When Nancy returned to the Ladies' Garden, she offered only a matter-of-fact comment on her discovery of what she believed to be the source of inspiration for Rahul's belly drawings. The deputy commissioner and the doctor rushed off to the ladies' room to see the telltale elephant for themselves; their opportunity to view the Victorian faucet was delayed until the last woman had vacated the ladies' room. Even from a considerable distance--from the far side of the dining room--Mr. Sethna was able to observe that Inspector Dhar and the woman with the obscene navel had nothing to say to each other, although they were left alone in the Ladies' Garden for an uncomfortable amount of time.
Later, in the car, Detective Patel spoke to Nancy--before they'd left the driveway of the Duckworth Club. "I have to go back to headquarters, but I'll take you home first," he told her.
"You should be more careful about what you ask me to do. Vijay," Nancy said.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," Patel replied. "But I wanted to know your opinion. Can I trust him?" The deputy commissioner saw that his wife was about to cry again.
"You can trust me!" Nancy cried.
"I know I can trust you, sweetie," Patel said. "But what about him? Do you think he can do it?"
"He'll do anything you tell him, if he knows what you want," Nancy answered.
"And you think Rahul will go for him?" her husband asked. "Oh, yes," she said bitterly.
"Dhar is a pretty cool customer!" said the detective admiringly.
"Dhar is as queer as a three-dollar bill," Nancy told him.
Not being from Iowa, Detective Patel had some difficulty with the concept of how "queer" a three-dollar bill was--not to mention that, in Bombay, they call a bill a note. "You mean that he's gay--a homosexual?" her husband asked.
"No doubt about it. You can trust me," Nancy repeated. They were almost home before she spoke again. "A very cool customer," she added.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," said the deputy commissioner, because he saw that his wife couldn't stop crying.
"I do love you, Vijay," she managed to say.
"I love you, too, sweetie," the detective told her.
Just Some Old Attraction-Repulsion Kind of Thing
In the Ladies' Garden, the sun now slanted sideways through the latticework of the bower; the same shade of pinkness from the bougainvillea dappled the tablecloth, which Mr. Sethna had brushed free of crumbs. It seemed to the old steward that Dhar and Dr. Daruwalla would never leave the table. They'd long ago stopped talking about Rahul--or, rather, Mrs. Dogar. For the moment, they were both more interested in Nancy.
"But exactly what do you think is wrong with her?" Farrokh asked John D.
"It appears that the events of the last twenty years have had a strong effect on her," Dhar answered.
"Oh, elephant shit!" cried Dr. Daruwalla. "Can't you just once say what you're really feeling?"
"Okay," Dhar said. "It appears that she and her husband are a real couple ... very much in love, and all of that."
"Yes, that does appear to be the main thing about them," the doctor agreed. But Farrokh realized that this observation didn't greatly interest him; after all, he was still very much in love with Julia and he'd been married longer than Detective Patel. "But what was happening between the two of you--between you and her?" the doctor asked Dhar.
"It was just some old attraction-repulsion kind of thing," John D. answered evasively.
"The next thing you'll tell me is that the world is round," Farrokh said, but the actor merely shrugged. Suddenly, it was not Rahul (or Mrs. Dogar) who frightened Dr. Daruwalla; it was Dhar the doctor was afraid of, and only because Dr. Daruwalla felt that he didn't really know Dhar--not even after all these years. As before--because he felt that something unpleasant was pending--Farrokh thought of the circus; yet when he mentioned again his upcoming journey to Junagadh, he saw that John D. still wasn't interested.
"You probably think it's doomed to fail--just another save-the-children project," said Dr. Daruwalla. "Like coins in a wishing well, like pebbles in the sea."
"It sounds as if you think it's doomed to fail," Dhar told him.
It was truly time to slip away, the doctor thought. Then Dr. Daruwalla spotted the Hawaiian shirt in the paper bag; Detective Patel had left the package under his chair. Both men were standing, ready to leave, when the doctor pulled the loud shirt out of the bag.
"Well, look at that. The deputy commissioner actually forgot something. How uncharacteristic," John D. remarked.
