A Son of the Circus

“That’s an open ticket to New York,” Farrokh said in an offhand manner. “It’s a daily nonstop flight. You don’t have to fly to New York on the day you arrive in Switzerland. You have a valid ticket for any day when there’s an available seat in first class. I thought you might like to spend a day or two in Zurich—maybe the weekend. You’d be better rested when you got to New York.”

“Well, that’s awfully kind of you. But I’m not sure what I’d do in Zurich …” Martin was saying. Then he found the hotel voucher; it was with his plane tickets.

“Three nights at the Hotel zum Storchen—a decent hotel,” Farrokh explained. “Your room overlooks the Limmat. You can walk in the old town, or to the lake. Have you ever been in Europe?”

“No, I haven’t,” said Martin Mills. He kept staring at the hotel voucher; it included his meals.

“Well, then,” Dr. Daruwalla replied. Since the deputy commissioner had found this phrase so meaningful, the doctor thought he’d give it a try; it appeared to work on Martin Mills. Throughout dinner, the reformed Jesuit wasn’t at all argumentative; he seemed subdued. Julia worried that it might have been the food, or that Dhar’s unfortunate twin was ill, but Dr. Daruwalla had experienced failure before; the doctor knew what was bothering the ex- missionary.

John D. was wrong; his twin wasn’t a quitter. Martin Mills had abandoned a quest, but he’d given up the priesthood when the priesthood was in sight—when it was easily obtainable. He’d not failed to be ordained; he’d been afraid of the kind of priest he might become. His decision to retreat, which had appeared to be so whimsical and sudden, had not come out of the blue; to Martin, his retreat must have seemed lifelong.

Because the security checks were so extensive, Martin Mills was required to be at Sanar two or three hours before his scheduled departure. Farrokh felt it would be unsafe to let him take a taxi with anyone but Vinod, and Vinod was unavailable; the dwarf was driving Dhar to the airport. Dr. Daruwalla hired an alleged luxury taxi from the fleet of Vinod’s Blue Nile, Ltd. They were en route to Sanar when the doctor first realized how much he would miss the ex-missionary.

“I’m getting used to this,” Martin said. They were passing a dead dog in the road, and Farrokh thought that Martin was commenting on his growing familiarity with slain animals. Martin explained that he meant he was getting used to leaving places in mild disgrace. “Oh, there’s never anything scandalous—I’m never run out of town on a rail,” he went on. “It’s a sort of slinking away. I don’t suppose I’m anything more than a passing embarrassment to those people who put their faith in me. I feel the same way about myself, really. There’s never a crushing sense of disappointment, or of loss—it’s more like a fleeting dishonor.”

I’m going to miss this moron, Dr. Daruwalla thought, but what the doctor said was, “Do me a favor—just close your eyes.”

“Is there something dead in the road?” Martin asked.

“Probably,” the doctor replied. “But that’s not the reason. Just close your eyes. Are they closed?”

“Yes, my eyes are closed,” the former scholastic said. “What are you going to do?” he asked nervously.

“Just relax,” Farrokh told him. “We’re going to play a game.”

“I don’t like games!” Martin cried. He opened his eyes and looked wildly around.

“Close your eyes!” Dr. Daruwalla shouted. Although his vow of obedience was behind him, Martin obeyed. “I want you to imagine that parking lot with the Jesus statue,” the doctor told him. “Can you see it?”

“Yes, of course,” Martin Mills replied.

“Is Christ still there, in the parking lot?” Farrokh asked him. The fool opened his eyes.

“Well, I don’t know about that—they were always expanding the capacity of the parking lot,” Martin said. “There was always a lot of construction equipment around. They may have torn up that section of the lot—they might have had to move the statue …”

“That’s not what I mean! Close your eyes!” Dr. Daruwalla cried. “What I mean is, in your mind, can you still see the damn statue? Jesus Christ in the dark parking lot—can you still see him?”

“Well, naturally—yes,” Martin Mills admitted. He kept his eyes tightly closed, as if in pain; his mouth was shut, too, and his nose was wrinkled. They were passing a slum encampment lit only by rubbish fires, but the stench of human feces overpowered what they could smell of the burning trash. “Is that all?” Martin asked, eyes closed.

“Isn’t that enough?” the doctor asked him. “For God’s sake, open your eyes!”

