A Son Of The Circus (40 page)

Nancy had never slept with a woman’s breasts pressed against her back; she marveled at how soothing it was, and she wondered if this was what men felt when they fell asleep this way. Previously, Nancy
had
fallen asleep with that odd sensation of a man’s inert and usually small penis brushing against her buttocks. It was upon this awareness, and on the edge of sleep, that Nancy was suddenly aware of an unusual situation, which was surely in the area of dream or delirium or both, because she felt — at the same time! — a woman’s breasts pressed against her back and a man’s sleepy penis curled against her buttocks. Another fever dream, Nancy decided.

‘Won’t they be surprised, when they get here?’ the beautiful woman asked her, but Nancy’s mind had drifted too far away for her to answer.

When Nancy woke up, she lay alone in the moonlight, smelling the ganja and listening to Dieter and Beth; they were whispering on the other side of the partition. The rats on the latticework were so still that they appeared to be listening, too – or else the rats were stoned, because Dieter and Beth were smoking up a storm.

Nancy heard Dieter ask Beth, ‘What is the first sexual experience that you had some confidence in?’ Nancy counted to herself in the silence; of course she knew what Beth was thinking. Then Dieter said, ‘Masturbation, right?’

Nancy heard Beth whisper, ‘Yes.’

‘Everyone is different,’ Dieter told Beth philosophically. ‘You just have to learn what your own best way is.’

Nancy lay watching the rats while she listened to Dieter. He was successful in getting Beth to relax, although Bern did possess the decency to ask, if only once, ‘What about Nancy?’

‘Nancy is asleep,’ Dieter said. ‘Nancy won’t object.’

‘I have to be lying on my tummy,’ Beth told Dieter, whose grasp of English vernacular wasn’t sound enough for him to understand ‘tummy.’

Nancy heard Beth roll over. There was no sound for a while, and then there came a change in Beth’s breathing, to which Dieter whispered some encouragement. There was the sound of messy kissing, and Beth panting, and then Beth uttered that special sound, which made the rats run along the top of the latticework partition and caused Nancy to reach for the entrenching tool with her big hands.

While Beth was still moaning, Dieter said to her, ‘Just wait right there. I have a surprise for you.’

The surprise for Nancy was that the entrenching tool was gone; she was sure she’d brought it to bed with her. She wanted to crack Dieter in the shins with it, just to drop him to his knees so that she could tell him what she thought of him. She’d give Beth one more chance. As she groped under the mosquito net and along the floor beside the bed, looking for the entrenching tool, Nancy still hoped that she and Beth could go to Rajasthan together.

That was when her hand found the jasmine-scented sari that the beautiful woman in the dream had worn. Nancy pulled the sari into bed with her and breathed it in; the scent of it brought the beautiful woman back to her mind – the woman’s unusually large, strong hands … the woman’s unusually upright, firm breasts. Last came the memory of the woman’s unusual penis, which had curled like a snail against Nancy’s buttocks as Nancy drifted into sleep.

‘Dieter?’ Nancy tried to whisper, but her voice made no sound. It was exactly as they’d told Dieter in Bombay: you go to Goa
not
to find Rahul but to let Rahul find you. Dieter had been right about one thing: there
were
chicks with dicks. Rahul wasn’t a hijra – he was a zenana, after all.

Nancy could hear Dieter in the bathroom, looking for the dildo in the semidarkness. She heard a bottle break against the stone floor. Dieter must have placed the bottle precariously on the edge of the tub; not much moonlight penetrated the bathroom, and he probably needed to search for the dildo with both hands. Briefly, Dieter cursed; he must have cursed in German because Nancy didn’t catch the word.

Beth called out to Dieter – she’d obviously forgotten that Nancy was supposed to be sleeping. ‘Did you break your Coke, Dieter?’ Beth called; her
own
question dissolved her into mindless giggles – Dieter was addicted to Coca-Cola.

‘
Ssshhh
!’ Dieter said from the bathroom.

‘
Ssshhh
!’ Beth repeated; she made a failed effort to stifle her laughter.

The next sound that Nancy heard was one she’d been fearing, but she’d been unable to find her voice –to warn Dieter that someone else was here. She heard what she was sure was the entrenching tool, the spade end, as it made full-force contact with what sounded like the base of Dieter’s skull. A metallic after-ring followed the blow, but surprisingly little noise attended Dieter falling. Then there was the second sound of violent contact, almost as if a spade or a heavy shovel had been swung against the trunk of a tree. Nancy realized that Beth hadn’t heard this because Beth was sucking on the ganja pipe as if the fire had died in the bowl and she was trying to revive it.

