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“ ‘Absconding’ is a very popular word here,” Farrokh explained.
“Sometimes it is the police who are absconding,” Ganesh said.
“What did he say?” the missionary asked.
“When a crime happens, often the police abscond,” Farrokh replied. “They’re embarrassed that they couldn’t prevent the crime, or that they can’t catch the criminal, so they run away.” But Dr. Daruwalla was thinking that this pattern of behavior didn’t apply to Detective Patel. According to John D., the deputy commissioner intended to spend the day in the actor’s suite at the Oberoi, rehearsing the best way to approach Rahul. It hurt Farrokh’s feelings that he’d not been invited to participate, or that they hadn’t offered to hold up the rehearsal until the screenwriter returned from the circus; after all, there would be dialogue to imagine and to compose, and although dialogue wasn’t part of the doctor’s day job, it was at least his other business.
“Let me be sure that I understand this,” Martin Mills said. “Sometimes, when there’s a crime, both the criminals and the police are ‘absconding.’ ”
“Quite so,” replied Dr. Daruwalla. He was unaware that he’d borrowed this expression from Detective Patel. The screenwriter was distracted by pride; he was thinking how clever he’d been, for he’d already made similar disrespectful use of The Times of India in his screenplay. (The fictional Mr. Martin is always reading something stupid aloud to the fictional children.)
Life imitates art, Farrokh was thinking, when Martin Mills announced, “Here’s a refreshingly frank opinion.” Martin had found the Opinion section of The Times of India; he was reading one of the letters. “Listen to this,” the missionary said. “ ‘Our culture will have to be changed. It should start in primary schools by teaching boys not to urinate in the open.’ ”
“Catch them young, in other words,” said Dr. Daruwalla.
Then Ganesh said something that made Madhu laugh.
“What did he say?” Martin asked Farrokh.
“He said there’s no place to pee except in the open,” Dr. Daruwalla replied.
Then Madhu said something that Ganesh clearly approved of.
“What did she say?” the missionary asked.
“She said she prefers to pee in parked cars—particularly at night,” the doctor told him.
When they arrived at the Taj, Madhu’s mouth was full of betel juice; the bloodred spittle overflowed the corners of her mouth.
“No betel chewing in the Taj,” the doctor said. The girl spat the lurid mess on the front tire of Vinod’s taxi; both the dwarf and the Sikh doorman observed, with disgust, how the stain extended into the circular driveway. “You won’t be allowed any paan at the circus,” the doctor reminded Madhu.
“We’re not at the circus yet,” said the sullen little whore.
The circular driveway was overcrowded with taxis and an array of expensive-looking vehicles. The elephant-footed boy said something to Madhu, who was amused.
“What did he say?” the missionary asked Dr. Daruwalla.
“He said there are lots of cars to pee in,” the doctor replied. Then he overheard Madhu telling Ganesh that she’d been in a car like one of the expensive-looking cars before; it didn’t sound like an empty boast, but Farrokh resisted the temptation to translate this information for the Jesuit. As much as Dr. Daruwalla enjoyed shocking Martin Mills, it seemed prurient to speculate on what a child prostitute had been doing in such an expensive-looking car.
“What did Madhu say?” Martin asked Farrokh.
“She said she would use the ladies’ room, instead,” Dr. Daruwalla lied.
“Good for you!” Martin told the girl. When she parted her lips to smile at him, her teeth were brightly smeared from the paan; it was as if her gums were bleeding. The doctor hoped that it was only his imagination that he saw something lewd in Madhu’s smile. When they entered the lobby, Dr. Daruwalla didn’t like the way the doorman followed Madhu with his eyes; the Sikh seemed to know that she wasn’t the sort of girl who was permitted at the Taj. No matter how Deepa had told Vinod to dress her, Madhu didn’t look like a child.
Ganesh was already shivering from the air-conditioning; the cripple looke
d anxious, as if he thought the Sikh doorman might throw him out. The Taj was no place for a beggar and a child prostitute, Dr. Daruwalla was thinking; it was a mistake to have brought them here.
“We’ll just have some tea,” Farrokh assured the children. “We’ll keep checking on the plane,” the doctor told the missionary. Like Madhu and Ganesh, Martin appeared overwhelmed by the opulence of the lobby. In the few minutes it took Dr. Daruwalla to arrange for special treatment from the assistant manager, some lesser official among the hotel staff had already asked the Jesuit and the children to leave. When that misunderstanding was cleared up, Vinod appeared in the lobby with the paper bag containing the Hawaiian shirt. The dwarf was dutifully observing, without comment, what he thought were Inspector Dhar’s delusions—namely, that the famous actor was a Jesuit missionary in training to be a priest. Dr. Daruwalla had meant to give the Hawaiian shirt to Martin Mills, but the doctor had forgotten the bag in the dwarf’s taxi. (Not just any taxi-walla would have been permitted in the lobby of the Taj, but Vinod was known as Inspector Dhar’s driver.)
When Farrokh presented the Hawaiian shirt to Martin Mills, the missionary was excited.
“Oh, it’s wonderful!” the zealot cried. “I used to have one just like it!”
“Actually, this is the one you used to have,” Farrokh admitted.
“No, no,” Martin whispered. “The shirt I used to have was stolen from me—one of those prostitutes took it.”
