A Son of the Circus

  "I wouldn't marry him if he owned the Queen's Necklace and he offered me half !" cried Mrs. Kohinoor's unmarried sister. "I wouldn't marry him if he gave me all of London!"

  If you were in London, I could still hear you, thought Dr. Daruwalla. He picked at his pomfret; the fish at the Duckworth Club was unfailingly overcooked--Farrokh wondered why he'd ordered it. He envied how Martin Mills attacked his meat kabobs. The meat kept falling out of the flatbread; because Martin had stripped the skewers and tried to make a sandwich, the missionary's hands were covered with chopped onions. A dark-green flag of mint leaf was stuck between the zealot's upper front teeth. As a polite way of suggesting that the Jesuit take a look at himself in a mirror, Farrokh said, "You might want to use the men's room here, Martin. It's more comfortable than the facilities at the airport."

  Throughout lunch, Dr. Daruwalla couldn't stop glancing at his watch, even though Vinod had called Indian Airlines repeatedly; the dwarf predicted a late-afternoon departure at the earliest. They were in no hurry. The doctor had called his office only to learn that there were no messages of any importance; there'd been just one call for him, and Ranjit had handled the matter competently. Mr. Garg had phoned for the mailing address, in Junagadh, of the Great Blue Nile Circus; Garg had told Ranjit that he wanted to send Madhu a letter. It was odd that Mr. Garg hadn't asked Vinod or Deepa for the address, for the doctor had obtained the address from the dwarf's wife. It was odder still how Garg imagined that Madhu could read a letter, or even a postcard; Madhu couldn't read. But the doctor guessed that Mr. Garg was euphoric to learn that Madhu was not HIV-positive; maybe the creep wanted to send the poor child a thank-you note, or merely give her good-luck wishes.

  Now, short of telling him that he wore a mint leaf on his front teeth, there seemed no way to compel Martin Mills to visit the men's room. The scholastic took the children to the card room; there he tried in vain to teach them crazy eights. Soon the cards were speckled with blood; the zealot's index finger was still bleeding. Rather than unearth his medical supplies from his suitcase, which was in the Ambassador--besides, the doctor had packed nothing as simple as a Band-Aid--Farrokh asked Mr. Sethna for a small bandage. The old steward delivered the Band-Aid to the card room with characteristic scorn and inappropriate ceremony; he presented the bandage to Martin Mills on the silver serving tray, which the steward extended at arm's length. Dr. Daruwalla took this occasion to tell the Jesuit, "You should probably wash that wound in the men's room--before you bandage it."

  But Martin Mills washed and bandaged his finger without once looking in the mirror above the sink, or in the full-length mirror--except at some distance, and only to appraise his lost-and-found Hawaiian shirt. The missionary never spotted the mint leaf on his teeth. He did, however, notice a tissue dispenser near the flush handle for the urinal, and he noted further that every flush handle had a tissue dispenser in close proximity to it. These tissues, when used, were not carelessly deposited in the urinals; rather, there was a silver bucket at the end of the lineup of urinals, something like an ice bucket without ice, and the used tissues were deposited in it.

  This system seemed exceedingly fastidious and ultra-hygienic to Martin Mills, who reflected that he'd never wiped his penis with a tissue before. The process of urinating was made to seem more important, certainly more solemn, by the expectation of wiping one's penis after the act. At least, this is what Martin Mills assumed the tissues were for. It troubled him that no other Duckworthians were urinating at any of the other urinals; therefore, he couldn't be sure of the purpose of the tissue dispensers. He was about to finish peeing as usual--that is, without wiping himself--when the unfriendly old steward who had presented the Jesuit with his Band-Aid entered the men's room. The silver serving tray was stuck in one armpit and rested against the forearm of the same arm, as if Mr. Sethna were carrying a rifle.