"I doubt that he forgot it. I think he wanted you to have it," Dr. Daruwalla said. Impulsively, the doctor held up the riotous display of parrots in palm trees; there were flowers, too--red and orange and yellow against a jungle of impossible green. Farrokh placed the shoulders of the shirt against Dhar's shoulders. "It's the right size for you," the doctor observed. "Are you sure you don't want it?"
"I have all the shirts I need," the actor told him. "Give it to my fucking twin."
21
ESCAPING MAHARASHTRA
Ready for Rabies
This time, Julia found him in the morning with his face pressing a pencil against the glass-topped table in the dining room. An ongoing title search was evident from Farrokh's last jottings. There was Lion Piss (crossed out, blessedly) and Raging Hormones (also crossed out, she was happy to see), but the one that appeared to have pleased the screenwriter before he fell asleep was circled. As a movie title, Julia had her doubts about it. It was Limo Roulette, which reminded Julia of one of those French films that defy common sense--even when one manages to read every word of the subtitles.
But this was far too busy a morning for Julia to take the time to read the new pages. She woke up Farrokh by blowing in his ear; while he was in the bathtub, she made his tea. She'd already packed his toilet articles and a change of clothes, and she'd teased her husband about his habit of taking with him a medical-emergency kit of an elaborately paranoid nature; after all, he was going to be away only one night.
But Dr. Daruwalla never traveled anywhere in India without bringing with him certain precautionary items: erythromycin, the preferred antibiotic for bronchitis; Lomotil, for diarrhea. He even carried a kit of surgical instruments, including sutures and iodophor gauze--and both an antibiotic powder and an ointment. In the usual weather, infection thrived in the simplest selection of condoms, which he freely dispensed without invitation. Indian men were renowned for not using condoms. All Dr. Daruwalla had to do was meet a man who so much as joked about prostitutes; in the doctor's mind, this amounted to a confession. "Here--next time try one of these," Dr. Daruwalla would say.
The doctor also toted with him a half-dozen sterile disposable needles and syringes--just in case anyone needed any kind of shot. At a circus, people were always being bitten by dogs and monkeys. Someone had told Dr. Daruwalla that rabies was endemic among chimpanzees. For this trip, especially, Farrokh brought along three starter-doses of rabies vaccine, together with three 10mL vials of human rabies immune globulin. Both the vaccine and the immune globulin required refrigeration, but for a journey of less than 48 hours a thermos with ice would be sufficient.
"Are you expecting to be bitten by something?" Julia had asked him.
"I was thinking of the new missionary," Farrokh had replied; for he believed that, if he were a rabid chimpanzee at the Great Blue Nile, he would certainly be inclined to bite Martin Mills. Yet Julia knew that he'd packed enough vaccine and immune globulin to treat himself and the missionary and both children--just in case a rabid chimpanzee attacked them all.
Lucky Day
In the morning, the doctor longed to read and revise the new pages of his screenplay, but there was too much to do. The elephant boy had sold all the clothes that Martin Mills had bought for him on Fashion Street. Julia had anticipated this; she'd bought the ungrateful little wretch more clothes. It was a struggle to get Ganesh to take a bath--at first because he wanted to do nothing but ride in the elevator, and then because he'd never been in a building with a balcony overlooki
ng Marine Drive; all he wanted to do was stare at the view. Ganesh also objected to wearing a sandal on his good foot, and even Julia doubted the wisdom of concealing the mangled foot in a clean white sock; the sock wouldn't stay clean or white for long. As for the lone sandal, Ganesh complained that the strap across the top of his foot hurt him so much, he could scarcely walk.
When the doctor had kissed Julia good-bye, he steered the disgruntled boy to Vinod's waiting taxi; there, in the front seat beside the dwarf, was the sullen Madhu. She was irritated by Dr. Daruwalla's difficulty in understanding her languages. She had to try both Marathi and Hindi before the doctor understood that Madhu was displeased with the way Vinod had dressed her; Deepa had told the dwarf how to dress the girl.
"I'm not a child," the former child prostitute said, although it was clear that it had been Deepa's intention to make the little whore look like a child.
"The circus wants you to look like a child," Dr. Daruwalla told Madhu, but the girl pouted; nor did she respond to Ganesh in a sisterly fashion.
