“It’s not that kind of film—that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Farrokh explained.
“Better give it to the Bengalis,” Gupta advised. “If it’s arty realism that you’re up to, better make it in Calcutta.” When the screenwriter didn’t respond, Balraj Gupta said, “Maybe it’s a foreign film. Limo Roulette—it sounds French!”
Farrokh thought of saying that the part of the missionary would be a wonderful role for John D. And the screenwriter might have added that Inspector Dhar, the actual star of the Hindi cinema, could have a dual role; the mistaken-identity theme could be amusing. John D. could play the missionary and he could make a cameo appearance as Dhar! But Dr. Daruwalla knew what Balraj Gupta would say to that idea: “Let the critics mock him—he’s a movie star. But movie stars shouldn’t mock themselves.” Farrokh had heard the director say it. Besides, if the Europeans or the Americans made Limo Roulette, they would never cast John D. as the missionary. Inspector Dhar meant nothing to Europeans or Americans; they would insist on casting one of their movie stars in that role.
Dr. Daruwalla was silent. He presumed that Balraj Gupta was angry with him for putting an end to the Inspector Dhar series; he already knew Gupta was angry with John D. because John D. had left town without doing much to promote Inspector Dhar and the Towers of Silence.
“I think you’re angry with me,” Farrokh began cautiously.
“Oh, no—not for a minute!” Gupta cried. “I never get angry with people who decide they’re tired of making money. Such people are veritable emblems of humanity—don’t you agree?”
“I knew you were angry with me,” Dr. Daruwalla replied.
“Tell me about the love interest in your art film,” Gupta demanded. “That will make you or break you, despite all this other foolishness. Dead children … why not show it to the South Indian socialists? They might like it!”
Dr. Daruwalla tried to talk about the love interest in the screenplay as if he believed in it. There was the American missionary, the would-be priest who falls in love with a beautiful circus acrobat; Suman was an actual acrobat, not an actress, the screenwriter explained.
“An acrobat!” cried Balraj Gupta; “Are you crazy? Have you seen their thighs? Women acrobats have terrifying thighs! And their thighs are magnified on film.”
“I’m talking to the wrong person—I must be crazy,” Farrokh replied. “Anyone who’d discuss a serious film with you is truly certifiable.”
“The telltale word is ‘serious,’ ” Balraj Gupta said. “I can see you’ve learned nothing from your success. Have you lost your bananas? Are you marbles?” the director shouted.
The screenwriter tried to correct the director’s difficulties with English. “The phrases are, ‘Have you lost your marbles?’ and ‘Are you bananas?’—I believe,” Dr. Daruwalla told him.
“That’s what I said!” Gupta shouted; like most directors, Balraj Gupta was always right. The doctor hung up the phone and packed his screenplay. Limo Roulette was the first thing Farrokh put in his suitcase; then he covered it with his Toronto clothes.
Just India
Vinod drove Dr. and Mrs. Daruwalla to the airport; the dwarf wept the whole way to Sahar, and Farrokh was afraid they’d have an accident. The thug driver had lost Inspector Dhar as a client; now, in addition to this tragedy, Vinod was losing his personal physician. It was shortly before midnight on a Monday evening; as if symbolic of Dhar’s last film, the poster-wallas were already covering over some of the advertisements for Inspector Dhar and the Towers of Silence. The new posters weren’t advertising a movie; they were proclamations of a different kind—celebratory announcements of Anti-Leprosy Day. That would be tomorrow, Tuesday, January 30. Julia and Farrokh would be leaving India on Anti-Leprosy Day at 2:50 A.M. on Air India 185. Bombay to Delhi, Delhi to London, London to Toronto (but you don’t have to change planes). The Daruwallas would break up the long flight by staying a few nights in London.
In the intervening time since Dhar and his twin had departed for Switzerland, Dr. Daruwalla was disappointed to have heard so little from them. At first, Farrokh had worried that they were angry with him, or that their meeting had not gone well. Then a postcard came from the Upper Engadine: a cross-country skier, a Langläufer, is crossing a frozen white lake; the lake is rimmed with mountains, the sky cloudless and blue. The message, in John D.’s handwriting, was familiar to Farrokh because it was another of Inspector Dhar’s repeated lines. In the movies, after the cool detective has slept with a new woman, something always interrupts them; they never have time to talk. Perhaps a gunfight breaks out, possibly a villain sets fire to their hotel (or their bed). In the ensuing and breathless action, Inspector Dhar and his lover have scarcely a moment to exchange pleasantries; they’re usually fighting for their lives. But then there comes the inevitable break in the action—a brief pause before the grenade assault. The audience, already loathing him, is anticipating Dhar’s signature remark to his lover. “By the way,” he tells her, “thanks.” That was John D.’s message on the postcard from the Upper Engadine.
By the way, thanks
Julia told Farrokh it was a touching message, because both twins had signed the postcard. She said it was what newlyweds did with Christmas cards and birthday greetings, but Dr. Daruwalla said (in his experience) it was what people did in doctors’ offices when there was a group gift; the receptionist signed it, the secretaries signed it, the nurses signed it, the other surgeons signed it. What was so special or “touching” about that? John D. always signed his name as just plain “D.” In unfamiliar handwriting, on the same postcard, was the name “Martin.” So they were somewhere in the mountains. Farrokh hoped that John D. wasn’t trying to teach his fool twin how to ski!
“At least they’re together, and they appreciate it,” Julia told him, but Farrokh wanted more. It almost killed him not to know every line of the dialogue between them.
When the Daruwallas arrived at the airport, Vinod weepingly handed the doctor a present. “Maybe you are never seeing me again,” the dwarf said. As for the present, it was heavy and hard and rectangular; Vinod had wrapped it in newspapers. Through his sniffles, the dwarf managed to say that Farrokh was not to open the present until he was on the plane.
Later, the doctor would think that this was probably what terrorists said to unsuspecting passengers to whom they’d handed a bomb; just then the metal detector sounded, and Dr. Daruwalla was quickly surrounded by frightened men with guns. They asked him what was wrapped up in the newspapers. What could he tell them? A present from a dwarf? They made the doctor unwrap the newspapers while they stood at some distance; they looked less ready to shoot than to flee—to “abscond,” as The Times of India would report the incident. But there was no incident.
Inside the newspapers was a brass plaque, a big brass sign; Dr. Daruwalla recognized it immediately. Vinod had removed the offensive message from the elevator of Farrokh’s apartment building on Marine Drive.
SERVANTS ARE NOT ALLOWED
TO USE THE LIFT
UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY CHILDREN
Julia told Farrokh that Vinod’s gift was “touching,” but although the security officers were relieved, th
ey questioned the doctor about the source of the sign. They wanted to be sure that it hadn’t been stolen from an historically protected building—that it was stolen from somewhere else didn’t trouble them. Perhaps they didn’t like the message any better than Farrokh and Vinod had liked it.
“A souvenir,” Dr. Daruwalla assured them. To the doctor’s surprise, the security officers let him keep the sign. It was cumbersome to carry it on board the plane, and even in first class the flight attendants were bitchy about stowing it out of everyone’s way. First they made him unwrap it (again); then he was left with the unwanted newspapers.
“Remind me never to fly Air India,” the doctor complained to his wife; he announced this loudly enough for the nearest flight attendant to hear him.