  Because someone was watching him, Martin Mills thought he should use a tissue. He tried to wipe himself as if he always completed a responsible act of urination in this fashion; but he was so unfamiliar with the process, the tissue briefly caught on the end of his penis and then fell into the urinal. What was the protocol in the case of such a mishap? Martin wondered. The steward's beady eyes were fastened on the. Jesuit. As if inspired, Martin Mills seized several fresh tissues, and with these held between his bandaged index finger and his thumb, he plucked the lost tissue from the urinal. With a flourish, he deposited the bunch of tissues in the silver bucket, which tilted suddenly, and almost toppled; the missionary had to steady it with both hands. Martin tried to smile reassuringly to Mr. Sethna, but he realized that because he'd grabbed the silver bucket with both hands, he'd neglected to return his penis to his pants. Maybe this was why the old steward looked away.

  When Martin Mills had left the men's room, Mr. Sethna gave the missionary's urinal a wide berth; the steward peed as far away as possible from where the diseased actor had peed. It was definitely a sexually transmitted disease, Mr. Sethna thought. The steward had never witnessed such a grotesque example of urination. He couldn't imagine the medical necessity of dabbing one's penis every time one peed. The old steward didn't know for certain if there were other Duckworthians who made the same use of the tissue dispensers as Martin Mills had made. For years, Mr. Sethna had assumed that the tissues were for wiping one's fingers. And now, after he'd wiped his fingers, Mr. Sethna accurately deposited his tissue in the silver bucket, ruefully reflecting on the fate of Inspector Dhar. Once a demigod, now a terminal patient. For the first time since he'd poured hot tea on the head of that fop wearing the wig, the world struck Mr. Sethna as fair and just.

  In the card room, while Martin Mills had been experimenting at the urinal, Dr. Daruwalla realized why the children had such difficulty in grasping crazy eights, or any other card game. No one had ever taught them their numbers; not only could they not read, they couldn't count. The doctor was holding up his fingers with the corresponding playing card--three fingers with the three of hearts--when Martin Mills returned from the men's room, still sporting the mint leaf on his front teeth.

  Fear No Evil

  Their plane to Rajkot took off at 5:10 in the afternoon, not quite eight hours after its scheduled departure. It was a tired-looking 737. The inscription on the fuselage was legible but faded.

  FORTY YEARS OF FREEDOM

  Dr. Daruwalla quickly calculated that the plane had first been put in service in India in 1987. Where it had flown before then was anybody's guess.

  Their departure was further delayed by the need of the petty officials to confiscate Martin Mills's Swiss Army knife--a potential terrorist's tool. The pilot would carry the "weapon" in his pocket and hand it over to Martin in Rajkot.

  "Well, I suppose I'll never see it again," the missionary said; he didn't say this stoically, but more like a martyr.

  Farrokh wasted no time in teasing him. "It can't matter to you," the doctor told him. "You've taken a vow of poverty, haven't you?"

  "I know what you think about my vows," Martin replied. "You think that, because I've accepted poverty, I must have no fondness for material things. This shirt, for example--my knife, my books. And you think that, because I've accepted chastity, I must be free of sexual desire. Well, I'll tell you: I resisted the commitment to become a priest not only because of how much I did like my few things, but also because I imagined I was in love. For ten years, I was smitten. I not only suffered from sexual desire; I'd embraced a sexual obsession. There was absolutely no getting this person out of my mind. Does this surprise you?"

  "Yes, it does," Dr. Daruwalla admitted humbly. He was also afraid of what the lunatic might confess in front of the children, but Ganesh and Madhu were too enthralled with the airplane's preparations for takeoff to pay the slightest attention to the Jesuit's confession.

  "I continued to teach at this wretched school--the students were delinquents, not scholars--and all because I had to test myself," Martin Mills told Dr. Daruwalla. "The object of my desire was there. Were I to
leave, to run away, I would never have known if I had the strength to resist such a temptation. And so I stayed. I forced myself into the closest possible proximity to this person, only to see if I had the courage to withstand such an attraction. But I know what you think of priestly denial. You think that priests are people who simply don't feel these ordinary desires, or who feel them less strongly than you do."

  "I'm not judging you!" said Dr. Daruwalla.

  "Yes you are," Martin replied. "You think you know all about me."

  "This person that you were in love with ..." the doctor began.

  "It was another teacher at the school," the missionary answered. "I was crippled by desire. But I kept the object of my desire this close to me!" And here the zealot held his hand in front of his face. "Eventually, the attraction lessened."

