The Moors Last Sigh

his threat? I asked him. For a moment I thought he was going to reach for his invisible needle and thread; but then a coughing fit seized him, he hacked and hawked, his milky old eyes streamed. Only when the convulsions subsided a little did I understand that my father had been laughing. ‘Boy, boy,’ croaked Abraham Zogoiby, ‘never try an ultimatum unless’n’until you are ready and willing to have the ultimatee call your bluff.’
    The master of the Marco Polo did not dare call the bluff; but someone else did. The cargo ship journeyed across the ocean, travelling beyond rumour, beyond calculation, until the German cruiser Medea holed her when she was no more than a few hours away from the island of Socotra off the tip of the Horn of Africa. She sank quickly; all hands, and the full cargo, were lost.
    ‘I played my ace,’ my antique father reminisced. ‘But, damme, it got trumped.’

    Who could blame Flory Zogoiby for going a little loco after her only child walked out on her? Who could begrudge her the hours upon hours she had begun to spend straw-hatted, sucking her gums on a bench in the synagogue entrance-hall, slapping down patience cards or clicking away with mah-jong tiles, and delivering herself of a non-stop tirade against ‘Moors’, a concept which had by now expanded to include just about everyone? And who would not have forgiven her for thinking she was seeing things, when prodigal Abraham marched up to her, bold as brass, one fine day in the spring of 1940, grinning sweetly all over his face as if he’d just located some rainbow-end pot of gold?
    ‘So, Abie,’ she said slowly, not looking directly at him in case she found she could see through him, which would prove that she had finally cracked into little pieces. ‘You want to play a game?’
    His smile widened. He was so handsome that it made her angry. What business did he have coming here, pouring his good looks all over her without any warning? ‘I know you, Abie boy,’ she said, still staring at her cards. ‘When you got that smile on, you’re in trouble, and the wider the smile, the deeper the mud. Looks to me like you can’t handle what you got, so you came running to mother. I never in all my days saw you smile so big. Sit! Play one-two hands.’
    ‘No games, mother,’ Abraham said, his smile almost touching his ear-lobes. ‘Can we go inside or does the whole of Jewtown have to know our business?’
    Now she looked him in the eye. ‘Sit,’ she said. He sat; she dealt for nine-card rummy. ‘You think you can beat me? Not me, son. You never had a chance.’
    A ship sank. Abraham’s new trader family’s fortunes were placed once more in crisis. I am pleased to say that this led to no unseemly squabbling on Cabral Island – the truce between old and new clan members held firm. But the crisis was real enough; after much cajoling, and other, less, mentionable tactics from the depths of Thread-Needle Street, a second and then a third da Gama shipment had been sent on their way, going the long way round via Good Hope to avoid North African dangers. In spite of this precaution and the British Navy’s efforts to police all vital sea-routes – though it must be said, and Pandit Nehru said it from jail, that the British attitude to Indian shipping was, to understate matters, more than a little lax – these two ships also ended up adding spice to the ocean-bed; and the C-50 condiment empire (and, who knows, perhaps also the heart of Empire itself, deprived of peppery inspiration) began to totter and sway. Overheads – wage-bills, maintenance costs, interest on loans – mounted. But this is not a company report, and so you must simply take it from me: things had reached a sorry pass when beaming Abraham, latterly a powerful merchant of Cochin, returned to Jewtown. Hath all his ventures failed? What, not one hit? – Not one. Okay-fine? Then let’s get on. I want to tell you a fairy-tale.
    In the end, stories are what’s left of us, we are no more than the few tales that persist. And in the best of the old yarns, the ones we ask for over’n’over, there are lovers, it’s true, but the parts we go for are the bits where shadows fall across the lovers’ path. Poisoned apple, bewitched spindle, Black Queen, wicked witch, baby-stealing goblins, that’s the stuff. So: once upon a time, my father Abraham Zogoiby gambled heavily, and lost. But he had made a vow: I’ll take care of things . And accordingly, when all other