John Irving - A Son of the Circus

She wandered back into the bedroom, where she removed the unsuitable dress; once again, she stood naked. She was surprised at herself for wanting to look her best for Inspector Dhar; she thought she hated him. But the strangest conviction was compelling her to dress herself for him. She knew he wasn’t a real inspector, but Nancy believed that Dhar had certain powers. Nancy believed that it would not be her beloved husband, Vijay Patel, who would catch the killer; nor would the funny doctor be the hero. There was no reason for it—none beyond the authority of an actor’s sneer—but Nancy believed that Inspector Dhar would be Rahul’s undoing.

But what exactly did Dhar like? He must like something rather odd, Nancy decided. A faint ridge of blond fuzz extended from her pubic hair to her navel, which was especially long and deep. When Nancy rubbed her belly with coconut oil, this blond streak of fur would darken slightly and become more noticeable. If she wore a sari, she could leave her navel bare. Maybe Dhar would like her furry navel. Nancy knew that Vijay liked it.

The second Mrs. Dogar also suspected Dhar of unconventional sexual interests. It was frustrating to the former Rahul that Inspector Dhar had not returned the recently married woman’s attentions. And although both the disapproving Mr. Sethna and Dr. Daruwalla had observed the unrequited flirtations of Mrs. Dogar, neither gentleman had truly appreciated the seriousness of Mrs. Dogar’s designs. The former Rahul did not suffer rejection lightly.

While Farrokh had been struggling to begin his first artistic screenplay, his first quality picture, the second Mrs. Dogar had also undertaken the first draft of a story-in-progress; she had hatched a plot. Last night at the Duckworth Club, the second Mrs. Dogar had loudly denounced her husband for having had too much to drink. Mr. Dogar had had no more than his usual one whiskey and two beers; he was surprised at his wife’s accusations.

“This is your night to drive—this is my night to drink!” Mrs. Dogar had said.

She’d spoken distinctly, and deliberately in the presence of the ever-disapproving Mr. Sethna—one waiter and one busboy had overheard her, too—and she’d chosen to utter her criticism at a lull in the other conversations in the Ladies’ Garden, where the grieving Bannerjees were the only Duckworthians still dining.

The Bannerjees had been having a late, sober dinner; the murder of Mr. Lal had upset Mrs. Bannerjee too much to cook, and her intermittent conversation with her husband had concerned what efforts they might make to comfort Mr. Lal’s widow. The Bannerjees would never have guessed that the second Mrs. Dogar’s rude outburst was as premeditated as her intentions to soon join Mrs. Lal in the state of widowhood. Rahul had married Mr. Dogar out of eagerness to become his widow.

Also deliberately, Mrs. Dogar had turned to Mr. Sethna and said, “My dear Mr. Sethna, would you kindly call us a taxi? My husband is in no condition to drive us home.”

“Promila, please …” Mr. Dogar began to say.

“Give me your keys,” Mrs. Dogar commanded him. “You can take a taxi with me or you can call your own taxi, but you’re not driving a car.”

Sheepishly, Mr. Dogar handed her his ring of keys.

“Now just sit here—don’t get up and wander around,” Mrs. Dogar told him. Mrs. Dogar herself stood up. “Wait for me,” she ordered her husband—the rejected designated driver. When Mr. Dogar was alone, he glanced at the Bannerjees, who looked away; not even the waiter would look at the condemned drunk, and the busboy had slunk into the circular driveway to smoke a cigarette.

Rahul timed how long everything took. He—or, rather, she (if outward anatomy is the measure of a man or a woman)—walked into the men’s room by the door from the foyer. She knew no one could be in the men’s room, for none of the wait-staff were permitted to use it—except Mr. Sethna, who so disapproved of peeing with the hired help that he made uncontested use of the facilities marked FOR MEMBERS ONLY. The old steward was more in charge of the Duckworth Club than any member. But Mrs. Dogar knew that Mr. Sethna was busy calling a taxi.

Since she’d become a woman, Mrs. Dogar didn’t regret not using the men’s room at the Duckworth Club; its decor wasn’t as pleasing to her as the ladies’ room—Rahul loathed the men’s room wallpaper. She found the tiger-hunting motif brutal and stupid.

She moved past the urinals, the toilet stalls, the sinks for shaving, and into the darkened locker room, which extended to the clubhouse and the clubhouse bar; these latter facilities were never in use at night, and Mrs. Dogar wanted to be sure that she could navigate their interiors in darkness. The big windows of frosted glass admitted the moonlight that reflected from the tennis courts and the swimming pool, which was presently under repair and not in service; it was an empty cement-lined hole with some construction debris in the deep end, and the members were already betting that it wouldn’t be ready for use in the hotter months ahead.

Mrs. Dogar had sufficient moonlight to unlock the rear door to the clubhouse; she found the right key in less than a minute—then she relocked the door. This was just a test. She also found Mr. Dogar’s locker and unlocked it; it took the smallest key on the ring, and Mrs. Dogar discovered that she could easily find this key by touch. She unlocked and relocked the locker by touch, too, although she could see everything in the moonlight; one night, she might not have the moon.

Rahul could quite clearly make out the shrine of old golf clubs displayed on the wall. These were the clubs of famous Golfers Past and of some living, less famous Duckworthians who had retired from active play. Mrs. Dogar needed to assure herself that these clubs could be easily removed from the wall. After all, it had been a while since Rahul had visited the men’s locker room; she hadn’t been there since she’d been a boy. When she’d handled a few of the clubs to her satisfaction, she went back into the men’s room—after assuring herself that neither Mr. Sethna nor Mr. Bannerjee was using the facilities. She knew her husband wouldn’t leave the table in the Ladies’ Garden; he did what he was told.

When she could see (from the men’s room) that there was no one in the foyer, she returned to the Ladies’ Garden. She went directly to the Bannerjees’ table—they weren’t friends of the Dogars’s—and she whispered to them, “I’m sorry for my outspokenness. But when he’s like this, he’s virtually a baby—he’s so senile, he’s not to be trusted. And not only in a car. One night, after dinner—he had all his clothes on—I stopped him just before he dove into the club pool.”

“The empty pool?” said Mr. Bannerjee.

“I’m glad you understand,” Mrs. Dogar replied. “That’s what I’m talking about. If I don’t treat him like a child, he’ll hurt himself!”

Then she went to her husband, leaving the Bannerjees with this impression of Mr. Dogar’s senility and self-destructiveness —for her husband being found dead in the deep end of the club’s empty pool was one of the possible outcomes for the first draft that the second Mrs. Dogar was hard at work on. She was merely foreshadowing, as any good storyteller does. She also knew that she should set up other options, and these alternative endings were already in her mind.

“I hate to treat you like this, darling, but just sit tight while I see about our cab,” Mrs. Dogar told her husband. He was bewildered. Although his second wife was in her fifties, she was a young woman in comparison to what Mr. Dogar had been used to; the old gentleman was in his seventies—he’d been a widower for the last 10 years. He supposed these swings of mood were characteristic among younger women. He wondered if perhaps he had drunk too much. He did remember that his new wife had lost a brother to an automobile accident in Italy; he just couldn’t recall if alcohol had been the cause of the wreck.