they were standing in the ballroom—apparently for the morbid pleasure of singing “Auld Lang Syne.” The waiters were beginning to scavenge the abandoned tables, but not a single waiter disturbed Detective Patel and Nancy in the Ladies’ Garden; Mr. Sethna had instructed them to respect the couple’s privacy.
Nancy’s hair had come down, and she had trouble unfastening the pearl necklace; her husband had to help her with the clasp.
“They’re beautiful pearls, aren’t they?” Nancy asked. “But if I don’t give them back to Mrs. Daruwalla now, I’ll forget and wear them home. They might get lost or stolen.”
“I’ll try to find you a necklace like this,” Detective Patel told her.
“No, it’s too expensive,” Nancy said.
“You did a good job,” her husband told her.
“We’re going to catch her, aren’t we, Vijay?” she asked him.
“Yes, we are, sweetie,” he replied.
“She didn’t recognize me!” Nancy cried.
“I told you she wouldn’t, didn’t I?” the detective said.
“She didn’t even see me! She looked right through me—like I didn’t exist! All these years, and she didn’t even remember me,” Nancy said.
The deputy commissioner held her hand. She rested her head on his shoulder; she felt so empty, she couldn’t even cry.
“I’m sorry, Vijay, but I don’t think I can dance. I just can’t,” Nancy said.
“That’s all right, sweetie,” her husband said. “I don’t dance—remember?”
“He didn’t have to unzip me—it was unnecessary,” Nancy said.
“It was part of the overall effect,” Patel replied.
“It was unnecessary,” Nancy repeated. “And I didn’t like the way he did it.”
“The idea was, you weren’t supposed to like it,” the policeman told her.
“She must have tried to bite his whole lip off!” Nancy cried.
“I believe she barely managed to stop herself,” the deputy commissioner said. This had the effect of releasing Nancy from her emptiness; at last, she was able to cry on her husband’s shoulder. It seemed that the band would never stop playing the tiresome old song.
“‘We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet …’” Mr. Bannerjee was shouting.
Mr. Sethna observed that Julia and Dr. Daruwalla were the most stately dancers on the floor. Dr. and Mrs. Sorabjee danced nervously; they didn’t dare take their eyes off their daughter. Poor Amy had been brought home from England, where she hadn’t been doing very well. Too much partying, her parents suspected—and, more disturbing, a reputed attraction to older men. At university, she was notoriously opposed to romances with her fellow students; rather, she’d thrown herself at one of her professors—a married chap. He’d not taken advantage of her, thank goodness. And now Dr. and Mrs. Sorabjee were tortured to see the young girl dancing with Dhar. From the frying pan to the fire! Mrs. Sorabjee thought. It was awkward for Mrs. Sorabjee, being a close friend of the Daruwallas’ and therefore unable to express her opinion of Inspector Dhar.
“Do you know you’re available in England—on videocassette?” Amy was telling the actor.
“
“Once we had a wine tasting and we rented you,” Amy told him. “People who aren’t from Bombay don’t know what to make of you. The movies seem terribly odd to them.”
“Yes,” said Inspector Dhar. “To me, too,” he added.
This made her laugh; she was an easy girl, he could tell—he felt a little sorry for her parents.
“All that music, mixed in with all the murders,” Amy Sorabjee said.
“Don’t forget the divine intervention,” the actor remarked.
“Yes! And all the women—you
“Yes, I do,” Dhar said.
“‘We’ll drink a cup of kindness yet for the days of auld lang syne!’” the old dancers brayed; they sounded like donkeys.
“I like
“I don’t have a favorite,” the actor confided to her; he guessed she was 22 or 23. He found her a pleasant distraction, but it irritated him that she kept staring at his lip.
“What happened to your lip?” she finally asked him in a whisper—her expression still girlish but sly, even conspiratorial.
“When the lights went out, I danced into a wall,” Dhar told her.
“I think that horrid woman did it to you,” Amy Sorabjee dared to say. “It looks like she bit you!”
John D. just kept dancing; the way his lip had swollen, it hurt to sneer.
“Everyone thinks she’s a horrid woman, you know,” Amy said; Dhar’s silence had made her less sure of herself. “And who was that first woman you were with?” Amy asked him. “The one who left?”
“She’s a stripper,” said Inspector Dhar.
“Go on—not really!” Amy cried.
“Yes, really,” John D. replied.
“And who is the blond lady?” Amy asked. “I thought she looked about to cry.”
“She’s a former friend,” the actor answered; he was tired of the girl now. A young girl’s idea of intimacy was getting answers to all her questions.
John D. was sure that Vinod would already be waiting outside; surely the dwarf had returned from taking Muriel to the Wetness Cabaret. Dhar wanted to go to bed, alone; he wanted to put more ice on his lip, and he wanted to apologize to Farrokh, too. It had been unkind of the actor to imply that preparing himself for the seduction of Mrs. Dogar was “no circus”; John D. knew what the circus meant to Dr. Daruwalla—the actor could have more charitably said that getting ready for Rahul was “no picnic.” And now here was the insatiable Amy Sorabjee, trying to get him (and herself) into some unnecessary trouble. Time to slip away, the actor thought.
Just then, Amy took a quick look over Dhar’s shoulder; she wanted to be exactly sure where her parents were. A doddering threesome had blocked Dr. and Mrs. Sorabjee from Amy’s view—Mr. Bannerjee was struggling to dance with his wife and the widow Lal—and Amy seized this moment of privacy, for she knew she was only briefly free of her parents’ scrutiny. She brushed her soft lips against John D.’s cheek; then she whispered overbreathlessly in the actor’s ear. “I could kiss that lip and make it better!” she said.
John D., smoothly, just kept dancing. His unresponsiveness made Amy feel insecure, and so she whispered more plaintively—at least more matter-of-factly—“I prefer older men.”
That got rid of her; it always worked. At last, Inspector Dhar could slip away.
25. JUBILEE DAY
It was January 1, 1990, a Monday. It was also Jubilee Day at St. Ignatius School in Mazagaon—the start of the mission’s 126th year. Well-wishers were invited to a high tea, which amounted to a light supper in the early evening; this was scheduled to follow a special late-afternoon Mass. This was also the occasion that would formally serve to introduce Martin Mills to the Catholic community in Bombay; therefore, Father Julian and Father Cecil regretted that the scholastic had returned from the circus in such mutilated condition. The previous night, Martin had frightened Brother Gabriel, who mistook the mauled figure with his bloodstained and unraveling bandages for the wandering spirit of a previously persecuted Jesuit—some poor soul who’d been tortured and then put to
