A Son Of The Circus (88 page)

The doctor’s sleek tuxedo and black silk tie clashed with the deputy commissioner’s badly wrinkled Nehru suit; Mr Sethna determined that most Duckworthians were never in contact with that element of society which could recognize policemen by their clothes. The steward approved of Julia’s gown, which was a proper gown – the long skirt almost brushing the floor, the long sleeves ruffled at the cuffs, the neckline not a mandarin choker but a decent distance above any discernible cleavage. Ah, the old days, Mr Sethna mourned; as if anticipating his thoughts, the band responded with a slower number.

Dhar and Muriel, breathing hard, relaxed a little too languidly into each other’s arms; she hung on his neck, his hand resting possessively on the hard beaded sequins at her hip. She appeared to be whispering to him – actually, she was just singing the words to the song, for Muriel knew every song that this band knew, and many more besides – while Inspector Dhar smiled knowingly at what she was saying. There was his sneer, which was almost a smirk – that look of disdain, which was at once decadent and bored. Actually, Dhar was amused by Muriel’s accent; he thought the stripper was very funny. But what the second Mrs Dogar saw did not amuse her. She saw John D. dancing with a tart, a presumably loose woman – and one close to Mrs Dogar’s age. Women like that were so easy; surely Dhar could do better, Rahul thought.

On the dance floor, the staid Duckworthians who dared to dance – they’d been waiting for a slow number – kept their distance from Dhar and Muriel, who was clearly no lady. Mr Sethna, the old eavesdropper and lip-reader
extraordinaire
, easily caught what Mr Dogar said to his wife. ‘Has the actor brought an actual prostitute to the party? I must say she looks like a whore.’

‘I think she’s a stripper,’ said Mrs Dogar – Rahul had honed a sharp eye for such social details.

‘Perhaps she’s an actress,’ Mr Dogar said.

‘She’s acting, but she’s no actress,’ Mrs Dogar replied.

From what Farrokh could see of Rahul, the transsexual had inherited the reptilian scrutiny of her Aunt Promila; it was as if, when she looked at you, she were seeing a different life form – certainly not a fellow human being.

‘It’s hard to tell from here,’ said Dr Daruwalla. ‘I don’t know if she’s attracted to him or if she wants to kill him.’

‘Maybe with her,’ said the deputy commissioner, ‘the feeling is one and the same.’

‘Whatever else she feels, she’s attracted,’ Nancy said. Her back was the only part of her that Rahul could see, if Rahul had been looking. But Rahul had eyes for John D. only.

When the band played a faster number, Dhar and Muriel grew even rougher with each other, as if invigorated by the slower interlude or by their closer contact. A few of the cheap sequins were torn from Muriel’s dress; they glittered on the dance floor, reflecting the light from the ballroom chandelier –when Dhar or Muriel stepped on them, they crunched. A constant rivulet of sweat ran its course in Muriel’s cleavage, and Dhar was bleeding slightly from a scratch on his wrist; the cuff of his white shirt was dotted with blood. Because of how tightly he held Muriel at her waist, a sequin had scratched him. He paid the scratch only passing attention, but Muriel took his wrist in her hands and covered the cut with her mouth. In this way, with his wrist to her lips, they kept dancing. Mr Sethna had seen such things only in the movies. The steward didn’t realize that this was what he was seeing: a screenplay by Farrokh Daruwalla, a movie starring Inspector Dhar.

When Muriel left the Duckworth Club, she made a fuss over her departure. She danced one last dance (another slow one) with her shawl on; she downed a nearly full glass of champagne in the foyer. Then the exotic dancer leaned on Vinod’s head while the dwarf walked her to the Ambassador.

‘A to-do worthy of a slut,’ said Mr Dogar. ‘I suppose she’s going back to the brothel.’

But Rahul merely glanced at the time. The second Mrs Dogar was a close observer of Bombay’s low life; she knew that the hour for the first show at the Eros Palace was fast approaching, or maybe Dhar’s tail worked at the Wetness Cabaret – the first show there was 15 minutes later.

When Dhar asked the Sorabjee daughter to dance, a new tension could be felt throughout the main dining room and the Ladies’ Garden. Even with her back to the action, Nancy knew that something unscripted had happened.

‘He’s asked someone else to dance, hasn’t he?’ she said; her face and the nape of her neck were flushed.

‘Who’s that young girl? She’s not part of our plan!’ said Detective Patel.

‘Trust him – he’s a great improviser,’ the screenwriter said. ‘He always understands who he is and what his role is. He knows what he’s doing.’

