The Moor's Last Sigh (26 page)

tears, so bright that I almost expected a rainbow. 'Maybe it's time', she breathed, 'that I proved to you that I am hetero as hell.' And she was seen with Abraham Zogoiby himself, wolfing club sandwiches by the poolside at the Willingdon Club before losing gracefully to the old man at golf. 'She was a wonder, that Uma of yours,' he told me years later, high in his I. M. Pei Eden. 'So knowledgeable, so original, and staring so intently with those swimming-pool eyes. Never seen anything like them since I first gazed upon your mother's own face. God knows how much I babbled on! My own children had no interest--you, for example, my only son!--and an old man must talk to someone. I would have employed her on the spot but she said she had to prioritise her art. And Jesus Christ, the tits on her. Tits the size of your head.' He cackled disgustingly and made a perfunctory apology without troubling to put the faintest trace of sincerity into his voice. 'What to tell you, boy, women have been my lifetime weakness.' Then suddenly a great cloud did pass across his face. 'We both lost your beloved mother because we looked at other girls,' he mumbled. Corrupt global-scale banking schemes, stock market fixing at the super-epic Mogambo level, multi-billion-dollar arms deals, nuclear technology conspiracies involving stolen computers and Maldivian Mata Haris, export of antiquities including the symbol of the nation itself, the four-headed Lion of Sarnath... how much of his 'black' world, how many of his grand designs, did Abraham disclose to Uma Sarasvati? How much, for example, about certain special export consignments of Baby Softo powder? When I asked him he just shook his head. 'Not much, I suppose. I don't know. Everything. I am told I talk in my sleep.' But I am getting ahead of myself. Uma told me about the game she played with my father, praising his golf swing--'not a wobble--and at his age!'--and his generosity to a young girl new in town. We had taken to meeting in a series of modestly-priced rooms in Colaba or at Juhu (the city's five-star joints were too risky; too many telephoto eyes and long-distance tongues). But our favourites were the Railway Retiring Rooms at V. T. and Bombay Central: in those high-ceilinged, shuttered, cool, clean, anonymous chambers I began my journey to Heaven and Hell. 'Trains,' Uma Sarasvati said. 'All those pistons-shistons. Don't they just turn you on?' It is hard for me to speak of our lovemaking. Even now, and in spite of everything, the memory of it makes me shiver with yearning for what is lost. I remember its ease and tenderness, its quality of revelation; as if a door were opened in the flesh and through it poured an unsuspected fifth-dimension universe: its ringed planets and comets' tails. Its whirling galaxies. Its bursting suns. But beyond expression, beyond language was the plain bodyness of it, the movement of hands, the tensing of buttocks, the arching of backs, the rise and fall of it, the thing with no meaning but itself, that meant everything; that brief animal doing, for the sake of which anything--anything--might be done. I cannot imagine--no, even now, my fancy will not stretch to it--that such passion, such essentiality, could have been faked. I do not believe she lied to me there, in that way, above the come and go of trains. I do not believe it; I believe it; I do not believe; I believe; I do not; I do not; I do. There is one embarrassing detail. Uma, my Uma, murmured in my ear near the Everest of our ecstasy, on the South Col of desire, that there was a thing which made her sad. 'Your Mummyji I revere; she-tho doesn't like me, but.' And I, gasping, and otherwise engaged, consoled her. Yes she does. But Uma -sweating, panting, hurling her body upon mine--repeated her grief. 'No, my darling boy. She doesn't. Bilkulnot.' I confess that at that high instant I had no stomach for this talk. An obscenity sprang unbidden to my lips. Fuck her then.--'What was that you said?'--I said fuck her. Fuck my mother. O.--At which she dropped the subject and concentrated on matters in hand. Her lips at my ear spoke of other things. You want this my darling and this, to do this, you can do this, if you want to, if you want. O God yes I want to let me yes yes O... Such chitter-chatter is better participated in than eavesdropped upon, so I will not set down any more. But I must admit--and it makes me blush to do so--that she, Uma, returned time and again to the topic of my mother's hostility, until it seemed to become a part of what excited her.--She hates me hates me tell me what to do.--And I was expected to reply, and, forgive me, in the grip of lust I answered as required. Screw her I said. Screw her stupid the stupid bitch. And Uma: How? Darling, my darling, how?--Fuck her. Fuck her upside down and sideways too.--O, you can, my only sweet, if you want to, if you only say you want.