The Moors Last Sigh

people, he took upon himself the matriarch’s last malediction, which Epifania whispered into Aurora’s ear and whose sweet poison the young woman now dropped into his: a house divided against itself cannot stand , that’s what she said, my husband, may your house be for ever partitioned, may its foundations turn to dust, may your children rise up against you, and may your fall be hard;
    after Abraham comforted Aurora by vowing to disprove the curse, to stand beside her, shoulder to shoulder, through the worst life had to offer;
    and after he said, yes, to marry her he would take the great step, he would accept instruction and enter the Church of Rome, and in the presence of her naked body which inspired in him a kind of religious awe the thing did not seem so difficult to say, in this matter too he would surrender to her will, her cultural conventions, even though she had less faith than a mosquito, even though there was a voice within him uttering a command he did not repeat aloud, a voice which told him that he must guard his Jewishness in the innermost chamber of his soul, that at the core of his being he must build a room nobody could enter and keep his truth there, his secret identity, and only then could he give up the rest of himself for love:
    then,
    the door of their nuptial chamber flew open, and there, in pyjamas with a lantern and a Wee Willie Winkie nightcap, was Aires da Gama looking like a storybook picture except for his expression of counterfeit wrath; and in one of Epifania’s old muslin mob-caps and ruffled-neck nighties, Carmen Lobo da Gama, doing her best to look horrified but failing to push the envy off her face; and slightly behind them was the avenging angel, the traitor, bright pink and sweating profusely: of course, Oliver D’Aeth. But Aurora was not able to contain herself, would not behave according to the rules of this tropicalised Victorian melodrama. ‘Aires-uncle! Aunty Sahara!’ she cried, gaily. ‘But where have you dumpoed dear Jaw-jaw? Won’t he be upset? Because tonight you are taking for a walk a dog of a different collar.’ At which Oliver D’Aeth grew even redder.
    ‘Whore of Babylon,’ Carmen roared, attempting to get things back on track. ‘Harlot’s seed is harlot indeed!’ Aurora under a white linen bedsheet stretched her long body for maximum provocation; a breast burst into view, caused a sharp ecclesiastical gasp, and obliged Aires to address his remarks to the Telefunken radiogram. ‘Zogoiby, for God’s sake. Do you lack all common decency, man?’
    ‘ “That, sir, is my niece!” Waugh-waugh-waugh! So pompous, with his track record!’ my mother guffawed when the story was told on Malabar Hill. ‘Folks, I split my sides. “ What is the meaning of this?” Stupid ass. I told him straight. The meaning of this is marriage, I told him. “Look,” I said, “here is a priest, and close family members are present, and you are cho chweetly giving me away. Turn on the radiogram and maybe they’ll play a wedding march.” ’
    Aires ordered Abraham to dress and leave; Aurora countermanded the order. Aires threatened the lovers with police intervention; Aurora replied, ‘And, Aires-uncle, is there nothing for you to fear from nosy cops?’ Aires coloured deeply, and with a muttered we’ll discuss this further in the a.m . beat a retreat, followed hastily by Oliver D’Aeth. Carmen stood in the doorway for a moment, with her mouth hanging open. Then she also staged her exit: slamming the door. Aurora rolled over to Abraham, who had covered his face with his hands. ‘Here I come, ready or not,’ she whispered. ‘Mister, here comes the bride.’

    Abraham Zogoiby covered his face that night in August 1939 because he had been assailed by fear; not fear of Aires or Carmen or the Photophobic priest, but a sudden terrible apprehension that the ugliness of life might defeat its beauty; that love did not make lovers invulnerable. Nevertheless, he thought, even if the world’s beauty and love were on the edge of destruction, theirs would still be the only side to be on; defeated love would still be love, hate’s victory would not make it other than it was. ‘Better, however, to win.’ He had promised Aurora looking-after, and he would be as good as his word.

    My mother painted The Scandal , I don’t need to tell any art-lovers, since the huge canvas is right there in the National Gallery of Modern Art in New Delhi, filling up a whole wall. Go past