A Son of the Circus

Happy New Year

Fortunately for Mr. Dogar, it was a slow dance. His wife steered him past several faltering couples, who were disconcerted that Muriel’s fallen sequins still crunched underfoot Mrs. Dogar had Dhar and the big blonde in her sights.

“Is this in the script?” Nancy was whispering to the actor. “This isn’t in the script, you bastard!”

“We’re supposed to make something of a scene—like an old lovers’ quarrel,” Dhar whispered.

“You’re embracing me!” Nancy told him.

“You’re squeezing me back,” he whispered.

“I wish I was killing you!” Nancy whispered.

“She’s here,” Dhar said softly. “She’s following us.”

With a pang, Rahul observed that the blond wench had gone limp in Dhar’s arms—and she’d been resisting him; that had been obvious. Now it appeared to Mrs. Dogar that Dhar was supporting the heavy woman; the blonde might otherwise have fallen to the dance floor, so lifelessly was she draped on the actor. She’d thrown her arms over his shoulders and locked her hands behind his back; her face was buried in his neck—awkwardly, because she was taller. Rahul could see that Nancy was shaking her head while Dhar went on whispering to her. The blonde had that pleasing air of submission about her, as if she’d already given up; Rahul was reminded of the kind of woman who’d let you make love to her or let you kill her without a breath of complaint—like someone with a high fever, Rahul thought.

“Does she recognize me?” Nancy was whispering; she trembled, and then stumbled. Dhar had to hold her up with all his strength.

“She can’t recognize you, she doesn’t recognize you—she’s just curious about what’s between us,” the actor replied.

“What is between us?” Nancy whispered. Where her hands were locked together, he felt her dig her knuckles into his spine.

“She’s coming closer,” Dhar warned Nancy. “She doesn’t recognize you. She just wants to look. I’m going to do it now,” he whispered.

“Do what?” Nancy asked; she’d forgotten—she was so frightened of Rahul.

“Unzip you,” Dhar said.

“Not too far,” Nancy told him.

The actor turned her suddenly; he had to stand on tiptoe to look over her shoulder, but he wanted to be sure that Mrs. Dogar saw his face. John D. looked straight at Rahul and smiled; he gave the killer a sly wink. Then he unzipped the back of Nancy’s dress while Rahul watched. When he felt the clasp of Nancy’s bra, he stopped; he spread his palm between her bare shoulder blades—she was sweating and he felt her shudder.

“Is she watching?” Nancy whispered. “I hate you,” she added.

“She’s right on top of us,” Dhar whispered. “I’m going to go right at her. We’re changing partners now.”

“Zip me up first!” Nancy whispered. “Zip me up!”

With his right hand, John D. zipped Nancy up; with his left, he reached out and took the second Mrs. Dogar by the wrist—her arm was cool and dry, as sinewy as a strong rope.

“Let’s switch partners for the next number!” said Inspector Dhar. But it was still the slow dance that played. Mr. Dogar staggered briefly; Nancy, who was relieved to be out of Dhar’s arms, forcefully drew the old man to her chest. A lock of her hair had come undone; it hid her cheek. No one saw her tears, which might have been confused with her sweat.

“Hi,” Nancy said. Before Mr. Dogar could respond, she palmed the back of his head; his cheek was pressed flat between her shoulder and her collarbone. Nancy moved the old man resolutely away from Dhar and Rahul; she wondered how long she had to wait until the band changed to a faster number.

What was left of the slow dance suited Dhar and Rahul. John D.’s eyes were level with a thin blue vein that ran the length of Mrs. Dogar’s throat; something deep-black and polished, like onyx—a single stone, set in silver— rested in the perfect declivity where her throat met her sternum. Her dress, which was an emerald green, was cut low but it fit her breasts snugly; her hands were smooth and hard, her grip surprisingly light. She was light on her feet, too; no matter where John D. moved, she squared her shoulders to him—her eyes locked onto his eyes, as if she were reading the first page of a new book.

“That was rather crude—and clumsy, too,” the second Mrs. Dogar said.

“I’m tired of trying to ignore you,” the actor told her. “I’m sick of pretending that I don’t know who you are… who you were,” Dhar added, but her grip maintained its even, soft pressure—her body obediently followed his.

“Goodness, you are provincial!” Mrs. Dogar said. “Can’t a man become a woman if she wants to?”

“It’s certainly an exciting idea,” said Inspector Dhar.

“You’re not sneering, are you?” Mrs. Dogar asked him.

“Certainly not! I’m just remembering,” the actor replied. “Twenty years ago, I couldn’t get up the nerve to approach you—I didn’t know how to begin.”

“Twenty years ago, I wasn’t complete,” Rahul reminded him. “If you had approached me, what would you have done?”

“Frankly, I was too young to think of doing” Dhar replied. “I think I just wanted to see you!”

“I don’t suppose that seeing me is all you have in mind today,” Mrs. Dogar said.

“Certainly not!” said Inspector Dhar, but he couldn’t muster the courage to squeeze her hand; she was everywhere so dry and cool and light of touch, but she was also very hard.

“Twenty years ago, I tried to approach you,” Rahul admitted.

“It must have been too subtle for me—at least I missed it,” John D. remarked.

“At the Bardez, I was told you slept in the hammock on the balcony,” Rahul told him. “I went to you. The only part of you that was outside the mosquito net was your foot. I put your big toe in my mouth. I sucked it— actually, I bit you. But it wasn’t you. It was Dr. Daruwalla. I was so disgusted, I never tried again.”

This was not the conversation Dhar had expected. John D.’s options for dialogue didn’t include a response to this interesting story, but while he was at a loss for words, the band saved him; they changed to a faster number. People were leaving the dance floor in droves, including Nancy with Mr. Dogar. Nancy led the old man to his table; he was almost breathless by the time she got him seated.

“Who are you, dear?” he managed to ask her.

“Mrs. Patel,” Nancy replied.

“Ah,” the old man said. “And your husband …” What Mr. Dogar meant was, What does he do? He wondered: Which sort of civil-service employee is he?

“My husband is Mr. Patel,” Nancy told him; when she left him, she walked as carefully as possible to the Daruwallas’ table.

“I don’t think she recognized me,” Nancy told them, “but I couldn’t look at her. She looks the same, but ancient.”

“Are they dancing?” Dr. Daruwalla asked. “Are they talking, too?”

“They’re dancing and they’re talking—that’s all I know,” Nancy told the screenwriter. “I couldn’t look at her,” she repeated.

“It’s all right, sweetie,” the deputy commissioner said. “You don’t have to do anything more.”

“I want to be there when you catch her, Vijay,” Nancy told her husband.

“Well, we may not catch her in a place where you want to be,” the detective replied.

“Please let me be there,” Nancy said. “Am I zipped up?” she asked suddenly; she rotated her shoulders so that Julia could see her back.

“You’re zipped up perfectly, dear,” Julia told her.

Mr. Dogar, alone at his table, was gulping champagne and catching his breath, while Mr. Sethna plied him with hors d’oeuvres. Mrs. Dogar and Dhar were dancing in that part of the ballroom where Mr. Dogar couldn’t see