--God yes. I want to. Yes. O God. Thus at the moment of my greatest joy I spilt the seeds of ruin: my ruin, and my mother's, and the ruin of our great house. We were, all but one of us, in love with Uma in those days, and even Aurora, who was not, relented; for Uma's presence in our house brought my sisters home, too, and in addition she could also see the delight on my face. No matter how occasional a mother she had been, a mother she remained, and accordingly softened her heart. Also, Aurora was serious about work, and after Kekoo Mody visited Baroda and came back raving about the young woman's pieces, great Aurora melted further. Uma was installed as guest of honour at one of my mother's now-infrequent Elephanta soirees. 'To genius,' she pronounced, 'everything must be forgiven.' Uma looked sweetly flattered and shy. 'And to the second-rate,' added Aurora, 'nothing must be given--not one paisa, not one kauri, not one dam. Ohe, Vasco--what do you say to that?' Vasco Miranda in his fifties no longer spent very much time in Bombay; when he did turn up, Aurora wasted no time on niceties, and laid into his 'airport art' with a venom that was unusual even for that most abrasive of women. Aurora's own work had never 'travelled'. A few important European galleries--the Stedelijk, the Tate--had bought pieces, but America remained impervious, with the exception of the Gobler family of Fort Lauderdale, Fla., without whose collecting zeal so many Indian artists would have been penniless; so it was possible that envy had honed my mother's tongue. 'How are your Transit Lounge Specials, eh, Vasco?' she wanted to know. 'Have you noticed how passengers on Travola-tors never pause to take a look at your stuff? And jet-lag! Is it good for the critical faculties?' Under these assaults, Vasco smiled weakly and bowed his head. He had amassed a huge foreign-currency fortune, and had recently given up his residences and studios in Lisbon and New York to construct a hilltop folly in Andalusia, on which, according to rumour, he was spending more than the combined lifetime income of the entire community of Indian artists. This story, which he did nothing to deny, served only to heighten his unpopularity in Bombay, and the intensity of Aurora Zogoiby's attacks. His waistline had ballooned, his moustache was a Daliesque double exclamation mark, his greasy hair was parted just above his left ear and plastered across his bald, Brylcreem-shiny dome. 'No wonder you're still a bachelor boy,' Aurora taunted him. 'A spare tyre the ladies can tolerate, but boy, you bought the whole Goodyear factory.' For once, Aurora's gibes were in tune with majority opinion. Time, which had been kind to Vasco's bank balance, had dealt harshly with his Indian reputation as well as his body. In spite of his myriad commissions, his work's stock was presently in free fall, dismissed as thin and meretricious, and although the national collection had acquired a couple of his pieces in the early days it had not done so for years. Not one of its purchases was presently on show. Among the sharper critics and the younger generation of artists V. Miranda was a busted flush. As Uma Sarasvati's star rose, Vasco's plummeted; but when Aurora kicked out at him, he kept his answers to himself. The Picasso-Braque collaboration between Vasco and Aurora had never materialised; recognising the inadequacy of his gift, she had gone her own way, allowing him to maintain his studio at Elephanta only for old times' sake, and perhaps because she enjoyed having him around to poke fun at. Abraham, who had always loathed Vasco, showed Aurora news clippings from abroad, proving that V. Miranda had more than once been charged with violent behaviour, and had only narrowly avoided deportation from both the United States and Portugal; and that he had been obliged to undergo extensive treatment in mental homes, drying-out centres for alcoholics, and drug rehabilitation clinics across Europe and North America. 'Get rid of this posturing old phoney,' he implored. As for myself, I remembered Vasco's many kindnesses when I was a young and frightened child, and loved him for them still, but could see that his demons had won their battle against his lighter side. The Vasco who visited us on Uma's evening, that bloated comic-opera clown, was a sad sight indeed. Towards the end of the night, when alcohol had lowered his defences, he cracked. 'To hell with the lot of you,' he cried. 'I'm off to my Benengeli soon, and if I've got any brains I will never return.' Then he burst into tuneless song. 'Goodbye, Flora Fountain,' he began. 'Farewell, Hutatma Chowk.' He stopped, blinking, and shook his head. 'No. Not right. Goodbye, Marine Dri-ive, Farewell, Netaji-Subhas-Chandra-Bose-Road!' (Many years later, when I, too, came to Spain, I would remember Vasco's uncompleted ditty, and even sing a version of it quietly to myself.) Uma Sarasvati walked over to this sad, painful figure, put her hands on his shoulders, and kissed him on the mouth. Which had an unexpected effect. Instead of being grateful--and there were many in that salon, myself included, who would very happily have received such a kiss--Vasco rounded on Uma. 