John Irving - A Son of the Circus

“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 appear. 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?”