John Irving - A Son of the Circus

As for lovers, Matthias Frei died; the onetime terror of the Zürich avant-garde had been John D.’s longstanding partner. It was Julia who informed Farrokh of this; she’d known for quite some time that John D. and Frei were a couple. “Frei didn’t die of AIDS, did he?” the doctor asked his wife. She gave him the same sort of look that John D. would have given him; it was that smile from movie posters of faded memory, recalling the cutting sneer of Inspector Dhar.

“No, Frei didn’t die of AIDS—he had a heart attack,” Julia told her husband.

No one ever tells me anything! the doctor thought. It was just like that twinly conversation on Swissair 197, Bombay to Zürich, which would occupy a sizable part of Farrokh’s imagination, largely because John D. and Martin Mills were so secretive about it.

“Now, listen to me, both of you,” Dr. Daruwalla would tell the twins. “I’m not prying, I do respect your privacy—it’s just that you know how much dialogue interests me. This feeling of closeness between you, for it’s obvious to me that the two of you are close… did it come from your very first meeting? It must have happened on the plane! There’s surely something more between you than your mutual hatred of your late mother—or did the telegram to Vera really bring you together?”

“The telegram wasn’t dialogue—I thought you were interested only in our dialogue,” John D. replied.

“Such a telegram would never have occurred to me!” said Martin Mills.

“I couldn’t get a word in edgewise,” John D. repeated. “We didn’t have any dialogue. Martin had one monologue after another.”

“He’s an actor, all right,” Martin told Farrokh. “I know he can create a character, as they say, but I’m telling you I was convinced he was Satan—I mean the real thing.”

“Nine hours is a long time to talk with anyone,” John D. was fond of saying.

“The flight was nearly nine hours and fifteen minutes, to be more exact,” Martin corrected him.

“The point is, I was dying to get off the plane,” John D. told Dr. Daruwalla. “He kept telling me it was God’s will that we met. I thought I was going to go mad. The only time I could get away from him was when I went to the lavatory.”

“You practically lived in the lavatory! You drank so much beer. And it was God’s will—you see that now, don’t you?” Martin asked John D.

“It was Farrokh’s will,” John D. replied.

“You really are the Devil!” Martin told his twin.

“No, both of you are the Devil!” Dr. Daruwalla told them, although he would discover that he loved them—if never quite equally. He looked forward to seeing them, and to their letters or their calls. Martin wrote lengthy letters; John D. seldom wrote letters, but he called frequently. Sometimes, when he called, it was hard to know what he wanted. Occasionally, not often, it was hard to know who was calling—John D. or the old Inspector Dhar.

“Hi, it’s me,” he said to Farrokh one morning; he sounded smashed. It would have been early afternoon in Zürich. John D. said he’d just had a foolish lunch; when the actor called his lunch or dinner “foolish,” it usually meant that he’d had something stronger to drink than beer. Only two glasses of wine made him drunk.

“I hope you’re not performing tonight!” Dr. Daruwalla said, regretting that he sounded like an overcritical father.

“It’s my understudy’s night to perform,” the actor told him. Farrokh knew very little about the theater; he hadn’t known that there were understudies at the Schauspielhaus—also, he was sure that John D. was currently playing a small supporting role.

“It’s impressive that you have an understudy for such a little part,” the doctor said cautiously.

“My ‘understudy’ is Martin,” the twin confessed. “We thought we’d try it—just to see if anyone noticed.”

Once again Farrokh sounded like an overcritical father. “You should be more protective of your career than that,” Dr. Daruwalla chided John D. “Martin can be a clod! What if he can’t act at all? He could completely embarrass you!”

“We’ve been practicing,” said the old Inspector Dhar.

“And I suppose you’ve been posing as him,” Farrokh remarked. “Lectures on Graham Greene, no doubt—Martin’s favorite ‘Catholic interpretation.’ And a few inspirational speeches at those Jesuit centers—a Jesus in every parking lot, more than enough Christs to go around… that kind of thing.”

“Yes,” John D. admitted. “It’s been fun.”

“You should be ashamed— both of you!” Dr. Daruwalla cried.

“You put us together,” John D. replied.

Nowadays, Farrokh knew, the twins were much more alike in their appearance. John D. had lost a little weight; Martin had put the pounds on—incredibly, the former Jesuit was going to a gym. They also cut their hair the same way. Having been separated for 39 years, the twins took being identical somewhat seriously.

Then there was that particularly transatlantic silence, with a rhythmic bleeping—a sound that seemed to count the time. And John D. remarked, “So… it’s probably sunset there.” When John D. said “there,” he meant Bombay. Counting 10½ hours, Dr. Daruwalla figured that it would be more or less sunset. “I’ll bet she’s on the balcony, just watching,” John D. went on. “What do you bet?” Dr. Daruwalla knew that the ex-Inspector Dhar was thinking of Nancy and her view to the west.

“I guess it’s about that time,” the doctor answered carefully.

“It’s probably too early for the good policeman to be home,” John D. continued. “She’s all alone, but I’ll bet she’s on the balcony—just watching.”

“Yes—probably,” Dr. Daruwalla said.

“Want to bet?” John D. asked. “Why don’t you call her and see if she’s there? You can tell by how long it takes her to get to the phone.”

“Why don’t you call her?” Farrokh asked.

“I never call Nancy,” John D. told him.

“She’d probably enjoy hearing from you,” Farrokh lied.

“No, she wouldn’t,” John D. said. “But I’ll bet you anything she’s on the balcony. Go on and call her.”

“ I don’t want to call her!” Dr. Daruwalla cried. “But I agree with you—she’s probably on the balcony. So… you win the bet, or there’s no bet. She’s on the balcony. Just leave it at that.” Where else would Nancy be? the doctor wondered; he was quite sure John D. was drunk.

“Please call her. Please do it for me, Farrokh,” John D. said to him.

There wasn’t much to it. Dr. Daruwalla called his former Marine Drive apartment. The phone rang and rang; it rang so long, the doctor almost hung up. Then Nancy picked up the phone. There was her defeated voice, expecting nothing. The doctor chatted aimlessly for a while; he pretended that the call was of no importance—just a whim. Vijay wasn’t yet back from Crime Branch Headquarters, Nancy informed him. They would have dinner at the Duckworth Club, but a bit later than usual. She knew there’d been another bombing, but she didn’t know the details.

“Is there a nice sunset?” Farrokh asked.

“Oh, yes… sort of fading now,” Nancy told him.

“Well, I’ll let you get back to it!” he told her a little too heartily. Then he called John D. and told him that she’d definitely been on the balcony; Farrokh repeated Nancy’s remark about the sunset—“sort of fading now.” The retired Inspector Dhar kept saying the line; he wouldn’t stop practicing the phrase until Dr. Daruwalla assured him that he had it right—that he was saying it precisely as Nancy had said it. He really is a good actor, the former screenwriter thought; it was impressive how closely John D. could imitate the exact degree of deadness in Nancy’s voice.