Martin opened them. “Was that the game—the whole game?” he inquired.

“You saw Jesus Christ, didn’t you? What more do you want?” Farrokh asked. “You must realize that it’s possible to be a good Christian, as Christians are always saying, and at the same time not be a Catholic priest.”

“Oh, is that what you mean?” said Martin Mills. “Well, certainly—I realize that!”

“I can’t believe I’m going to miss you, but I really am,” Dr. Daruwalla told him.

“I shall miss you, too, of course,” Dhar’s twin replied. “In particular, our little talks.”

At the airport, there was the usual lineup for the security checks. After they’d said their good-byes (they actually embraced), Dr. Daruwalla continued to observe Martin from a distance. The doctor crossed a police barrier in order to keep watching him. It was hard to tell if his bandages drew everyone’s attention or if it was his resemblance to Dhar, which leaped out at some observers and was utterly missed by others. The doctor had once again changed Martin’s bandages; the neck wound was minimally covered with a gauze patch, and the mangled earlobe was left uncovered—it was ugly but largely healed. The hand was still mittened in gauze. To everyone who gawked at him, the chimpanzee’s victim winked and smiled; it was a genuine smile, not Dhar’s sneer, yet Farrokh felt that the ex-missionary had never looked like such a dead ringer for Dhar. At the end of every Inspector Dhar movie, Dhar is walking away from the camera; in this case, Dr. Daruwalla was the camera. Farrokh felt greatly moved; he wondered if it was because Martin more and more reminded him of John D., or if it was because Martin himself had touched him.

John D. was nowhere to be seen. Dr. Daruwalla knew that the actor was always the first to board a plane —any plane—but the doctor kept looking for him. Aesthetically, Farrokh would have been disappointed if Inspector Dhar and Martin Mills met in the security lineup; the screenwriter wanted the twins to meet on the plane. Ideally, they should be sitting down, Dr. Daruwalla thought.

As he waited in line and then shuffled forward, and then waited again, Martin looked almost normal. There was something pathetic about his wearing the tropical-weight black suit over the Hawaiian shirt; he’d surely have to buy something warmer in Zurich, the expense of which had prompted Dr. Daruwalla to hand him several hundred Swiss francs—at the last minute, so that Martin had no time to refuse the money. And there was something barely noticeable but odd about his habit of closing his eyes while he waited in line. When the line stopped moving, Martin closed his eyes and smiled; then the line would inch forward, Martin with it, looking like a man refreshed. Farrokh knew what the fool was doing. Martin Mills was making sure that Jesus Christ was still in the parking lot.

Not even a mob of Indian workers returning from the Gulf could distract the former Jesuit from the lastest of his spiritual exercises. The workers were what Farrokh’s mother, Meher, used to call the Persia-returned crowd, but these workers weren’t coming from Iran; they were returning from Kuwait—their two-in-ones or their three-in-ones were blasting. In addition to their boom boxes, they carried their foam mattresses; their plastic shoulder bags were bursting with whiskey bottles and wristwatches and assorted aftershaves and pocket calculators—some had even stolen the cutlery from the plane. Sometimes the workers went to Oman—or Qatar or Dubai. In Meher’s day, the so-called Persia-returned crowd had brought back gold ingots in their hands—at least a sovereign or two. Nowadays, Farrokh guessed, they weren’t bringing home much gold. Nevertheless, they got drunk on the plane. But even as he was jostled by the most unruly of these Persia-returned people, Martin Mills kept closing his eyes and smiling; as long as Jesus was still in that parking lot, all was right with Martin’s world.

For his remaining days in Bombay, Dr. Daruwalla would regret that, when he closed his eyes, he saw no such reassuring vision; no Christ—not even a parking lot. He told Julia that he was suffering the sort of recurring dream that he hadn’t had since he’d first left India for Austria; it was a common dream among adolescents, old Lowji had told him—for one reason or another, you find yourself naked in a public place. Long ago, Farrokh’s opinionated father had offered an unlikely interpretation. “It’s a new immigrant’s dream,” Lowji had declared. Maybe it was, Farrokh now believed. He’d left India many times before, but this was the first time he would leave his birthplace with the certain knowledge that he wasn’t coming back; he’d never felt so sure.