Nancy was pinching a pearl on her necklace; her thumb and index finger were white. ‘You bet he knows,’ she said. Julia turned around, but she couldn’t see the ballroom — only the look of loathing that was unconcealed on Mrs Dogar’s face.

‘It’s little Amy Sorabjee — she must be back from school,’ Dr Daruwalla informed his wife.

‘She’s only a teenager!’ Julia cried.

‘I think she’s a little older,’ the real policeman replied.

‘It’s a brilliant move!’ the screenwriter said. ‘Mrs Dogar doesn’t know
what
to think!’

‘I know how she feels,’ Nancy told him.

‘It’ll be all right, sweetie,’ the deputy commissioner told his wife. When he took her hand, she pulled it away.

‘Am I next?’ Nancy asked. ‘Do I wait in line?’

Almost every face in the main dining room was turned toward the ballroom. They watched the unstoppable sweating movie star with his bulky shoulders and his beer belly; he was twirling little Amy Sorabjee around as if she were no heavier than her clothes.

Although the Sorabjees and the Daruwallas were old friends, Dr and Mrs Sorabjee had been surprised at Dhar’s spur-of-the-moment invitation – and that Amy had accepted. She was a silly girl in her twenties, a former university student who hadn’t merely come home for the holiday; she’d been withdrawn from school. Granted, Dhar wasn’t mashing her; the actor was behaving like a proper gentleman – excessively charming, possibly, but the young lady seemed delighted. Theirs was a different kind of dancing from Dhar’s performance with Muriel; the friskiness of the youthful girl was appealingly offset by the sure, smooth quality of the older man’s gestures.

‘Now he’s seducing children!’ Mr Dogar announced to his wife. ‘He’s going to dance his way through all the women – I’m sure he’ll ask you, too, Promila!’

Mrs Dogar was visibly upset. She excused herself for the ladies’ room, where she was reminded of how she hated this aspect of being a woman – waiting to pee. There was too long a line; Rahul slipped through the foyer and into the closed and darkened administrative offices of the old club. There was enough moonlight for her to type by, and she rolled a two-rupee note into the typewriter that was nearest a window. On the money, the typed message was as spontaneous as her feelings at the moment.

A
MEMBER
NO
MORE

This was a message meant for Dhar’s mouth, and Mrs Dogar slipped it into her purse where it could keep company with the message she’d already typed for her husband.

.. .
BECAUSE
DHAR
IS
STILL
A
MEMBER

It comforted Mrs Dogar to have these two-rupee notes in place; she always felt better when she was prepared for every contingency. She slipped back through the foyer and into the ladies’ room, where the line ahead of her wasn’t so long. When Rahul returned to her table in the main dining room, Dhar was dancing with a new partner.

Mr Sethna, who’d been happily monitoring the conversation between the Dogars, was thrilled to note Mr Dogar’s observation to his coarse wife. ‘Now Dhar’s dancing with that hefty Anglo who came with the Daruwallas. I think she’s the white half of a mixed marriage. Her husband looks like a pathetic civil servant.’

But Mrs Dogar was prevented from seeing the new dancers. Dhar had wheeled Nancy into the part of the ballroom that wasn’t visible from the main dining room. Only intermittently did a glimpse of them ap»–pear. Earlier, Rahul had taken little notice of the big blonde. When Mrs Dogar glanced at the Daruwallas’ table, the Daruwallas were bent in conversation with the out-of-place ‘pathetic civil servant,’ as her husband had described him. Maybe he was a minor magistrate, Rahul guessed – or some controlling little guru who’d met his Western wife in an ashram.

Then Dhar and the heavy woman danced into view. Mrs Dogar sensed the strength with which they gripped each other – the woman’s broad hand held fast to Dhar’s neck, and the biceps of his right arm was locked in her armpit (as if he were trying to lift: her up). She was taller than he was; from the way she grasped his neck, it was impossible for Rahul to tell if Nancy was pulling Dhar’s face into the side of her (throat or if she was struggling to prevent him from nuzzling her. What was remarkable was that they were whispering fiercely to each other; neither one of them was listening, but they were talking urgently and at the same time. When they danced out of her sight again, Rahul couldn’t stand it; Mrs Dogar asked her husband to dance.

‘He’s got her! I told you he could do it,’ said Dr Daruwalla.

This is only the beginning,’ the deputy commissioner replied. This is just the dancing.’

Fortunately for Mr Dogar, it was a slow dance. His wife steered him past several faltering couples, who were disconcerted that Muriel’s fallen sequins still crunched underfoot. Mrs Dogar had Dhar and the big blonde in her sights.

