A Son of the Circus

young Martin leave; the scholastic’s energy as a teacher had been a welcome addition to St. Ignatius School.

Brother Gabriel, who quite liked and admired Martin, nevertheless remembered the bloody socks that the scholastic had been wringing in his hands—not to mention the “I’ll take the turkey” prayer. The elderly Spaniard retreated, as he often did, to his icon-collection room; these countless images of suffering, which the Russian and Byzantine icons afforded Brother Gabriel, were at least traditional—thus reassuring. The Decapitation of John the Baptist, the Last Supper, the Deposition, which was the taking of Christ’s body from the cross—even these terrible moments were preferable to that image of Martin Mills which poor old Brother Gabriel was doomed to remember: the crazed Californian with his bloody bandages awry, looking like the composite image of many murdered missionaries past. Perhaps it was God’s will that Martin Mills should be summoned to New York.

“You’re going to do what?” Dr. Daruwalla cried, for in the time it had taken the doctor to talk to Vinod and Detective Patel, Martin had not only given the St. Ignatius upper-school boys a Catholic interpretation of The Heart of the Matter; he had also “interpreted” God’s will. According to Martin, God didn’t want him to be a priest—God wanted him to go to New York!

“Let me see if I follow you,” Farrokh said. “You’ve decided that Madhu’s tragedy is your own personal failure. I know the feeling—we’re both fools. And, in addition, you doubt the strength of your conviction to be ordained because you can still be manipulated by your mother, who’s made a career out of manipulating everybody. So you’re going to New York—just to prove her power over you—and also for Danny’s sake, although Danny won’t know if you go to New York or not. Or do you believe Danny will know?”

“That’s a simplistic way to put it,” Martin said. “I may lack the necessary will to be a priest, but I haven’t entirely lost my faith.”

“Your mother’s a bitch,” Dr. Daruwalla told him.

“That’s a simplistic way to put it,” Martin repeated. “Besides, I already know what she is.”

How the doctor was tempted. Tell him—tell him now! Dr. Daruwalla thought.

“Naturally, I’ll pay you back—I won’t take the plane ticket as a gift,” Martin Mills explained. “After all, my vow of poverty no longer applies. I do have the academic credentials to teach. I won’t make a lot of money teaching, but certainly enough to pay you back—if you’ll just give me a little time.”

“It’s not the money! I can afford to buy you a plane ticket—I can afford to buy you twenty plane tickets!” Farrokh cried. “But you’re giving up your goal—that’s what’s so crazy about you. You’re giving up, and for such stupid reasons!”

“It’s not the reasons—it’s my doubt,” Martin said. “Just look at me. I’m thirty-nine. If I were going to be a priest, I should have already become one. No one who’s still trying to ‘find himself’ at thirty-nine is very reliable.”

You took the words right out of my mouth! Dr. Daruwalla thought, but all the doctor said was, “Don’t worry about the ticket—I’ll get you a ticket.” He hated to see the fool look so defeated; Martin was a fool, but he was an idealistic fool. The idiot’s idealism had grown on Dr. Daruwalla. And Martin was candid—unlike his twin! Ironically, the doctor felt he’d learned more about John D. from Martin Mills—in less than a week—than he’d learned from John D. in 39 years.

Dr. Daruwalla wondered if John D.’s remoteness, his not-thereness—his iconlike and opaque character— wasn’t that part of him which was created not upon his birth but upon his becoming Inspector Dhar. Then the doctor reminded himself that John D. had been an actor before he became Inspector Dhar. If the identical twin of a gay male had a 52 percent chance of being gay, in what other ways did John D. and Martin Mills have a 52 percent chance of being alike? It occurred to Dr. Daruwalla that the twins had a 48 percent chance of being unalike, too; nevertheless, the doctor doubted that Danny Mills could be the twins’ father. Moreover, Farrokh had grown too fond of Martin to continue to deceive him.

Tell him—tell him now! Farrokh told himself, but the words wouldn’t come. Dr. Daruwalla could say only to himself what he wanted to say to Martin.

You don’t have to deal with Danny’s remains. Probably Neville Eden is your father, and Neville’s remains were settled many years ago. You don’t have to assist your mother, who’s worse than a bitch. You don’t know what she is, or all that she is. And there’s someone you might like to know; you might even be of mutual assistance to each other. He could teach you how to relax—maybe even how to have some fun. You might teach him a little candor—maybe even how not to be an actor, at least not all the time.

But the doctor didn’t say it. Not a word.

Dr. Daruwalla Decides

“So… he’s a quitter,” said Inspector Dhar, of his twin.

“He’s confused, anyway,” Dr. Daruwalla replied.

“A thirty-nine-year-old man shouldn’t still be finding himself,” John D. declared. The actor delivered the line with almost perfect indignation, never hinting that the matter of “finding himself” was at all familiar to him.

“I think you’d like him,” Farrokh said cautiously.

“Well, you’re the writer,” Dhar remarked with almost perfect ambiguity. Dr. Daruwalla wondered: Does he mean that the matter of whether or not they meet is in my hands? Or does he mean that only a writer would waste his time fantasizing that the twins should meet?

They were standing on the Daruwallas’ balcony at sunset. The Arabian Sea was the faded purple of John D.’s slowly healing lower lip. The splint on his broken pinky finger provided the actor with an instrument for pointing; Dhar liked to point.

“Remember how Nancy responded to this view?” the actor asked, pointing west.

“All the way to Iowa,” the doctor remarked.

“If you’re never coming back to Bombay, Farrokh, you might give the deputy commissioner and Mrs. Patel this apartment.” The line was delivered with almost perfect indifference. The screenwriter had to marvel at the hidden character he’d created; Dhar was almost perfectly mysterious. “I don’t mean actually give it to them—the good detective would doubtless construe that as a bribe,” Dhar went on. “But perhaps you could sell it to them for a ridiculous sum—a hundred rupees, for example. Of course you could stipulate that the Patels would have to maintain the servants—for as long as Nalin and Roopa are alive. I know you wouldn’t want to turn them out on the street. As for the Residents’ Society, I’m sure they wouldn’t object to the Patels—every apartment dweller wants to have a policeman in the building.” Dhar pointed his splint west again. “I believe this view would do Nancy some good,” the actor added.

“I can see you’ve been thinking about this,” Farrokh said.

“It’s just an idea—if you’re never coming back to Bombay,” John D. replied. “I mean really never.”

“Are you ever coming back?” Dr. Daruwalla asked him.

“Not in a million years,” said Inspector Dhar.

“That old line!” Farrokh said fondly.

“You wrote it,” John D. reminded him.

“You keep reminding me,” the doctor said.

They stayed on the balcony until the Arabian Sea was the color of an overripe cherry, almost black. Julia had to clear the contents of John D.’s pockets off the glass-topped table in order for them to have their dinner. It was a habit that John D. had maintained from childhood. He would come into the house or the apartment, take off his coat and his shoes or sandals, and empty the contents of his pockets on the nearest table; this was more than a gesture to make himself feel at home, for the source lay with the Daruwallas’ daughters. When they’d lived at home, they liked nothing better than wrestling with John D. He would lie on his back on the rug or the floor, or sometimes on the couch, and the younger girls would pounce on him; he never hurt them, just fended them off. And so Farrokh and Julia never chastised him for the contents of his pockets, which were messily in evidence on the tabletop of