Madhu glanced briefly, and with disgust, at the boy's viscid eyes; there was a film of tetracycline ointment, which had been recently applied--it tended to give Ganesh's eyes a glazed quality. The boy would need to continue the medication for a week or more before his eyes looked normal. "I thought they were fixing your eyes," Madhu said cruelly; she spoke in Hindi. It had been Farrokh's impression, when he'd been alone with Madhu or alone with Ganesh, that both children endeavored to speak English; now that the kids were together, they lapsed into Hindi and Marathi. At best, the doctor spoke Hindi tentatively--and Marathi hardly at all.
"It's important that you behave like a brother and sister," Farrokh reminded them, but the cripple's mood was as sulky as Madhu's.
"If she were my sister, I'd beat her up," Ganesh said.
"Not with that foot, you wouldn't," Madhu told him.
"Now, now," said Dr. Daruwalla; he'd decided to speak English because he was almost certain that Madhu, as well as Ganesh, could understand him, and he presumed that in English he commanded more authority. "This is your lucky day," he told them.
"What's a lucky day?" Madhu asked the doctor.
"It doesn't mean anything," Ganesh said.
"It's just an expression," Dr. Daruwalla admitted, "but it does mean something. It means that today it is your good fortune to be leaving Bombay, to be going to the circus."
"So you mean that we're lucky--not the day," the elephant-footed boy replied.
"It's too soon to say if we're lucky," said the child prostitute.
On that note, they arrived at St. Ignatius, where the single-minded missionary had been waiting for them. Martin Mills climbed into the back seat of the Ambassador, an air of boundless enthusiasm surrounding him. "This is your lucky day!" the zealot announced to the children.
"We've been through that," said Dr. Daruwalla. It was only 7:30 on a Saturday morning.
Out of Place at the Taj
It was 8:30 when they arrived at the terminal for domestic flights in Santa Cruz, where they were told that their flight to Rajkot would be delayed until the end of the day.
"Indian Airlines!" Dr. Daruwalla exclaimed.
"At least they are admitting it," Vinod said.
Dr. Daruwalla decided that they could wait somewhere more comfortable than the Santa Cruz terminal. But before Farrokh could usher them all back inside the dwarf's taxi, Martin Mills had wandered off and bought the morning newspaper; on their way back to Bombay, in rush-hour traffic, the missionary treated them to snippets from The Times of India. It would be 10:30 before they arrived at the Taj. (It was Dr. Daruwalla's eccentric decision that they should wait for their flight to Rajkot in the lobby of the Taj Mahal Hotel.)
"Listen to this," Martin began. " 'Two brothers stabbed.... The police have arrested one assailant while two other accused are absconding on a scooter in a rash manner.' An unexpected use of the present tense, not to mention 'rash,' " the English teacher observed. "Not to mention 'absconding.' "
" 'Absconding' is a very popular word here," Farrokh explained.
"Sometimes it is the police who are absconding," Ganesh said.
"What did he say?" the missionary asked.
"When a crime happens, often the police abscond," Farrokh replied. "They're embarrassed that they couldn't prevent the crime, or that they can't catch the criminal, so they run away." But Dr. Daruwalla was thinking that this pattern of behavior didn't apply to Detective Patel. According to John D., the deputy commissioner intended to spend the day in the actor's suite at the Oberoi, rehearsing the best way to approach Rahul. It hurt Farrokh's feelings that he'd not been invited to participate, or that they hadn't offered to hold up the rehearsal until the screenwriter returned from the circus; after all, there would be dialogue to imagine and to compose, and although dialogue wasn't part of the doctor's day job, it was at least his other business.
"Let me be sure that I understand this," Martin Mills said. "Sometimes, when there's a crime, both the criminals and the police are 'absconding.' "
"Quite so," replied Dr. Daruwalla. He was unaware that he'd borrowed this expression from Detective Patel. The screenwriter was distracted by pride; he was thinking how clever he'd been, for he'd already made similar disrespectful use of The Times of India in his screenplay. (The fictional Mr. Martin is always reading something stupid aloud to the fictional children.)
Life imitates art, Farrokh was thinking, when Martin Mills announced, "Here's a refreshingly frank opinion." Martin had found the Opinion section of The Times of India; he was reading one of the letters. "Listen to this," the missionary said. " 'Our culture will have to be changed. It should start in primary schools by teaching boys not to urinate in the open.' "
"Catch them young, in other words," said Dr. Daruwalla.