‘Is this in the script?’ Nancy was whispering to the actor. This isn’t in the script, you bastard!’

‘We’re supposed to make something of a scene – like an old lovers’ quarrel,’ Dhar whispered.

‘You’re embracing me!’ Nancy told him.

‘You’re squeezing me back,’ he whispered.

‘I wish I was killing you!’ Nancy whispered.

‘She’s here,’ Dhar said softly. ‘She’s following us.’

With a pang, Rahul observed that the blond wench had gone limp in Dhar’s arms – and she’d been resisting him; that had been obvious. Now it appeared to Mrs Dogar that Dhar was supporting the heavy woman; the blonde might otherwise have fallen to the dance floor, so lifelessly was she draped on the actor. She’d thrown her arms over his shoulders and locked her hands behind his back; her face was buried in his neck – awkwardly, because she was taller. Rahul could see that Nancy was shaking her head while Dhar went on whispering to her. The blonde had that pleasing air of submission about her, as if she’d already given up; Rahul was reminded of the kind of woman who’d let you make love to her or let you kill her without a breath of complaint – like someone with a high fever, Rahul thought.

‘Does she recognize me?’ Nancy was whispering; she trembled, and then stumbled. Dhar had to hold her up with all his strength.

‘She can’t recognize you, she
doesn’t
recognize you – she’s just curious about what’s between us,’ the actor replied.

‘What
is
between us?’ Nancy whispered. Where her hands were locked together, he felt her dig her knuckles into his spine.

‘She’s coming closer,’ Dhar warned Nancy. ‘She doesn’t recognize you. She just wants to look. I’m going to do it now,’ he whispered.

‘Do what?’ Nancy asked; she’d forgotten – she was so frightened of Rahul.

‘Unzip you,’ Dhar said.

‘Not too far,’ Nancy told him.

The actor turned her suddenly; he had to stand on tiptoe to look over her shoulder, but he wanted to be sure that Mrs Dogar saw his face. John D. looked straight at Rahul and smiled; he gave the killer a sly wink. Then he unzipped the back of Nancy’s dress while Rahul watched. When he felt the clasp of Nancy’s bra, he stopped; he spread his palm between her bare shoulder blades – she was sweating and he felt her shudder.

‘Is she watching?’ Nancy whispered. ‘I hate you,’ she added.

‘She’s right on top of us,’ Dhar whispered. ‘I’m going to go right at her. We’re changing partners now.’

‘Zip me up first!’ Nancy whispered. ‘Zip me up!’

With his right hand, John D. zipped Nancy up; with his left, he reached out and took the second Mrs Dogar by the wrist – her arm was cool and dry, as sinewy as a strong rope.

‘Let’s switch partners for the next number!’ said Inspector Dhar. But it was still the slow dance that played. Mr Dogar staggered briefly; Nancy, who was relieved to be out of Dhar’s arms, forcefully drew the old man to her chest. A lock of her hair had come undone; it hid her cheek. No one saw her tears, which might have been confused with her sweat.

‘Hi,’ Nancy said. Before Mr Dogar could respond, she palmed the back of his head; his cheek was pressed flat between her shoulder and her collarbone. Nancy moved the old man resolutely away from Dhar and Rahul; she wondered how long she had to wait until the band changed to a faster number.

What was left of the slow dance suited Dhar and Rahul. John D.’s eyes were level with a thin blue vein that ran the length of Mrs Dogar’s throat; something deep-black and polished, like onyx – a single stone, set in silver – rested in the perfect declivity where her throat met her sternum. Her dress, which was an emerald green, was cut low but it fit her breasts snugly; her hands were smooth and hard, her grip surprisingly light. She was light on her feet, too; no matter where John D. moved, she squared her shoulders to him – her eyes locked onto his eyes, as if she were reading the first page of a new book.

‘That was rather crude – and clumsy, too,’ the second Mrs Dogar said.

‘I’m tired of trying to ignore you,’ the actor told her. ‘I’m sick of pretending that I don’t know who you are … who you were,’ Dhar added, but her grip maintained its even, soft pressure – her body obediently followed his.

‘Goodness, you are provincial!’ Mrs Dogar said. ‘Can’t a man become a woman if she wants to?’

‘It’s certainly an exciting idea,’ said Inspector Dhar.

‘You’re not sneering, are you?’ Mrs Dogar asked him.

‘Certainly not! I’m just remembering,’ the actor replied. ‘Twenty years ago, I couldn’t get up the nerve to approach you –I didn’t know how to begin.’