  "Lessened?" Farrokh repeated.

  "Either the attraction went away or I overcame it," said Martin Mills. "Finally, I won."

  "What did you win?" Farrokh asked.

  "Not freedom from desire," the would-be priest declared. "It is more like freedom from the fear of desire. Now I know I can resist it."

  "But what about her?" Dr. Daruwalla asked.

  "Her?" said Martin Mills.

  "I mean, what were her feelings for you?" the doctor asked him. "Did she even know how you felt about her?"

  "Him," the missionary replied. "It was a he, not a she. Does that surprise you?"

  "Yes, it does," the doctor lied. What surprised him was how unsurprised he was by the Jesuit's confession. The doctor was upset without understanding why; Farrokh felt greatly disturbed, without knowing the reason.

  But the plane was taxiing, and even its lumbering movement on the runway was sufficient to panic Madhu; she'd been sitting across the aisle from Dr. Daruwalla and the missionary--now she wanted to move over and sit with the doctor. Ganesh was happily ensconced in the window seat. Awkwardly, Martin Mills changed places with Madhu; the Jesuit sat with the enraptured boy, and the child prostitute slipped into the aisle seat next to Farrokh.

  "Don't be frightened," the doctor told her.

  "I don't want to go to the circus," the girl said; she stared down the aisle, refusing to look out the windows. She wasn't alone in her inexperience; half the passengers appeared to be flying for the first time. One hand reached to adjust the flow of air; then 35 other hands were reaching. Despite the repeated announcement that carry-on baggage be stowed under the seats, the passengers insisted on piling their heavy bags on what the flight attendant kept calling the hat rack, although there were few hats on board. Perhaps the fault lay with the long delay, but there were many flies on board; they were treated with a vast indifference by the otherwise excited passengers. Someone was already vomiting, and they hadn't even taken off. At last, they took off.

  The elephant boy believed he could fly. His animation appeared to be lifting the plane. The little beggar will ride a lion if they tell him to; he'll wrestle a tiger, Dr. Daruwalla thought. How suddenly the doctor felt afraid for the cripple! Ganesh would climb to the top of the tent--the full 80 feet. Probably in compensation for his useless foot, the boy's hands and arms were exceptionally strong. What instincts will protect him? the doctor wondered, while in his arms he felt Madhu tremble; she was moaning. In her slight bosom, the beating of her heart throbbed against Farrokh's chest.

  "If we crash, do we burn or fly apart in little pieces?" the girl asked him, her mouth against his throat.

  "We won't crash, Madhu," he told her.

  "You don't know," she replied. "At the circus, I could be eaten by a wild animal or I could fall. And what if they can't train me or if they beat me?"

  "Listen to me," said Dr. Daruwalla. He was a father again. He remembered his daughters--their nightmares, their scrapes and bruises and their worst days at school. Their awful first boyfriends, who were beyond redemption. But the consequences for the crying girl in his arms were greater. "Try to look at it this way," the doctor said. "You are escaping." But he could say no more; he knew only what she was escaping--not what she was fleeing to. Out of the jaws of one kind of death, into the jaws of another ... I hope not, was all the doctor thought.

  "Something will get me," Madhu replied. With her hot, shallow breathing against his neck, Farrokh instantly knew why Martin Mills's admission of homosexual desire had distressed him. If Dhar's twin was fighting against his sexual inclination, what was John D. doing?

  Dr. Duncan Frasier had convinced Dr. Daruwalla that homosexuality was more a matter of biology than of conditioning. Frasier had once told Farrokh that there was a 52 percent chance that the identical twin of a gay male would also be gay. Furthermore, Farrokh's friend and colleague Dr. Macfarlane had convinced him that homosexuality was immutable. ("If homosexuality is a learned behavior, how come it can't be unlearned?" Mac had said.)

  But what upset Dr. Daruwalla was not the doctor's sudden conviction that John D. must also be a homosexual; rather, it was all the years of John D.'s aloofness and the remoteness of his Swiss life. Neville, not Danny, must have been the twins' father, after all! And what does it say about me that John D. wouldn't tell me? the doctor wondered.