Then Ganesh said something that made Madhu laugh.
"What did he say?" Martin asked Farrokh.
"He said there's no place to pee except in the open," Dr. Daruwalla replied.
Then Madhu said something that Ganesh clearly approved of.
"What did she say?" the missionary asked.
"She said she prefers to pee in parked cars--particularly at night," the doctor told him.
When they arrived at the Taj, Madhu's mouth was full of betel juice; the bloodred spittle overflowed the corners of her mouth.
"No betel chewing in the Taj," the doctor said. The girl spat the lurid mess on the front tire of Vinod's taxi; both the dwarf and the Sikh doorman observed, with disgust, how the stain extended into the circular driveway. "You won't be allowed any paan at the circus," the doctor reminded Madhu.
"We're not at the circus yet," said the sullen little whore.
The circular driveway was overcrowded with taxis and an array of expensive-looking vehicles. The elephant-footed boy said something to Madhu, who was amused.
"What did he say?" the missionary asked Dr. Daruwalla.
"He said there are lots of cars to pee in," the doctor replied. Then he overheard Madhu telling Ganesh that she'd been in a car like one of the expensive-looking cars before; it didn't sound like an empty boast, but Farrokh resisted the temptation to translate this information for the Jesuit. As much as Dr. Daruwalla enjoyed shocking Martin Mills, it seemed prurient to speculate on what a child prostitute had been doing in such an expensive-looking car.
"What did Madhu say?" Martin asked Farrokh.
"She said she would use the ladies' room, instead," Dr. Daruwalla lied.
"Good for you!" Martin told the girl. When she parted her lips to smile at him, her teeth were brightly smeared from the paan; it was as if her gums were bleeding. The doctor hoped that it was only his imagination that he saw something lewd in Madhu's smile. When they entered the lobby, Dr. Daruwalla didn't like the way the doorman followed Madhu with his eyes; the Sikh seemed to know that she wasn't the sort of girl who was permitted at the Taj. No matter how Deepa had told Vinod to dress her, Madhu didn't look like a child.
G
anesh was already shivering from the air-conditioning; the cripple looked anxious, as if he thought the Sikh doorman might throw him out. The Taj was no place for a beggar and a child prostitute, Dr. Daruwalla was thinking; it was a mistake to have brought them here.
"We'll just have some tea," Farrokh assured the children. "We'll keep checking on the plane," the doctor told the missionary. Like Madhu and Ganesh, Martin appeared overwhelmed by the opulence of the lobby. In the few minutes it took Dr. Daruwalla to arrange for special treatment from the assistant manager, some lesser official among the hotel staff had already asked the Jesuit and the children to leave. When that misunderstanding was cleared up, Vinod appeared in the lobby with the paper bag containing the Hawaiian shirt. The dwarf was dutifully observing, without comment, what he thought were Inspector Dhar's delusions--namely, that the famous actor was a Jesuit missionary in training to be a priest. Dr. Daruwalla had meant to give the Hawaiian shirt to Martin Mills, but the doctor had forgotten the bag in the dwarf's taxi. (Not just any taxi-walla would have been permitted in the lobby of the Taj, but Vinod was known as Inspector Dhar's driver.)
When Farrokh presented the Hawaiian shirt to Martin Mills, the missionary was excited.
"Oh, it's wonderful!" the zealot cried. "I used to have one just like it!"
"Actually, this is the one you used to have," Farrokh admitted.
"No, no," Martin whispered. "The shirt I used to have was stolen from me--one of those prostitutes took it."
"The prostitute gave it back," Dr. Daruwalla whispered.
"She did? Why, that's remarkable!" said Martin Mills. "Was she contrite?"
"He, not she," said Dr. Daruwalla. "No--he wasn't contrite, I think."
"What do you mean? He ..." the missionary said.
"I mean that the prostitute was a him, not a her," the doctor told Martin Mills. "He was a eunuch-transvestite--all of them were men. Well, sort of men."
"What do you mean? Sort of..." the missionary said.
"They're called hijras--they've been emasculated," the doctor whispered. A typical surgeon, Dr. Daruwalla liked to describe the procedure in exact detail--including the cauterizing of the wound with hot oil, and not forgetting that part of the female anatomy which the puckered scar resembled when it healed.