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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 natur
al 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.