'Judas,' he said to her. 'I know you. Devotee of Our Lord Judas Christ the Betrayer. I know you, missy. I've seen you in that church.' Uma coloured deeply, and retreated. I sprang to her defence. 'You're making a fool of yourself/ I told Vasco, who stalked out, nose-in-air; and a moment later, fell noisily into the pool. 'Good, that's that,' said Aurora briskly. 'Let's play Three characters, seven sins.' It was her favourite parlour game. Random selection by coin-toss determined the sex and age of three imaginary 'characters', and papers picked from a hat were used to specify the deadly sin of which each was 'guilty'. The assembled company was then required to improvise a story involving the three sinners. On this occasion the characters came out as Old Woman, Young Woman and Young Man; and their sins were, respectively, Wrath, Vainglory and Lust. No sooner were the choices made than Aurora, sharp as ever and possibly more affected than she seemed by Vasco's latest little hurricane, cried: 'I've got one.' Uma applauded, admiringly. 'Tell, na.' 'Okay, here goes,' said Aurora, looking straight at her young guest of honour. 'A wrathful old queen discovers that her lustful fool of a son has been seduced by her young and vainglorious deadly rival.' 'Great story,' Uma said, beaming serenely. 'Wah-wah! Plenty of meat on that bone. Yes, sir.' 'Your turn,' said Aurora, her smile as wide as Uma's. 'What happens next? What should the Wrathful Old Queen do? Should she maybe banish the lovers for good--should she just let rip and drive them out of her sight?' Uma pondered. 'Not good enough,' she said. 'I think so some more permanent solution would be needed. Because such an opponent--e. g. this Vainglorious Young Pretender--if she was not finished off, and I mean completely funtooshed, would certainly set out to smash the Wrathful Old Queen. Sure! She would want the Lusty Young Prince all to herself, and the kingdom, too; and she would be too proud to share the throne with his Ma.' 'What do you suggest, then?' Aurora asked, glacial sweet in the suddenly hushed drawing-room. 'Murder,' said Uma, shrugging. 'Obviously it is a murder story. One way or the other, somebody-tho has to die. White Queen takes Black Pawn, or else Black Pawn, reaching the queening square, becomes a Black Queen and takes the White Queen instead. No other ending that I at least can see.' Aurora looked impressed. 'Uma, daughter, you're a secretive one. Why didn't you tell me you'd played this game before?' You're a secretive one... My mother could not let go of the idea that Uma had something to hide. 'She comes out of nowhere and chipkos to our family,' Aurora constantly worried--as, it must be said, she had never worried, in the old days, about Vasco Miranda's equally questionable past. 'But who are her people? Where are her friends? What is her past life?' I conveyed these doubts to Uma as the shadows of a Retiring Room ceiling fan stroked her naked body and the fan's breeze towelled her dry. 'Your family can't talk about secrets,' she said. 'Excuse me. I hate to speak badness about your loved ones but I am not the person with one crazy sister already dead, another seeing talking rats in a convent and the third trying to untie the cord of her lady-friends' pyjamas. And please: whose father is up to here in dirty business and under-age tarts? And whose mother--forgive me, my love, but you must know it--is currently having not one, not two, but three different love affairs?' I sat up in bed. 'Who have you been talking to?' I cried. 'Who has been pouring this snake poison for you to swallow down and then throw up?' 'The whole town is talking,' Uma said, embracing me. 'Poor softo. You think she is some sort of goddess or what. But it is common knowledge. Number one, that Parsi retard Kekoo Mody, number two Vasco Miranda the fat fraud, and the worst is number three: that MA bastard Mainduck. Raman Fielding! That bhaenchod! I am sorry but the lady has no class. People even whisper that she has seduced her own son--yes! my poor innocent boy, you don't know what people are like!--but I tell them there are limits, it is not so, I can vouch for it myself. So you see your good name is now in my hands.' It was the occasion of our first real quarrel, but even as I defended Aurora I felt the truth of Uma's accusations in my heart. Kekoo's canine devotion had had its reward, and Aurora's prolonged tolerance, and simultaneous abuse, of Vasco finally made sense, if seen in the context of an 'involvement', however decayed. Now that she and Abraham no longer shared a bed, where could Aurora look for comfort? Her genius and grandeur had isolated her; powerful women scare men off, and there were few Bombay males who would have dared to woo her. That explained Mainduck. Coarse, physically strong, ruthless, he was one of the few men in the city for