  Instinctively (as if she were his beloved John D.), Farrokh hugged the girl. Later, he supposed that Madhu only did as she'd been taught to do; she hugged him back, but in an inappropriately wriggling fashion. It shocked him; he pulled away from her when she began to kiss his throat.

  "No, please ..." he began to say.

  Then the missionary spoke to him. Clearly, the elephant boy's delight with flying had delighted Martin Mills. "Look at him! I'll bet he'd try to walk on the wing, if we told him it was safe!" the zealot said.

  "Yes, I'll bet he would," said Dr. Daruwalla, whose gaze never left Madhu's face. The fear and confusion of the child prostitute were a mirror of Farrokh's feelings.

  "What do you want?" the girl whispered to him.

  "No, it's not what you think ... I want you to escape," the doctor told her. The concept meant nothing to her; she didn't respond. She continued to stare at him; in her eyes, trust still lingered with her confusion. At the bloodred edge of her lips, the unnatural redness once more overflowed her mouth; Madhu was eating paan again. Where she'd kissed Farrokh, his throat was marked with the lurid stain, as if a vampire had bitten him. He touched the mark and his fingertips came away with the color on them. The Jesuit saw him staring at his hand.

  "Did you cut yourself?" Martin Mills asked.

  "No, I'm fine," Dr. Daruwalla replied, but he wasn't. Farrokh was admitting to himself that he knew even less about desire than the would-be priest did.

  Probably sensing his confusion, Madhu once more pressed herself against the doctor's chest. Once again, in a whisper, she asked him, "What do you want?" It horrified the doctor to realize that Madhu was asking him a sexual question.

  "I want you to be a child, because you are a child," Farrokh told the girl. "Please, won't you try to be a child?" There was such an eagerness in Madhu's smile that, for a moment, the doctor believed the girl had understood him. Quite like a child, she walked her fingers over his thigh; then, unlike a child, Madhu pressed her small palm firmly on Dr. Daruwalla's penis. There'd been no groping for it; she'd known exactly where it was. Through the summer-weight material of his pants, the doctor felt the heat of Madhu's hand.

  "I'll try what you want--anything you want," the child prostitute told him. Instantly, Dr. Daruwalla pulled her hand away.

  "Stop that!" Farrokh cried.

  "I want to sit with Ganesh," the girl told him. Farrokh let her change seats with Martin Mills.

  "There's a matter I've been pondering," the missionary whispered to the doctor. "You said we had two rooms for the night. Only two?"

  "I suppose we could get more ..." the doctor began. His legs were shaking.

  "No, no--that's not what I'm getting at," Martin said. "I mean, were you thinking the children would share one room, and we'd share the other?"

  "Yes," Dr. Daruwalla replied.
He couldn't stop his legs from shaking.

  "But--well, I know you'll think this is silly, but--it would seem prudent to me to not allow them to sleep together. I mean, not in the same room," the missionary added. "After all, there is the matter of what we can only guess has been the girl's orientation."

  "Her what?" the doctor asked. He could stop one leg from shaking, but not the other.

  "Her sexual experience, I mean," said Martin Mills. "We must assume she's had some ... sexual contact. What I mean is, what if Madhu is inclined to seduce Ganesh? Do you know what I mean?"

  Dr. Daruwalla knew very well what Martin Mills meant. "You have a point," was all the doctor said in reply.

  "Well, then, suppose the boy and I take one room, and you and Madhu take the other? You see, I don't think the Father Rector would approve of someone in my position sharing a room with the girl," Martin explained. "It might seem contradictory to my vows."

  "Yes ... your vows," Farrokh replied. Finally, his other leg stopped shaking.

  "Do you think I'm being totally silly?" the Jesuit asked the doctor. "I suppose you think it's idiotic of me to suggest that Madhu might be so inclined--just because the poor child was ... what she was." But Farrokh could feel that he still had an erection, and Madhu had touched him so briefly.

  "No, I think you're wise to be a little worried about her ... inclination," Dr. Daruwalla answered. He spoke slowly because he was trying to remember the popular psalm. "How does it go--the twenty-third psalm?" the doctor asked the scholastic. " 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death ...' "