that kept bringing him back; this time, the dwarfs would have nothing to do with it. Farrokh knew this as distinctly as he could hear the applause for the skywalker. Dr. Daruwalla heard them clapping as the elephant boy descended on the dental trapeze; the doctor could hear them cheering for the cripple.

  Julia, who’d stopped the car and was waiting for her distracted husband, honked the horn. But Dr. Daruwalla didn’t hear her. Farrokh was listening to the applause—he was still at the circus.

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