A Son of the Circus Page 15

  The interior of the van was a virtual sauna; the Daruwallas wondered if Vera was suffering from dehydration. Admittedly, Lowji and Meher felt unfamiliar with the moral logic of Westerners; they turned to their European-educated son for some guidance on this subject. But even to Farrokh it seemed an odd, questionable gift—to present India with another baby. Young Farrokh politely suggested that a baby might be more welcome for adoption in Europe or America, but Miss Rose sought secrecy at all cost—as if, morally, whatever she did in India, and whomever she left behind here, would somehow remain unrecorded, or at least never be counted against her.

  “You could have an abortion,” the senior Dr. Daruwalla suggested.

  “Don’t you dare mention that word to me,” said Veronica Rose. “I’m not that kind of person—I was brought up with certain moral values!”

  While the Daruwallas puzzled over Vera’s “moral values,” the van was rocked violently from side to side by a rowdy mob of men and boys. Lipstick and eyeliner rolled off the shelves of the van—and powders, and moisturizers, and rouge. A jar of sterile water crashed, and one of alcohol; Farrokh caught a falling box of gauze pads, and another of Band-Aids, as his father made his way to the sliding panel door. Veronica Rose screamed so loudly that she didn’t hear what old Lowji shouted to the men outside; nor did she hear the sound of the several beatings, as various thugs among the film-crew coolies fell upon the mob with the entrenching tools they’d used to dig the not-so-new latrine. Miss Rose lay on her back, clutching the sides of her trembling cot, as small, colorful jars of this and that dropped harmlessly on her.

  “Oh, I hate this country!” she yelled.

  “It is merely a passing riot,” Meher assured her.

  “I hate it, I hate it, I hate it!” Vera cried. “It is the most awful country in the world—I simply hate it!”

  It occurred to young Farrokh to ask the actress why, then, she would ever want to leave her own baby here in Bombay, but he felt he was too ignorant of the cultural differences between Miss Rose and himself to be critical. Farrokh wished to remain forever ignorant of the differences between these movie people and himself. At 19, young men are given to moral generalizations of a sweeping kind. To hold the rest of the United States responsible for the behavior of the former Hermione Rosen was a tad severe; nevertheless, Farrokh felt himself edging away from a future residence in the United States.

  In short, Veronica Rose made Farrokh feel physically ill. Surely the woman should take some responsibility for her own pregnancy. And she’d tarnished Farrokh’s sacred memory of Lady Duckworth’s exhibitionism! In legend, Lady Duckworth’s self-exposure had seemed elegant but not greatly tempting. In Farrokh’s mind, Lady Duckworth’s breasts were only a symbolic display. But, forever after, Farrokh was left with the more tangible memory of Vera’s raw tits—they were such a sincerely carnal offering.

  The Camphor Man

  With all this trash in his past, it’s little wonder that Farrokh was still sitting at his table in the darkening Ladies’ Garden of the Duckworth Club. In the time it had taken the younger Dr. Daruwalla to recall such a past, Mr. Sethna had provided him with another cold Kingfisher. Farrokh hadn’t touched his new beer. The faraway look in Dr. Daruwalla’s eyes was almost as distant as that gaze of death which the doctor had recently seen in the eyes of Mr. Lal, although (it’s already been said) the vultures had spoiled a clear impression.

  At the Great Royal Circus, about an hour before the early-evening performance, a stooped man carrying a burning brazier would walk along the avenue of troupe tents; live coals were glowing in the brazier, and the aromatic camphor smoke drifted into the tents of the acrobats and the animal trainers. The camphor man would pause by each tent to be sure that enough smoke wafted inside. In addition to the medicinal properties attributed to camphor—it was often used as a counter-irritant for infections and in the treatment of itching—the smoke was of superstitious importance to the circus performers. They believed that inhaling camphor smoke protected them from the evil eye and the dangers of their profession—animal attacks, falling.

  When Mr. Sethna saw Dr. Daruwalla close his eyes and throw back his head and draw a deep breath of the flowery air in the Ladies’ Garden, the old Parsi steward mistook the reason. Mr. Sethna wrongly assumed that Farrokh had felt an evening breeze and therefore was enjoying a sudden infusion of the scent from the surrounding bougainvillea. But Dr. Daruwalla was sniffing for the camphor man, as if the doctor’s memories of the past were in need of both a disinfectant and a blessing.

