John Irving - A Son of the Circus

As with all his father’s pronouncements, that voice of steadfast authority rang down through the years, for old Lowji proclaimed everything in the same strident, inflammatory tones; he mocked, he defamed, he provoked, he advised. Whether he was giving good advice (usually of a medical nature) or speaking out of the most dire prejudice—or expressing the most eccentric, simplistic opinion—Lowji had the tone of voice of a self-declared expert. To everyone, and in consideration of all subjects, he used the same famous tone of voice with which he’d made a name for himself in the days of Independence and during the Partition, when he’d so authoritatively addressed the issue of Disaster Medicine. (“In order of importance, look for dramatic amputations and severe extremity injuries before treating fractures or lacerations. Best to leave all head injuries to the experts, if there are any.”) It was a pity that such sensible advice was wasted on a movement that didn’t last, although the present volunteers in the field still spoke of Disaster Medicine as a worthy cause.

Upon that memory, Dr. Farrokh Daruwalla attempted to extricate himself from the past. He forced himself to view the melodrama of Dhar’s twin as the particular crisis at hand. With refreshing and unusual clarity, the doctor decided that it should be Dhar’s decision whether or not poor Martin Mills should know that he had a twin brother. Martin Mills wasn’t the twin the doctor knew and loved. It should be a matter of what the doctor’s beloved John D. wanted: to know his brother or not to know him. And to hell with Danny and Vera, and whatever mess they might have made of their lives—especially to hell with Vera. She would be 65, Farrokh realized, and Danny was almost 10 years older; they were both old enough to face the music like grownups.

But Dr. Daruwalla’s reasoning was entirely swept away by the next phone message, alongside which everything to do with Dhar and his twin assumed the lesser stature of gossip, of mere trivia.

“Patel here,” said the voice, which instantly impressed Farrokh with a moral detachment he’d never known. Anesthesiology Patel? Radiology Patel? It was a Gujarati name—there weren’t all that many Patels in Bombay. And then, with a sensation of sudden coldness—almost as cold as the voice on his answering machine—Farrokh knew who it was. It was Deputy Commissioner Patel, the real policeman. He must be the only Gujarati on the Bombay police force, Farrokh thought, for surely the local police were mostly Maharashtrians.

“Doctor,” the detective said, “there is quite a different subject we must discuss— not in Dhar’s presence, please. I want to speak with you alone.” The hanging up of the phone was as abrupt as the message.

Had he not been so agitated by the call, Dr. Daruwalla might have prided himself for his insight as a screenwriter, for he’d always given Inspector Dhar a similar succinctness when speaking on the telephone—especially to answering machines. But the screenwriter took no pride in the accuracy of his characterization; instead, Farrokh was overcome with curiosity regarding what the “different subject” that Detective Patel wished to discuss was , not to mention why this subject couldn’t be discussed in front of Dhar. At the same time, Dr. Daruwalla absolutely dreaded the deputy commissioner’s presumed knowledge of crime.

Was there another clue to Mr. Lal’s murder, or another threat to Dhar? Or was this “different subject” the cage-girl killings—the real-life murders of those prostitutes, not the movie version?

But the doctor had no time to contemplate the mystery. With the next phone message, Dr. Daruwalla was once more ensnared by the past.

It was an old message, one he’d been hearing for 20 years. He’d received these calls in Toronto and in Bombay, both at his home and at his office. He’d tried having the calls traced, but without success; they were made from public phones—from post offices, hotel lobbies, airports, hospitals. And regardless of how familiar Farrokh was with the content of these calls, the hatred that inspired them never failed to engage his complete attention.

The voice, full of cruel mockery, began by quoting old Lowji’s advice to the Disaster Medicine volunteers—“‘… look for dramatic amputations and severe extremity injuries,’” the voice began. And then, interrupting itself, the voice said, “When it comes to ‘dramatic amputations’—your father’s head was off, completely off! I saw it sitting on the passenger seat before the flames engulfed the car. And when it comes to ‘severe extremity injuries’—his hands couldn’t let go of the steering wheel, even though his fingers were on fire! I saw the burned hairs on the backs of his hands, before the crowd formed and I had to slip away. And your father said it was ‘best to leave all head injuries to the experts’—when it comes to ‘head injuries,’ I’m the expert! I did it. I blew his head off. I watched him burn. And I’m telling you, he deserved it. Your whole family deserves it.”

It was the same old scare—he’d been hearing it for 20 years—but it never affected Dr. Daruwalla any less. He sat shivering in his bedroom as he’d sat shivering about a hundred times before. His sister, in London, Had never received these calls. Farrokh assumed that she was spared only because the caller didn’t know her married name. His brother, Jamshed, had received these calls in Zürich. The calls to both brothers had been recorded on various answering machines and on several tapes made by the police. Once, in Zürich, the Daruwalla brothers and their wives had listened to one of these recordings over and over again. No one recognized the voice of the caller, but to Farrokh’s and Jamshed’s surprise, their wives were convinced that the caller was a woman. The brothers had always thought the voice was unmistakably a man’s. As sisters, Julia and Josefine were adamant in regard to the mystical correctness of anything they agreed about. The caller was a woman—they were sure.

The dispute was still raging when John D. arrived at Jamshed and Josefine’s apartment for dinner. Everyone insisted that Inspector Dhar should settle the argument. After all, an actor has a trained voice and acute powers for studying and imitating the voices of others. John D. listened to the recording only once.

“It’s a man trying to sound like a woman,” he said.

Dr. Daruwalla was outraged—not so much by the opinion, which the doctor found simply outlandish, but by the infuriating authority with which John D. had spoken. It was the actor speaking, the doctor was certain—the actor in his role as detective. That was where the arrogant, self-assured manner came from—from fiction! .

Everyone had objected to Dhar’s conclusion, and so the actor had rewound the tape; he’d listened to it again—actually, two more times. Then suddenly the mannerisms that Dr. Daruwalla associated with Inspector Dhar vanished; it was a serious, apologetic John D. who spoke to them.

“I’m sorry—I was wrong,” John D. said. “It’s a woman trying to sound like a man.”

Because this assessment was spoken with a different kind of confidence and not at all as Inspector Dhar would have delivered the line, Dr. Daruwalla said, “Rewind it. Play it again.” This time they’d all agreed with John D. It was a woman, and she was trying to sound like a man. It was no one whose voice they’d ever heard before—they’d all agreed to that, too. Her English was almost perfect—very British. She had only a trace of a Hindi accent.

“I did it. I blew his head off. I watched him burn. And I’m telling you, he deserved it. Your whole family deserves it,” the woman had said for 20 years, probably more than 100 times. But who was she? Where did her hatred come from? And had she really done it?