John Irving - A Son of the Circus

“Their wings? What wings?” Farrokh asked.

“Not every girl is being able to fly,” the dwarf said. “They are not all falling in the net.”

It occurred to Dr. Daruwalla that he should impart this lesson to Martin Mills, but the scholastic was still in the process of watering down Graham Greene for the upper-school boys. Instead, the doctor called the deputy commissioner.

“Patel here,” said the cold voice. The clatter of typewriters resounded in the background; rising, and then falling out of hearing, was the mindless revving of a motorcycle. Like punctuation to their phone conversation, there came and went the sharp barking of the Dobermans, complaining in the courtyard kennel. Dr. Daruwalla imagined that just out of his hearing a prisoner was professing his innocence, or else declaring that he’d spoken the truth. The doctor wondered if Rahul was there. What would she be wearing?

“I know this isn’t exactly a crime-branch matter,” Farrokh apologized in advance; then he told the deputy commissioner everything he knew about Madhu and Mr. Garg.

“Lots of pimps marry their best girls,” Detective Patel informed the doctor. “Garg runs the Wetness Cabaret, but he’s a pimp on the side.”

“I just want a chance to tell her what to expect,” said Dr. Daruwalla.

“She’s another man’s wife,” Patel replied. “You want me to tell another man’s wife that she has to talk to you?”

“Can’t you ask her?” Farrokh asked.

“I can’t believe I’m speaking to the creator of Inspector Dhar,” the deputy commissioner said. “How does it go? It’s one of my all-time favorites: The police don’t ask —the police arrest, or the police harass.’ Isn’t that the line?”

“Yes, that’s how it goes,” Dr. Daruwalla confessed.

“So do you want me to harass her—and Garg, too?” the policeman asked. When the doctor didn’t answer him, the deputy commissioner continued. “When Garg throws her out on the street, or when she runs away, then I can bring her in for questioning. Then you can talk to her. The problem is, if he throws her out or she runs away, I won’t be able to find her. From what you say, she’s too pretty and smart to be a street prostitute. She’ll go to a brothel, and once she’s in the brothel, she won’t be out on the street. Someone will bring her food; the madam will buy her clothes.”

“And when she gets sick?” the doctor asked.

“There are doctors who go to the brothels,” Patel replied. “When she gets so sick that she can’t be a prostitute, most madams would put her out on the street. But by then she’ll be immune.”

“What do you mean, ‘immune’?” Dr. Daruwalla asked.

“When you’re on the street and very sick, everyone leaves you alone. When nobody comes near you, you’re immune,” the policeman said.

“And then you could find her,” Farrokh remarked.

“Then we might find her,” Patel corrected him. “But by then it would hardly be necessary for you to tell her what to expect.”

“So you’re saying, ‘Forget her.’ Is that it?” the doctor asked.

“In your profession, you treat crippled children—isn’t that right?” the deputy commissioner inquired.

“That’s right,” Dr. Daruwalla replied.

“Well, I don’t know anything about your field,” said Detective Patel, “but I would guess that your odds of success are slightly higher than in the red-light district.”

“I get your point,” Farrokh said. “And what are the odds that Rahul will hang?”

For a while, the policeman was silent. Only the typewriters, responded to the question; they were the constant, occasionally interrupted by the revving motorcycle or the cacophony of Dobermans. “Do you hear the typewriters?” the deputy commissioner finally asked.

“Of course,” Dr. Daruwalla answered.

“The report on Rahul will be very lengthy,” Patel promised him. “But not even the sensational number of murders will impress the judge. I mean, just look at who most of the victims were—they weren’t important.”

“You mean they were prostitutes,” said Dr. Daruwalla.

“Precisely,” Patel replied. “We will need to develop another argument—namely, that Rahul must be confined with other women. Anatomically, she is a woman …”

“So the operation was complete,” the doctor interrupted.

“So I’m told. Naturally, I didn’t examine her myself,” the deputy commissioner added.

“No, of course not …” Dr. Daruwalla said.

“What I mean is, Rahul cannot be imprisoned with men—Rahul is a woman,” the detective said. “And solitary confinement is too expensive—impossible in cases of life imprisonment. And yet, if Rahul is confined with women prisoners, there’s a problem. She’s as strong as a man, and she has a history of killing women—you see my point?”

“So you’re saying that she might receive the death penalty only because of how awkward it will be to imprison her with other women?” Farrokh asked.

“Precisely,” Patel said. “That’s our best argument. But I still don’t believe she’ll be hanged.”

“Why not?” the doctor asked.

“Almost no one is hanged,” the deputy commissioner replied. “With Rahul, they’ll probably try hard labor and life imprisonment; then something will happen. Maybe she’ll kill another prisoner.”

“Or bite her,” Dr. Daruwalla said.

“They won’t hang her for biting,” the policeman said. “But something will happen. Then they’ll have to hang her.”

“Naturally, this will take a long time,” Farrokh guessed.

“Precisely,” Patel said. “And it won’t be very satisfying,” the detective added.

That was a theme with the deputy commissioner, Dr. Daruwalla knew. It led the doctor to ask a different sort of question. “And what will you do—you and your wife?” Farrokh inquired.

“What do you mean?” said Detective Patel; for the first time, he sounded surprised.

“I mean, will you stay here—in Bombay, in India?” the doctor asked.

“Are you offering me a job?” the policeman replied.

Farrokh laughed. “Well, no,” he admitted. “I was just curious if you were staying.”

“But this is my country,” the deputy commissioner told him. “You’re the one who’s not at home here.”

This was awkward; first from Vinod and now from Detective Patel, the doctor had learned something. In both cases, the subject of the lesson was the acceptance of something unsatisfying.

“If you ever come to Canada,” Farrokh blurted out, “I would be happy to be your host—to show you around.”

It was the deputy commissioner’s turn to laugh. “It’s much more likely that I’ll see you when you’re back in Bombay,” Patel said.

“I’m not coming back to Bombay,” Dr. Daruwalla insisted. It wasn’t the first time he’d spoken his thoughts so unequivocally on this subject.

Although Detective Patel politely accepted the statement, Dr. Daruwalla could tell that the deputy commissioner didn’t believe him. “Well, then,” Patel said. It was all there was to say. Not “Good-bye”; just “Well, then.”

Martin Mills again confessed to Father Cecil, who this time managed to stay awake. The scholastic was guilty of jumping to conclusions; Martin interpreted Danny’s death and his mother’s request that he come to her assistance in New York as a sign. After all, Jesuits are relentless in seeking God’s will, and Martin was an especially zealous example; the scholastic not only sought God’s will, but he too often believed that he’d spontaneously intuited what it was. In this case, Martin confessed, his mother was still capable of making him feel guilty, for he was inclined to go to New York at her bidding; Martin also confessed that he didn’t want to go. The conclusion Martin then jumped to was that this weakness—his inability to stand up to Vera—was an indication that he lacked the faith to become ordained. Worse, the child prostitute had not only forsaken the circus and returned to her life of sin, but she would almost certainly die of AIDS; what had befallen Madhu was an even darker sign, which Martin interpreted as a warning that he would be ineffectual as a priest.