A Son of the Circus

lessened,” the doctor began.

“That’s correct,” the scholastic said stiffly.

“But can you point to any moment or to any single episode that marked the end of your infatuation?” Farrokh asked. “Did anything happen—was there an incident that convinced you? What made you decide you could resist such an attraction and become a priest?” This was beating around the bush, Dr. Daruwalla knew, but the doctor had to begin somewhere.

“I saw how Christ existed for me. I saw that Jesus had never abandoned me,” the zealot said.

“Do you mean you had a vision?” Farrokh asked.

“In a way,” the Jesuit said mysteriously. “I was at a low point in my relationship with Jesus. And I’d reached a very cynical decision. There is no lack of resistance that is as great a giving-up as fatalism—I’m ashamed to say I was totally fatalistic.”

“Did you actually see Christ or didn’t you?” the doctor asked him.

“Actually, it was only a statue of Christ,” the missionary admitted.

“You mean it was real?” Farrokh asked.

“Of course it was real—it was at the end of a parking lot, at the school where I taught. I used to see it every day—twice a day, in fact,” Martin said. “It was just a white stone statue of Christ in a typical pose.” And there, in the back seat of the speeding Land Rover, the zealot rotated both his palms toward heaven, apparently to demonstrate the pose of the supplicant.

“It sounds truly tasteless—Christ in a parking lot!” Dr. Daruwalla remarked.

“It wasn’t very artistic,” the Jesuit replied. “Occasionally, as I recall, the statue was vandalized.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Farrokh muttered.

“Well, anyway, I had stayed at the school quite late one night—I was directing a school play, another musical… I can’t remember which one. And this man who’d been such an obsession for me… he was also staying late. But his car wouldn’t start—he had an awful car—and he asked me for a ride home.”

“Uh-oh,” said Dr. Daruwalla.

“My feelings for him had already lessened, as I’ve said, but I was still not immune to his attractiveness,” the missionary admitted. “Here was such a sudden opportunity—the availability of him was painfully apparent. Do you know what I mean?”

Dr. Daruwalla, who was remembering his disturbing night with Madhu, said, “Yes—of course I know. What happened?”

“This is what I mean by how cynical I was,” the scholastic said. “I was so totally fatalistic, I decided that if he made the slightest advance toward me, I would respond. I wouldn’t initiate such an advance, but I knew I would respond.”

“And did you? Did he?” the doctor asked.

“Then I couldn’t find my car—it was a huge parking lot,” Martin said. “But I remembered that I always tried to park near Christ …”

“The statue, you mean…” Farrokh interrupted.

“Yes, the statue, of course—I had parked right in front of it,” the Jesuit explained. “When I finally found my car, it was so dark I couldn’t see the statue, not even when I was sitting inside my car. But I knew exactly where Christ was. It was a funny moment. I was waiting for this man to touch me, but all the while I was looking into the darkness at that exact spot where Jesus was.”

“Did the guy touch you?” Farrokh asked.

“I turned on the headlights before he had a chance,” Martin Mills replied. “And there was Christ—he stood out very brightly in the headlights. He was exactly where I knew he would be.”

“Where else would a statue be?” Dr. Daruwalla cried. “Do statues move around in your country?”

“You belittle the experience to focus on the statue,” the Jesuit said. “The statue was just the vehicle. What I felt was the presence of God. I felt a oneness with Jesus, too—not with the statue. I felt I’d been shown what believing in Christ was like—for me. Even in the darkness—even as I sat expecting something horrible to happen to me—there was a certainty that he was there. Christ was there for me; he’d not abandoned me. I could still see him.”

“I guess I’m not making the necessary leap,” said Dr. Daruwalla. “I mean, your belief in Christ is one thing. But wanting to be a priest… how did you get from Jesus in the parking lot to wanting to be a priest?”

“Well, that’s different,” Martin confessed.

“That’s the part I don’t get,” Farrokh replied. Then he said it: “And was that the end of all such desires? I mean, was your homosexuality ever again engaged… so to speak …”

“Homosexuality?” said the Jesuit. “That’s not the point. I’m not a homosexual, nor am I a heterosexual. I am simply not a sexual entity—not anymore.”

“Come on,” the doctor said. “If you were to be sexually attracted, it would be a homosexual attraction, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s not a relevant question,” the scholastic replied. “It isn’t that I’m without sexual feelings, but I have resisted sexual attraction. I will have no problem continuing to resist it.”

“But what you’re resisting is a homosexual inclination, isn’t it?” Farrokh asked. “I mean, let us speculate—you can speculate, can’t you?”

“I don’t speculate on the subject of my vows,” the Jesuit said.

“But, please indulge me, if something happened—if for any reason you decided not to be a priest—then wouldn’t you be a homosexual?” Dr. Daruwalla asked.

“Mercy! You are the most stubborn person!” Martin Mills cried out good-naturedly.

“I am stubborn?” the doctor shouted.

“I am neither a homosexual nor a heterosexual,” the Jesuit calmly stated. “The terms don’t necessarily apply to inclinations, or do they? I had a passing inclination.”

“It has passed? Completely? Is that what you’re saying?” Dr. Daruwalla asked.

“Mercy,” Martin repeated.

“You become a person of no identifiable sexuality on the basis of an encounter with a statue in a parking lot; yet you deny the possibility that I was bitten by a ghost!” Dr. Daruwalla cried. “Am I following your reasoning correctly?”

“I don’t believe in ghosts, per se,” the Jesuit replied.

“But you believe you experienced a oneness with Jesus. You felt the presence of God—in a parking lot!” Farrokh shouted.

“I believe that our conversation—that is, if you continue to raise your voice—is a distraction to our driver,” said Martin Mills. “Perhaps we should resume discussion of this subject after we’ve safely arrived at the airport.”

They were still nearly an hour from Rajkot, with Ramu dodging death every few miles; then there would be the wait at the airport, not to mention a likely delay, and finally the flight itself. On a Sunday afternoon or evening, the taxi from Santa Cruz into Bombay could take another 45 minutes or an hour. Worse, it was a special Sunday; it was December 31, 1989, but neither the doctor nor the missionary knew it was New Year’s Eve—or if they knew, they’d forgotten.

At St. Ignatius, the jubilee celebration was planned for New Year’s Day, which Martin Mills had also forgotten, and the New Year’s Eve party at the Duckworth Sports Club was a black-tie occasion of uncharacteristic merriment; there would be dancing to a live band and a splendid midnight supper—not to mention the unusual, once-a-year quality of the champagne. No Duckworthian in Bombay would willingly miss the New Year’s Eve party.

John D. and Deputy Commissioner Patel were sure that Rahul would be there—Mr. Sethna had already informed them. They’d spent much of the day rehearsing what Inspector Dhar would say when he and the second Mrs. Dogar danced. Julia had pressed Farrokh’s tuxedo, which needed a lengthy airing on the balcony to rid it of its mothball aroma. But both New Year’s Eve and the Duckworth Club were far from Farrokh’s mind. The doctor was focused on what remained of his journey to Rajkot, after which he still had to travel to Bombay. If Farrokh couldn’t endure another minute of Martin’s arguments, he had to initiate a different conversation.

“Perhaps we should change the subject,” Dr. Daruwalla suggested. “And keep our voices down.”