  6. THE FIRST ONE OUT

  Separated at Birth

  As for Vera, young Farrokh wouldn’t be a witness to the woman’s worst behavior; he would be back in school in Vienna when Veronica Rose gave birth to twins and elected to leave one of them in the city she hated—she took the other one home with her. This was a shocking decision, but Farrokh wasn’t surprised; Vera was a spur-of-the-moment sort of woman, and Farrokh had observed the monsoon months of her pregnancy—he knew the kind of insensitivity that she was capable of. In Bombay, the monsoon rains begin in mid-June and last until September. To most Bombayites, the rains are a relief from the heat, despite the blocked drains. It was only July when the shooting of the terrible film was finished and the movie rabble left Bombay—alas, leaving poor Vera behind for the remainder of the monsoon and beyond.

  It was for “soul-searching” that she told them all she was staying. Neville Eden didn’t care whether she was staying or going; he’d taken Subodh Rai to Italy—a pasta diet, Neville told young Farrokh with relish, improved one’s stamina for the rigors of buggery. Gordon Hathaway was attempting to edit One Day Well Go to India, Darling in Los Angeles; despite changing its title to The Dying Wife, no amount or convolution of editing could save the picture. Every day, Gordon cursed his family for burdening him with a niece as willful and untalented as Vera.

  Danny Mills was drying out in a private sanitarium in Laguna Beach, California; the sanitarium was slightly ahead of its time—it favored vigorous calisthenics in tandem with a grapefruit-and-avocado diet. Danny was also being sued by a limousine company, because Harold Rosen the producer was no longer paying for Danny’s so-called business trips. (When Danny couldn’t stand it another second in the sanitarium, he’d call a limo to drive him to L.A. and wait for him while he consumed a hearty beef-oriented dinner and two or three bottles of a good red wine; then the limo would return him to Laguna Beach, where Danny would arrive sated but with his tongue the shape and color of a raw chicken liver. Whenever he was drying out, it was red wine he craved above all else.) Danny wrote to Vera daily—staggeringly claustrophobic love letters, some of them running 20 typed pages. The gist of these letters was always the same and quite simple to understand: that Danny would “change” if Vera would marry him.

  Vera, meanwhile, had made her plans, presuming the complete cooperation of the Daruwallas. She would move into hiding, with Dr. Lowji and his family, until the child was born. The prenatal care and delivery would be the responsibility of the senile friend of the senior Dr. Daruwalla, the ancient and accident-prone Dr. Tata. It was unusual for Dr. Tata to make house calls, but he agreed, given his friendship with the Daruwallas and his understanding of the extreme sensitivity ascribed to the hypochondriac movie star. This was just as well, Meher said, because Veronica Rose would not have responded confidently to the peculiar sign with large lettering that was posted outside Dr. Tata’s office building.

  DR TATA’S BEST,

  MOST FAMOUS CLINIC

  FOR GYNECOLOGICAL &

  MATERNITY NEEDS

  It was surely wise to spare Vera the knowledge that Dr. Tata found it necessary to advertise his services as “best” and “most famous,” for Vera would doubtless conclude that Dr. Tata suffered from insecurity. And so Dr. Tata made frequent house calls to the esteemed Daruwalla residence on Ridge Road; because Dr. Tata was far too old to drive a car safely, his arrivals and departures were usually marked by the presence of taxis in the
Daruwallas’ driveway—except for one time when Farrokh observed Dr. Tata stumbling into the driveway from the back seat of a private car. This wouldn’t have been of special interest to the young man except that the car was driven by Promila Rai; beside her in the passenger seat was her allegedly hairless nephew, Rahul—the very boy whose sexual ambiguity so discomforted Farrokh.

  This loomed as a violation of that secrecy which all the Daruwallas sought for Vera and her pending child; but Promila and her unnerving nephew drove off as soon as Dr. Tata was deposited in the driveway, and Dr. Tata told Lowji that he was sure he’d thrown Promila “off the trail.” He’d told her he was making a house call to see Meher. Meher was offended that a woman as loathsome to her as Promila Rai would be presuming all sorts of female plumbing problems of an intimate nature. It was long after Dr. Tata had departed that Meher’s irritation subsided and she thought to ask Lowji and Farrokh what Promila and Rahul Rai were doing with old Dr. Tata in the first place. Lowji pondered the question as if for the first time.