Nancy lay very still, holding the jasmine-scented sari in her arms. The spectral figure with the small, upright breasts and the little boy’s penis passed close to Nancy’s bed without a sound. It was no wonder that Rahul was called Pretty, Nancy thought.

‘Beth!’ Nancy tried to say, but once again her voice had abandoned her.

From the other side of the partition, a sudden light came through the latticework in patches; the shadows of the startled rats were cast upon the ceiling. Nancy could see through the latticing. Beth had completely opened the mosquito net in order to light an oil lamp; she was looking for more ganja for the pipe when the naked tea-colored body appeared beside her bed. Rahul’s big hands held the entrenching tool with the handle nestled in the delicate curve of the small of his back, the spade end concealed between his shoulder blades.

‘Hi,’ Rahul said to Beth.

‘Hi. Who are you?’ Beth said. Then Beth managed a gasp, which caused Nancy to stop looking through the space between the latticework. Nancy lay on her back with the jasmine-scented sari covering her face; she didn’t want to look at the ceiling, either, because she knew that the shadows of the rats would be twitching there.

‘Hey, like, what are you?’ she heard Beth say. ‘Are you a boy or a girl?’

‘I’m pretty, aren’t I?’ Rahul said.

‘You sure are… different,’ Beth replied.

From the responding sound of the entrenching tool, Nancy guessed that Rahul was displeased to be called ‘different.’ Rahul’s preferred nickname was ‘Pretty.’ Nancy pushed the jasmine-scented sari entirely off the bed and outside the mosquito net. She hoped it fell to the floor very close to where Rahul had left it. Then she lay with her eyes open, staring at the ceiling, where the shadows of the rats scurried back and forth; it was almost as if the second and third blows from the entrenching tool were a kind of starting signal for the rats.

Later, Nancy quietly rolled on her side so that she could peek through the latticing and watch what Rahul was doing; he appeared to be performing a kind of surgery on Beth’s stomach, but Nancy soon realized that Rahul was drawing a picture on Beth’s belly. Nancy shut her eyes and wished that her fever would come back; even though she wasn’t feverish, she was so frightened that she began to shiver. It was the shivers that saved her. When Rahul came to her, Nancy’s teeth were chattering as uncontrollably as before. Instantly, she felt his lack of sexual interest; he was mocking her, or merely curious.

‘Is that bad old fever back again?’ Rahul asked her.

‘I keep dreaming,’ Nancy told him.

‘Yes, of course you do, dear,’ Rahul said.

‘I keep trying to sleep but I keep dreaming,’ Nancy said.

‘Are they bad dreams?’ Rahul asked her.

‘Pretty bad,’ Nancy said.

‘Do you want to tell me about them, dear?’ Rahul asked her.

‘I just want to sleep,’ Nancy told him. To her surprise, he let her. He parted the mosquito net and sat on the bed beside her; he rubbed her between her shoulder blades until the shivers went away and she could imitate the regular breathing of a deep sleep — she even parted her lips and tried to imagine that she was already dead. He kissed her once on the temple, and once on the tip of her nose. At last, she felt Rahul’s weight leave the bed. She also felt the entrenching tool, when Rahul gently returned it to her hands. Although she never heard a door open or close, she knew Rahul was gone when she heard the rats racing recklessly through the cottage; they even scampered under the mosquito net and across her bed, as if they were secure in their belief that there were three dead people in the cottage instead of two. That was when Nancy knew it was safe to get up. If Rahul had still been there, the rats would have known.

In the predawn light, Nancy saw that Rahul had used the dhobi pen – and indelible dhobi ink – to decorate Beth’s belly. The laundry-marking pen was a crude wooden handle with a simple, broad nib; the ink was black. Rahul had left the ink bottle and the dhobi pen on Nancy’s pillow. Nancy recalled that she’d picked up the ink bottle and the dhobi pen before putting them both back on her bed; her fingerprints were also all over the handle of the entrenching tool.

