John Irving - A Son of the Circus

“That string is annoying—if you’re trying to read,” the scholastic said. He climbed up on the oval table, which accepted his weight reluctantly.

“You’ll break the table,” the doctor warned him.

“I won’t break the table—I’m thinking of fixing the fan,” Martin Mills replied. Slowly and awkwardly, the Jesuit went from kneeling to standing.

“I can see what you’re thinking—you’re crazy!” Dr. Daruwalla said.

“Come on—you’re just angry about your miracle,” the missionary said. “I’m not trying to take your miracle away from you. I’m only trying to make you see the real miracle. It is simply that you believe—not the silly thing that made you believe. The biting was only a vehicle.”

“The biting was the miracle!” Dr. Daruwalla cried.

“No, no—that’s where you’re wrong,” Martin Mills managed to say, just before the table collapsed under him. Falling, he reached for—and fortunately missed—the fan. The gentleman in the Nehru jacket was the most astonished; when Martin Mills fell, the old reader was cautiously trying out the newly repaired chair. The collapse of the table and the missionary’s cry of alarm sent the old man scrambling. The chair leg with the freshly bored hole rejected the castor. While both the old reader and the Jesuit lay on the floor, Dr. Daruwalla was left to calm down the outraged library staffer who’d shuffled into the reading room in his slippers.

“We were just leaving,” Dr. Daruwalla told the librarian. “It’s too noisy here to concentrate on anything at all!”

Sweating and bleeding and limping, the missionary followed Farrokh down the grand staircase, under the frowning statues. To relax himself, Dr. Daruwalla was chanting, “Life imitates art. Life imitates art.”

“What’s that you say?” asked Martin Mills.

“Ssshhh!” the doctor told him. “This is a library.”

“Don’t be angry about your miracle,” the zealot said.

“It was long ago. I don’t think I believe in anything anymore,” Farrokh replied.

“Don’t say that!” the missionary cried.

“Ssshhh!” Farrokh whispered to him.

“I know, I know,” said Martin Mills. “This is a library.”

It was almost noon. Outside, in the glaring sunlight, they stared into the street without seeing the taxi that was parked at the curb. Vinod had to walk up to them; the dwarf led them to the car as if they were blind. Inside the Ambassador, the children were crying. They were sure that the circus was a myth or a hoax.

“No, no—it’s real,” Dr. Daruwalla assured them. “We’re going there, we really are—it’s just that the plane is delayed.” But what did Madhu or Ganesh know about airplanes? The doctor assumed that they’d never flown; flying would be another terror for them. And when the children saw that Martin Mills was bleeding, they were worried that there’d been some violence. “Only to a chair,” Farrokh said. He was angry at himself, for in the confusion he’d forgotten to reserve his favorite table in the Ladies’ Garden. He knew that Mr. Sethna would find a way to abuse him for this oversight.

As punishment, Mr. Sethna had given the doctor’s table to Mr. and Mrs. Kohinoor and Mrs. Kohinoor’s noisy, unmarried sister. The latter woman was so shrill, not even the bower of flowers in the Ladies’ Garden could absorb her whinnies or brays. Probably on purpose, Mr. Sethna had seated Dr. Daruwalla’s party at a table in a neglected corner of the garden, where the waiters either ignored you or failed to see you from their stations in the dining room. A torn vine of the bougainvillea hung down from the bower and brushed the back of Dr. Daruwalla’s neck like a claw. The good news was it wasn’t Chinese Day. Madhu and Ganesh ordered vegetarian kabobs; the vegetables were broiled or grilled on skewers. It was a dish that children sometimes ate with their fingers. While the doctor hoped that Madhu’s and Ganesh’s unfamiliarity with knives and forks would go unnoticed, Mr. Sethna speculated on whose children they were.

The old steward observed that the cripple had kicked his one sandal off; the calluses on the sole of the boy’s good foot were as thick as a beggar’s. The foot the elephant had stepped on was still concealed by the sock, which was already gray-brown, and it didn’t fool Mr. Sethna, who could tell that the hidden foot was oddly flattened—the boy had limped on his heel. On the ball of the bad foot, the sock was still mostly white.

As for the girl, the steward detected something lascivious in her posture; furthermore, Mr. Sethna concluded that Madhu had never been in a restaurant before—she stared too openly at the waiters. Dr. Daruwalla’s grandchildren would have been better behaved than this; and although Inspector Dhar had proclaimed to the press that he would sire only Indian babies, these children bore no resemblance to the famous actor.

As for the actor, he looked awful , Mr. Sethna thought. Possibly he’d forgotten to wear his makeup. Inspector Dhar looked pale and in need of sleep; his gaudy shirt was outrageous, there was blood on his pants and overnight his physique had deteriorated—he must be suffering from acute diarrhea, the old steward determined. How else does one manage to lose 15 to 20 pounds in a day? And had the actor’s head been shaved by muggers, or was his hair falling out? On second thought, Mr. Sethna suspected that Dhar was the victim of a sexually transmitted disease. In a sick culture, where movie actors were revered as demigods, a lifestyle contagion was to be expected. That will bring the bastard down to earth, Mr. Sethna thought. Maybe Inspector Dhar has AIDS! The old steward was sorely tempted to place an anonymous phone call to Stardust or Cine Blitz; surely either of these film-gossip magazines would be intrigued by such a rumor.

“I wouldn’t marry him if he owned the Queen’s Necklace and he offered me half !” cried Mrs. Kohinoor’s unmarried sister. “I wouldn’t marry him if he gave me all of London! ”

If you were in London, I could still hear you, thought Dr. Daruwalla. He picked at his pomfret; the fish at the Duckworth Club was unfailingly overcooked—Farrokh wondered why he’d ordered it. He envied how Martin Mills attacked his meat kabobs. The meat kept falling out of the flatbread; because Martin had stripped the skewers and tried to make a sandwich, the missionary’s hands were covered with chopped onions. A dark-green flag of mint leaf was stuck between the zealot’s upper front teeth. As a polite way of suggesting that the Jesuit take a look at himself in a mirror, Farrokh said, “You might want to use the men’s room here, Martin. It’s more comfortable than the facilities at the airport.”

Throughout lunch, Dr. Daruwalla couldn’t stop glancing at his watch, even though Vinod had called Indian Airlines repeatedly; the dwarf predicted a late-afternoon departure at the earliest. They were in no hurry. The doctor had called his office only to learn that there were no messages of any importance; there’d been just one call for him, and Ranjit had handled the matter competently. Mr. Garg had phoned for the mailing address, in Junagadh, of the Great Blue Nile Circus; Garg had told Ranjit that he wanted to send Madhu a letter. It was odd that Mr. Garg hadn’t asked Vinod or Deepa for the address, for the doctor had obtained the address from the dwarf’s wife. It was odder still how Garg imagined that Madhu could read a letter, or even a postcard; Madhu couldn’t read. But the doctor guessed that Mr. Garg was euphoric to learn that Madhu was not HIV-positive; maybe the creep wanted to send the poor child a thank-you note, or merely give her good-luck wishes.