  “I suppose she was concluding an office visit and he asked her for a ride,” Farrokh informed his mother.

  “She is a woman past childbearing years,” Meher delightedly pointed out. “If she was concluding an office visit, it would have been for something gynecological. For such a visit, why would she take her nephew?”

  Lowji said, “Perhaps it was the nephew’s office visit—probably it has something to do with the hairlessness business!”

  “I know Promila Rai,” Meher said. “She won’t believe for one minute that Dr. Tata was house-calling to see me.”

  And then, one evening, following a function where there’d been interminable speeches at the Duckworth Club, Promila Rai approached Dr. Lowji Daruwalla and said to him, “I know all about the blond baby—I will take it.”

  The senior Dr. Daruwalla cautiously said, “What baby?” Then he added, “There’s no certainty it will be blond!”

  “Of course it will,” said Promila Rai. “I know these things. At least it will be fair-skinned.”

  Lowji considered that the child might indeed be fair-skinned; however, both Danny Mills and Neville Eden had very dark hair, and the doctor sincerely doubted the baby would be as blond as Veronica Rose.

  Meher was opposed, on principle, to Promila Rai being an adoptive mother. In the first place, Promila was in her fifties—not only a spinster but an evil, spurned woman.

  “She’s a bitter, resentful witch,” Meher said. “She’d be an awful mother!”

  “She must have a dozen servants,” Lowji replied, but Meher accused him of forgetting how offended he’d once been by Promila Rai.

  As a Malabar Hill resident, Promila had led a protest campaign against the Towers of Silence. She’d offended the entire Parsi community, even old Lowji. Promila had claimed that the vultures were certain to drop body parts in various residents’ gardens, or on their terraces. Promila even alleged that she’d spotted a bit of a finger floating in her balcony birdbath. Dr. Lowji Daruwalla had written an angry letter explaining to Promila that vultures didn’t fly around with the fingers or toes of corpses in their beaks; vultures consumed what they wanted on the ground—anyone who knew anything about vultures knew that.

  “And now you want Promila Rai to be a mother!”. Meher exclaimed.

  “It isn’t that I want her to be a mother,” the senior Dr. Daruwalla said. “However, there isn’t exactly a lineup of wealthy matrons seeking to adopt an American movie star’s unwanted child!”

  “Furthermore,” Meher said, “Promila Rai is a man-hater. What if that poor baby is a boy?”

  Lowji didn’t dare tell Meher what Promila had already said to him. Promila was not only certain that the baby would be blond, she was also quite sure it would be a girl.

  “I know these things,” Promila had told him. “You’re only a doctor—and one for joints, not babies!”

  The senior Dr. Daruwalla didn’t suggest that Veronica Rose and Promila Rai discuss their transaction with each other; instead, he did everything he could to keep them from such a discussion—they didn’t seem to have much interest in each other, anyway. It mattered to Vera only that Promila was rich, or so it appeared. It mattered most of all to Promila that Vera was healthy. Promila had a sizable fear of drugs; it was drugs, she was certain, that had poisoned her fiancé’s brain and caused him to change his mind about marrying her—twice. After all, had he been drug-free and clear-headed, why wouldn’t he have married her—at least once?

  Lowji could assure Promila that Vera was drug-free. Now that Neville and Danny had left Bombay and Vera wasn’t trying to be an actress every day, she didn’t need the sleeping pills; in fact, she slept most of the time.

  Almost anyone could see where this was going; it was a pity that Lowji couldn’t. His own wife thought him criminal even to consider putting a newborn baby into the hands of Promila Rai; Promila would doubtless reject the child if it was male, or even slightly dark-haired. And then Lowji heard the worst news, from old Dr. Tata—namely, that Veronica Rose wasn’t a true blonde.

  “I’ve seen where you haven’t seen,” old Dr. Tata told him. “She has black hair, very black—maybe the blackest hair I’ve ever seen. Even in India!”

