The Moors Last Sigh

naturally, Uma fictionalised, Hispanicised, as this ‘Chimène’, Uma incorporating aspects of Sophia Loren in El Cid , pinched from the story of Rodrigo de Vivar and introduced without explanation into the hybrid universe of the Moor–and between her outspread, inviting hands were many marvels – golden orbs, bejewelled birds, tiny homunculi – floating magically in the lucent air.
    Aurora in her maternal jealousy of her son’s first true love had created this cry of pain, in which a mother’s attempts to show her son the simple truth about himself were doomed to failure by a sorceress’s head-turning tricks; in which mice gnawed away the possibility of music and vultures waited patiently for lunch. Ever since Isabella Ximena da Gama on her deathbed had united in her own person the figures of the Cid Campeador and his Chimène, her daughter Aurora who had picked up Belle’s fallen torch had seen herself, too, as hero and heroine combined. That she should now make this separation – that the painted Moor should be given the Charlton Heston rôle and a woman with Uma’s face should be baptised with a Frenchified version of my grandmother’s middle name – was almost an admission of defeat, an intimation of mortality. Now Aurora, like the old dowager Ayxa, was not the one looking into the mirror-mirror; now it was Boabdil-Moor who was reflected there. But the real magic mirror was the one in his (my) eyes; and in that occult glass, there could be no doubt that the sorceress in the doorway was the fairest one of all.
    The picture, painted like many of the mature Moors in the layered manner of the old European masters, and important in art-history for the entry into the Moor sequence of the ‘Chimène’ character, seemed to me to demonstrate that art, ultimately, was not life; that what might feel truthful to the artist – for example, this tale of malevolent usurpation, of a pretty witch come to separate a mother from her son – did not necessarily bear the slightest connection to events and feelings and people in the real world.
    Uma was a free spirit; she came and went as she pleased. Her absences in Baroda tore at my heart, but she refused me permission to visit her. ‘You must not see my work until I am ready for you,’ she said. ‘I want you to fall for me, not for what I do.’ For against all probability and with the royal whimsicality of beauty she, who could have had her pick, had set her heart on this damaged young-old fool, and whispering in my ear she promised me entry into the garden of earthly delights. ‘Wait on,’ she told me. ‘Wait on, beloved innocent, for I am the goddess who knows your secret heart, and I will surely give you everything you want, and more.’ Wait just some while , she pleaded without saying why, but my puzzlement was wiped away by the lyric excitement of her promises. And then until death I will be your mirror, yourself’s other self your equal, your empress and your slave .
    I must confess it surprised me to learn that she made a number of visits to Bombay without contacting me. Minnie telephoned from the Gratiaplena to tell me in a trembling voice that Uma had visited her to inquire how a non-Christian might embark on a life in Christ. ‘I truly think she will come to Jesus,’ said Sister Floreas, ‘and to his Holy Mother too.’ I think I may have snorted, whereupon Minnie’s voice took on a strange note. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Uma, blessed girl, told me how worried she is that the Devil has got a stranglehold on you.’
    Mynah, too – Mynah, who never called! – rang to report exhilarating encounters with my beloved on the front-line of a political demonstration that had temporarily prevented the demolition of the invisible shacks of the invisible poor that were taking up valuable space within sight of the high-rises of Cuffe Parade. Apparently Uma had led the demonstrators and shack-dwellers in a rousing chorus of We launched a movement, what’s there to fear? Abruptly Mynah confided – Mynah, who never confided! – that she had formed the opinion that Uma was definitely a lesbian. (Philomina Zogoiby had revealed to no-one the secrets of her own sexuality, but it was well known that she had never stepped out with any man; nearing thirty, she cheerfully admitted she was ‘on the shelf – it’s a spinster’s life for me.’ But now, perhaps, Uma Sarasvati had found out more.) ‘We have become pretty close – you know?’ Mynah startlingly