“I’m from India,” the doctor would say, but he didn’t feel it; it didn’t ring true. “I’m from Toronto,” he sometimes said, but with more mischief than authority. Or else he would be clever. “I’m from Toronto, via Bombay,” he would say. If he really wanted to be cute, he would answer, “I’m from Toronto, via Vienna and Bombay.” He could go on, elaborating the lie—namely, that he was from
He could always enhance the European qualities of his education, if he chose; he could create a spicy masala mixture for his childhood in Bombay, giving his accent that Hindi flavor; he could also kill the conversation with his merciless, deadpan Torontonian reserve. (“As you may know, there are many Indians in Toronto,” he could say, when he felt like it.) Dr. Daruwalla could
But suddenly the boy’s innocence demanded of the doctor a different kind of truth; in the child’s face, Dr. Daruwalla could discern only frank curiosity—only the most genuine desire to know. It also moved the doctor that the boy had not let go of his index finger. Farrokh was aware that he had no time in which to formulate a witty answer or an ambiguous remark; the terrified mother would any second interrupt the moment, which would never return.
“Where are you from?” the child had asked him.
Dr. Daruwalla wished he knew; never had he so much wanted to tell the truth, and (more important) to feel that his response was as pure and natural as the currently falling snow. Bending close to the boy, so that the child could not mistake a word of his answer, and giving the boy’s trusting hand a reflexive squeeze, the doctor spoke clearly in the sharp winter air.
“I’m from the circus,” Farrokh said, without thinking—it was utterly spontaneous—but by the instant delight that was apparent in the child’s broad smile and in his bright, admiring eyes, Dr. Daruwalla could tell that he’d answered the question correctly. What he saw in the boy’s happy face was something he’d never felt before in his cold, adopted country. Such uncritical acceptance was the most satisfying pleasure that Dr. Daruwalla (or any immigrant of color) would ever know.
Then a car horn was blowing and the woman pulled her son away; the boy’s father, the woman’s husband —whoever he was—was helping them into his car. If Farrokh heard nothing of what the mother said, he would remember what the child told the man. “The circus is in town!” the boy said. Then they drove away, leaving Dr. Daruwalla there; the doctor had the street corner to himself.
Julia was late. Farrokh fretted that they wouldn’t have time to eat before the interminable Harbourfront readings. Then he needn’t worry that he’d fall asleep and snore; instead, the audience and the unfortunate authors would be treated to his growling stomach.
The snow kept falling. No cars passed. In a distant window, the lights on a Christmas tree were blinking; Dr. Daruwalla tried to count the colors. The colored lights through the window glass were reminiscent of that light which is reflected in sequins—that glitter which is sewn into the singlets of the circus acrobats. Was there anything as wonderful as that reflected light? Farrokh wondered.
A car was passing; it threatened to break the spell that the doctor was under, for Dr. Daruwalla was halfway around the world from the corner of Lonsdale and Russell Hill Road. “Go home!” someone shouted to him from the window of the passing car.
It was an irony that the doctor didn’t hear this, for he was in a position to inform the person that going home was easier said than done. More sounds, torn from the window of the moving car, were muffled by the snow— receding laughter, possibly a racial slur. But Dr. Daruwalla heard none of it. His eyes had risen from the Christmas tree in the window; at first he’d blinked at the falling snow, but then he allowed his eyes to close—the snow coolly covered his eyelids.
Farrokh saw the elephant-footed boy in his singlet with the blue-green sequins—as the little beggar was never dressed in real life. Farrokh saw Ganesh descending in the spotlight, twirling down—the cripple’s teeth clamped tightly on the dental trapeze. This was the completion of another successful Skywalk, which in reality had never happened and never would. The
That was when he knew he was going back—again and again, he would keep returning. It was India that kept bringing him back; this time, the dwarfs would have nothing to do with it. Farrokh knew this as distinctly as he could hear the applause for the skywalker. Dr. Daruwalla heard them clapping as the elephant boy descended on the dental trapeze; the doctor could hear them cheering for the cripple.
Julia, who’d stopped the car and was waiting for her distracted husband, honked the horn. But Dr. Daruwalla didn’t hear her. Farrokh was listening to the applause—he was still at the circus.
Also by John Irving
Until I Find You
The Fourth Hand
My Movie Business
A Widow for One Year
Trying to Save Piggy Sneed
A Son of the Circus
A Prayer for Owen Meany
The Cider House Rules
The Hotel New Hampshire
The World According to Garp
The 158-Pound Marriage
The Water-Method Man
Setting Free the Bears
The Cider House Rules
Copyright
A Ballantine Book
Published by The Random House Publishing Group
Copyright © 1994 by Garp Enterprises, Ltd.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an inprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to North Point Press, a division of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, for permission to reprint excerpts from
Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 93-44750
eISBN: 978-0-307-42393-1
This edition published by arrangement with Random House, Inc.
