A Son of the Circus

every house or apartment they’d ever lived in, although there were no children for John D. to wrestle with anymore. Keys, a wallet, sometimes a passport… and this evening, on the glass-topped table of the Daruwallas’ Marine Drive apartment, a plane ticket.

“You’re leaving Thursday?” Julia asked him.

“Thursday!” Dr. Daruwalla exclaimed. “That’s the day after tomorrow!”

“Actually, I have to go to the airport Wednesday night—it’s such an early-morning flight, you know,” John D. said.

“That’s tomorrow night!” Farrokh cried. The doctor took Dhar’s wallet, keys and plane ticket from Julia and put them on the sideboard.

“Not there,” Julia told him; she was serving one of their dinner dishes from the sideboard. Therefore, Dr. Daruwalla carried the contents of John D.’s pockets into the foyer and placed them on a low table by the door—that way, the doctor thought, John D. would be sure to see his things and not forget them when he left.

“Why should I stay longer?” John D. was asking Julia. “You’re not staying much longer, are you?”

But Dr. Daruwalla lingered in the foyer; he had a look at Dhar’s plane ticket. Swissair, nonstop to Zurich. Flight 197, departing Thursday at 1:45 A.M. It was first class, seat 4B. Dhar always chose an aisle seat. This was because he was a beer drinker; on a nine-hour flight, he got up to pee a lot—he didn’t want to keep climbing over someone else.

That quickly—by the time Dr. Daruwalla had rejoined John D. and Julia, and even before he sat down to dinner—the doctor had made his decision; after all, as Dhar had told him, he was the writer. A writer could make things happen. They were twins; they didn’t have to like each other, but they didn’t have to be lonely.

Farrokh sat happily at his supper (as he insisted on calling it), smiling lovingly at John D. I’ll teach you to be ambiguous with me! the doctor thought, but what Dr. Daruwalla said was, “Why should you stay any longer, indeed! Now’s as good a time to go as any.”

Both Julia and John D. looked at him as if he were having a seizure. “Well, I mean I’ll miss you, of course— but I’ll see you soon, one place or another. Canada or Switzerland… I’m looking forward to spending more time in the mountains.”

“You are?” Julia asked him. Farrokh hated mountains. Inspector Dhar just stared.

“Yes, it’s very healthy,” the doctor replied. “All that Swiss… air,” he remarked absently; he was thinking of the airline of that name, and how he would buy a first-class ticket to Zurich for Martin Mills on Swissair 197, departing early Thursday morning. Seat 4A. Farrokh hoped that the ex-missionary would appreciate the window seat, and his interesting traveling companion.

They had a wonderful dinner, a lively time. Normally, when Dr. Daruwalla knew he was parting from John D., he was morose. But tonight the doctor felt euphoric.

“John D. has a terrific idea—about this apartment,” Farrokh told his wife. Julia liked the idea very much; the three of them talked about it at length. Detective Patel was proud; so was Nancy. They would be sensitive if they felt the apartment was offered to them as charity; the trick would be to make them think they were doing the Daruwallas a favor by looking after and “maintaining” the old servants. The diners spoke admiringly of the deputy commissioner; they could have talked for hours about Nancy—she was certainly complex.

It was always easier, with John D., when the subject of conversation was someone else; it was himself, as a subject, that the actor avoided. And the diners were animated in their discussion of what the deputy commissioner had confided to the doctor about Rahul… the unlikelihood of her hanging.

Julia and John D. had rarely seen Farrokh so relaxed. The doctor spoke of his great desire to see more of his daughters and grandchildren, and he kept repeating that he wanted to see more of John D.—“in your Swiss life.” The two men drank a lot of beer and sat up late on the balcony; they outlasted the traffic on Marine Drive. Julia sat up with them.

“You know, Farrokh, I do appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” the actor said.

“It’s been fun,” the screenwriter replied. Farrokh fought back his tears—he was a sentimental man. He managed to feel quite happy, sitting there in the darkness. The smell of the Arabian Sea, the fumes of the city— even the constantly clogged drains and the persistence of human shit—rose almost comfortingly around them. Dr. Daruwalla insisted on drinking a toast to Danny Mills; Dhar politely drank to Danny’s memory.

“He wasn’t your father—I’m quite sure of that,” Farrokh told John D.

“I’m quite sure of that, too,” the actor replied.

“Why are you so happy, Liebchen?” Julia asked Farrokh.

“He’s happy because he’s leaving India and he’s never coming back,” Inspector Dhar answered; the line was delivered with almost perfect authority. This was mildly irritating to Farrokh, who suspected that leaving India and never coming back was an act of cowardice on his part. John D. was thinking of him, as he thought of his twin, as a quitter—if John D. truly believed that the doctor was never coming back.

“You’ll see why I’m happy,” Dr. Daruwalla told them. When he fell asleep on the balcony, John D. carried him to his bed.

“Look at him,” Julia said. “He’s smiling in his sleep.”

There would be time to mourn Madhu another day. There would be time to worry about Ganesh, the elephant boy, too. And on his next birthday, the doctor would be 60. But right now Dr. Daruwalla was imagining the twins together on Swissair 197. Nine hours in the air should be sufficient for starting a relationship, the doctor thought.

Julia tried to read in bed, but Farrokh distracted her; he laughed out loud in his sleep. He must be drunk, she thought. Then she saw a frown cross his face. What a shame it was, Dr. Daruwalla was thinking; he wanted to be on the same plane with them—just to watch them, and to listen. Which seat is across the aisle from 4B? the doctor wondered. Seat 4J? Farrokh had taken that flight to Zurich many times. It was a 747; the seat across the aisle from 4B was 4J, he hoped.

“Four J,” he told the flight attendant. Julia put down her book and stared at him.

“Liebchen,” she whispered, “either wake up or go to sleep.” But her husband was once again smiling serenely. Dr. Daruwalla was where he wanted to be. It was early Thursday morning—1:45 A.M., to be exact—and Swissair 197 was taking off from Sanar. Across the aisle, the twins were staring at each other; neither of them could talk. It would take a little time for one of them to break the ice, but the doctor felt confident that they couldn’t maintain their silence for the full nine hours. Although the actor had more interesting information, Farrokh bet that the ex-missionary would be the one to start blabbing. Martin Mills would blab all night, if John D. didn’t start talking in self-defense.

Julia watched her sleeping husband touch his belly with his hands. Dr. Daruwalla was checking to be sure that his seat belt was correctly fastened; then he settled back, ready to enjoy the long flight.

Just Close Your Eyes

The next day was Wednesday. Dr. Daruwalla was watching the sunset from his balcony, this time with Dhar’s twin. Martin was full of questions about his plane tickets. The screenwriter evaded these questions with the skill of someone who’d already imagined the possible dialogue.

“I fly to Zurich? That’s strange—that’s not the way I came,” the ex-missionary remarked.

“I have connections with Swissair,” Farrokh told him. “I’m a frequent flyer, so I get a special deal.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I’m very grateful. I hear it’s a marvelous airline,” the former scholastic said. “These are first-class tickets!” Martin suddenly cried. “I can’t repay you for first class!”

“I won’t allow you to repay me,” the doctor said. “I said I have connections—I get a special deal for first class. I won’t let you repay me because the plane tickets cost me practically nothing.”

“Oh, I see. I’ve never flown first class,” the recent zealot said. Farrokh could tell that Martin was puzzling over the ticket for the connecting flight, from Zurich to New York. He would arrive in Zurich at 6:00 in the morning; his plane to New York didn’t leave Zurich until 1:00 in the afternoon—a long layover, the onetime Jesuit was thinking… and there was something different about the New York ticket.