  Farrokh felt he could imagine the conclusion to this melodrama. The child would be a boy with black hair; Promila Rai wouldn’t want him, and Meher wouldn’t want Promila to have him, anyway. Therefore, the Daruwallas would end up adopting Vera’s baby. What Farrokh failed to imagine was that Veronica Rose wasn’t entirely as artless as she’d appeared; Vera had already chosen the Daruwallas as her baby’s adoptive parents. Upon the child’s birth, Vera had planned to stage a breakdown; the reason she’d appeared so indifferent to discussions with Promila was that Vera had decided she’d reject any would-be adoptive parent—not only Promila. She’d guessed that the Daruwallas were suckers when it came to children, and she’d not guessed wrong.

  What no one had imagined was that there wouldn’t be just one dark-haired baby boy, there would be two—identical twin boys with the most gorgeous, almond-shaped faces and jet-black hair! Promila Rai wouldn’t want them, and not only because they were dark-haired boys; she would claim that any woman who had twins was clearly taking drugs.

  But the most unexpected turn of events would be engineered by the persistent love letters of Danny Mills to Veronica Rose, and by the death of Neville Eden—the victim of a car crash in Italy, an accident that also ended the flamboyant life of Subodh Rai. Until the news of the car crash, Vera had been illogically hoping that Neville might come back to her; now she determined that the fatal accident was divine retribution for Neville’s preferring Subodh to her. She would carry this thought still further in her elder years, believing that AIDS was God’s well-intentioned effort to restore a natural order to the universe; like many morons, Vera would believe the scourge was a godsent plague in judgment of homosexuals. This was remarkable thinking, really, for a woman who wasn’t imaginative enough to believe in God.

  It had been clear to Vera that if Neville ever would have wanted her, he wouldn’t have wanted her cluttered up with a baby. But upon Neville’s abrupt departure, Vera turned her thoughts to Danny. Would Danny still want to marry her if she brought him home a little surprise? Vera was sure he would.

  “Darling,” Vera wrote to Danny. “I’ve not wanted to test how much you love me, but all this while I’ve been carrying our child.” (Her months with Lowji and Meher had markedly improved Vera’s English.) Naturally, when she first saw the twins, Vera immediately pronounced them to be Neville’s; in her view, they were far too pretty to be Danny’s.

  Danny Mills, for his odd part, hadn’t considered having a child before. He was descended from weary but pleasant parents who’d had too many children before Danny had been born and who’d treated Danny with cordial indifference bordering on neglect. Danny wrote cautiously to his beloved Vera that he was thrilled she was carrying their child; a child was a fine idea—he hoped only that she
didn’t desire to start a whole family.

  Twins are “a whole family” unto themselves, as any fool knows, and thus the dilemma would sort itself out in the predictable fashion: Vera would take one home and the Daruwallas would keep the other. Simply put, Vera didn’t want to overwhelm Danny’s limited enthusiasm for fatherhood.

  Among the host of surprises awaiting Lowji, not the least would be the advice given to him by his senile friend Dr. Tata: “When it comes to twins, put your money on the first one out.” The senior Dr. Daruwalla was shocked, but being an orthopedist, not an obstetrician, he sought to comply with Dr. Tata’s recommendation. However, such excitement and confusion attended the birth of the twins that none of the nurses kept track of which one came out first; old Dr. Tata himself couldn’t remember.

  In this respect was Dr. Tata said to be “accident-prone”: he blamed the unprofessionalism of the house calls for his failure to hear the two heartbeats whenever he put his stethoscope to Vera’s big belly; he said that in his office, under appropriate conditions, he would surely have heard the two hearts. As it was—whether it was the music that Meher played or the constant sounds of housecleaning by the several servants—old Dr. Tata simply assumed that Vera’s baby had an unusually strong and active heartbeat. On more than one occasion, he said, “Your baby has just been exercising, I think.”

  “I could have told you that,” Vera always replied.

  And so it wasn’t until she was in labor that the monitoring of the fetal heartbeats told the tale. “What a lucky lady!” Dr. Tata told Vera Rose. “You have not one but two!”

  A Knack for Offending People

  In the summer of ’49, when the monsoon rains drenched Bombay, the aforementioned melodrama lay, heavy and unseen, in young Farrokh Daruwalla’s future—like a fog so far out in the Indian Ocean, it hadn’t yet reached the Arabian Sea. He would be back in Vienna, where he and Jamshed were continuing their lengthy and proper courtship of the Zilk sisters, when he heard the news.