John Irving - A Son of the Circus

Her hatred might be even stronger if she’d not done it. But then why take credit for doing it? the doctor wondered. How could anyone have hated Lowji that much? Farrokh knew that his father had said much to offend everybody, but, to Farrokh’s knowledge, his father hadn’t personally wronged anyone. It was easy, in India, to assume that the source of any violence was either political outrage or religious offense. When someone as prominent and outspoken as Lowji was blown up by a car bomb, it was automatic to label the killing an assassination. But Farrokh had to wonder if his father might have inspired a more personal anger, and if his killing hadn’t been just a plain old murder.

It was hard for Farrokh to imagine anyone, especially a woman, with a private grievance against his father. Then he thought of the deeply personal loathing that Mr. Lal’s murderer must feel for Inspector Dhar. (MORE MEMBERS DIE IF DHAR REMAINS A MEMBER.) And it occurred to Dr. Daruwalla that perhaps they were all being hasty to assume it was Dhar’s movie persona that had inspired such a venomous anger. Had Dr. Daruwalla’s dear boy—his beloved John D.—got himself into some private trouble? Was this a case of a personal relationship that had soured into a murderous hatred? Dr. Daruwalla felt ashamed of himself that he’d inquired so little about Dhar’s personal life. He feared he’d given John D. the impression that he was indifferent to the younger man’s private affairs.

Certainly, John D. was chaste when he was in Bombay; at least he said he was. There were the public appearances with starlets—the ever-available cinema bimbos—but such couplings were choreographed to create the desired scandal, which both parties would later deny. These weren’t “relationships”—they were “publicity.”

The Inspector Dhar movies thrived on giving offense—in India, a risky enterprise. Yet the senselessness of murdering Mr. Lal indicated a hatred more vicious than anything Dr. Daruwalla could detect in the usual reactions to Dhar. As if on cue, as if prompted by the mere thought of giving or taking offense , the next phone message was from the director of all the Inspector Dhar movies. Balraj Gupta had been pestering Dr. Daruwalla about the extremely touchy subject of when to release the new Inspector Dhar movie. Because of the prostitute killings and the general disfavor incurred by Inspector Dhar and the Cage-Girl Killer , Gupta had delayed its opening and he was increasingly impatient.

Dr. Daruwalla had privately decided that he never wanted the new Inspector Dhar film to be seen, but he knew that the movie would be released; he couldn’t stop it. Nor could he appeal to Balraj Gupta’s deficient instincts for social responsibility much longer; such maladroit feelings as Gupta might have had for the real-life murdered prostitutes were short-lived.

“Gupta here!” the director said. “Look at it this way. The new one will cause new offense. Whoever is killing the cage girls might give it up and kill someone else! We give the public something new to make them wild and crazy—we’ll be doing the prostitutes a favor!” Balraj Gupta possessed the logic of a politician; the doctor had no doubt that the new Inspector Dhar movie would make a different group of moviegoers “wild and crazy.”

It was called Inspector Dhar and the Towers of Silence; the title alone would be offensive to the entire Parsi community, because the Towers of Silence were the burial wells for the Parsi dead. There were always naked corpses of Parsis in the Towers of Silence, which was why Dr. Daruwalla had first supposed that they were the attraction to the first vulture he’d seen above the golf course at the Duckworth Club. The Parsis were understandably protective of their Towers of Silence; as a Parsi, Dr. Daruwalla knew this very well. Yet in the new Inspector Dhar movie, someone is murdering Western hippies and depositing their bodies in the Towers of Silence. Many Indians readily took offense at European and American hippies when they were alive . Doongarwadi is an accepted part of Bombay culture. At the very least, the Parsis would be disgusted. And all Bombayites would reject the premise of the film as absurd. No one can get near the Towers of Silence—not even other Parsis! (Not unless they’re dead.) But of course, Dr. Daruwalla thought proudly, that was what was neat and tricky about the film— how the bodies are deposited there, and how the intrepid Inspector Dhar figures this out.

With resignation, Dr. Daruwalla knew that he couldn’t stall the release of Inspector Dhar and the Towers of Silence much longer; he could, however, fast-forward through Balraj Gupta’s remaining arguments for releasing the film immediately. Besides, the doctor enjoyed the high-speed distortion of Balraj Gupta’s voice far more than he appreciated the real thing.

While the doctor was being playful, he came to the last message on his answering machine. The caller was a woman. At first Farrokh supposed it was no one he knew. “Is that the doctor?” she asked. It was a voice long past exhaustion, of someone who was terminally depressed. She spoke as if her mouth were too wide open, as if her lower jaw were permanently dropped. There was a deadpan, don’t-give-a-damn quality to her voice, and her accent was plain and flat—North American, surely, but Dr. Daruwalla (who was good at accents) guessed more specifically that she was from the American Midwest or the Canadian prairies. Omaha or Sioux City, Regina or Saskatoon.

“Is that the doctor?” she asked. “I know who you really are, I know what you really do,” the woman went on. “Tell the deputy commissioner—the real policeman. Tell him who you are. Tell him what you do.” The hang-up was a little out of control, as if she’d meant to slam the phone into its cradle but, in her restrained anger, had missed the mark.

Farrokh sat trembling in his bedroom. From the dining room of his apartment, he could now hear Roopa laying out their supper on the glass-topped table. She would any minute announce to Dhar and Julia that the doctor was home and that their extraordinarily late meal was finally served. Julia would wonder why he’d snuck into the bedroom like a thief. In truth, Farrokh felt like a thief—but one unsure of what he’d stolen, and from whom.

Dr. Daruwalla rewound the tape and replayed the last message. This was a brand-new threat; and because he was concentrating so hard upon the meaning of the call, the doctor almost missed the most important clue, which was the caller. Farrokh had always known that someone would discover him as Inspector Dhar’s creator; that part of the message was not unexpected. But why was this any business of the real policeman? Why did someone think that Deputy Commissioner Patel should know?

“I know who you really are, I know what you really do.” But so what? the screenwriter thought. “Tell him who you are. Tell him what you do.” But why? Farrokh wondered. Then, by accident, the doctor found himself listening repeatedly to the woman’s opening line, the part he’d almost missed. “Is that the doctor?” He played it again and again, until his hands were shaking so badly that he rewound the tape all the way into Balraj Gupta’s list of reasons for releasing the new Inspector Dhar film now.

“Is that the doctor?”

Dr. Daruwalla’s heart had never seemed to stand so still before. It can’t be her! he thought. But it was her—Farrokh was sure of it. After all these years—it couldn’t be! But of course, he realized, if it was her, she would know; with an intelligent guess, she could have figured it out.