She’d become ill so soon upon her arrival; yet it was Nancy’s strong impression that this was a rustic sort of place. She doubted she’d have much success convincing the local police that a beautiful woman with a little boy’s penis had murdered Dieter and Beth. Arid Rahul had been smart enough not to empty Dieter’s money belt; he’d taken the money belt with him. There was no evidence of a robbery. Beth’s jewelry was untouched, and there was even some money in Dieter’s wallet; their passports weren’t stolen. Nancy knew that most of the money was in the dildo, which she didn’t even try to open because Dieter had bled on it and it was sticky to touch. She wiped it with a wet towel; then she packed it in the rucksack with her things.

She thought Inspector Patel would believe her, provided she could get back to Bombay without the local police finding her first. On the surface, Nancy thought, it would be judged a crime of passion – one of those triangular relationships that had turned a little twisted. And the drawing on Beth’s belly gave the murders a hint of diabolism, or at least a flair for sarcasm. The elephant was surprisingly small and unadorned – a frontal view. The head was wider than it was long, the eyes were unmatched, and one was squinting – actually, one eye seemed puckered, Nancy thought. The trunk hung slack, pointing straight down; from the end of the trunk, the artist had drawn several broad lines in the shape of a fan – a childish indication that water sprayed from the elephant’s trunk, as from a showerhead or from the nozzle of a hose. These lines extended into Beth’s pubic hair. The entire drawing was the size of a small hand.

Then Nancy realized why the drawing was slightly off center, and why one eye seemed ‘puckered.’ One of the eyes was Beth’s navel, outlined in dhobi ink; the other eye was an imperfect imitation of the navel. Because the navel had real depth, the eyes weren’t the same; one eye appeared to be winking. Beth’s navel was the winking eye. What further contributed to the elephant’s mirthful or mocking expression was that one of its tusks drooped in the normal position; the opposing tusk was raised, almost as if an elephant could lift a tusk in the manner that a human being can cock an eyebrow. This was a small, ironical elephant — an elephant with an inappropriate sense of humor, to be sure.

Nancy dressed Beth’s body in the tank top that Beth had been wearing when Nancy first met her; at least it covered the drawing. She left Beth’s sacred yoni in place, at her throat, as if it might prove itself to be a more successful talisman in the next world than it had demonstrated itself to be in this. The sun rose inland and a tan light filtered through the areca and coconut palms, leaving most of the beach in shade, which was a blessing for Nancy, who labored for over an hour with the entrenching tool; yet she managed to dig no better than a shallow pit near the tidemark for high tide. The pit was already half full of water when she dragged Dieter’s body along the beach and rolled him into the hole. By the time she’d arranged Beth’s body next to his, Nancy was aware of the blue crabs that she’d uncovered with her digging; they were scurrying to bury themselves again. She’d chosen an especially soft stretch of sand, the part of the beach that was nearest the cottage; now Nancy realized why the sand was soft. A tidal inlet cut through the beach and drained into the matted jungle; she’d dug too close to this inlet. Nancy knew the bodies wouldn’t stay buried for long.

Worse, in her haste to clean up the broken glass in the bathroom, she’d stepped on the jagged heel of the Coca-Cola bottle; several pieces of glass had broken off in her foot. She was wrong to think she’d picked all the pieces out, but she was in a hurry. She’d bled so heavily on that bathroom mat, she was forced to roll it up and put it (with the broken glass) in the grave; she buried it, together with the rest of Dieter’s and Beth’s things, including Beth’s silver bangles, which were much too small for Nancy, and Beth’s beloved copy of The
Upanishads
, which Nancy had no interest in reading herself.

It had surprised Nancy that digging the grave was harder work than dragging Dieter’s body to the beach; Dieter was tall, but he weighed less than she’d ever imagined. It crossed her mind that she could have left him anytime she’d wanted to; she could have picked him up and thrown him against a wall. She felt incredibly strong, but as soon as she’d filled the grave, she was exhausted.

A moment of panic nearly overcame Nancy when she discovered that she couldn’t find the top half of the silver ballpoint pen that Dieter had given her – the pen with
Made in India
written lengthwise on it in script. The bottom part said
Made in
, the missing part said
India
. Nancy had already discovered the flaw in the pen’s design: the pen wouldn’t snap securely together if the script wasn’t perfectly aligned; the top and the bottom were always getting separated. Nancy looked through the cottage for the missing top; she thought it unlikely that Rahul had taken it – it wasn’t the part of the pen that you could write with. Nancy had the part that wrote, and so she kept it; because it was small, it would make its way to the bottom of her rucksack. At least it was real silver.