The Moors Last Sigh

throw! And how implausible to suggest that such an offer might have been accepted! No, no, one must just put what happened down to naval diligence – for the marauding Medea was finally sunk – or to the Nazis’ preoccupations in other theatres of the war; or call it a miracle; or blind, dumb luck.) At the earliest opportunity, Abraham had paid off the jewel-money borrowed from his mother, and offered her a generous additional sum by way of profit. However, he left brusquely, without answering, when she refused the bonus with a plaintive call: ‘And the jewel, my contracted reward? And when will that be paid?’ I crave the law, the penalty and the forfeit of my bond .
    Aurora continued to be without child: but knew nothing of a signed paper. The months lengthened towards a year. Still Abraham held his tongue. By now he was the sole in-charge of the family business; Aires never really had the heart for it, and after his new nephew-in-law had performed his triumphant rescue act the surviving da Gama brother retired gracefully – as they say – into private life … on the first of every month Flory sent her son the great merchant a message. ‘I hope you are not slacking off; I want my precious stone.’ (How strange, how fated , that in those blazing days of their hot-pepper love Aurora conceived no child! Because had there been a boy, and here I speak as my parents’ sole male issue, then the bone of contention – the flesh’n’skin’n’bones –could have been me.)
    Again he offered her money; again, she refused. At one point he pleaded; how could he ask his young wife to send a newborn son away, to be cared for by one who hated her? Flory was implacable. ‘Should’ve thought before.’ Finally his anger took control, and he defied her. ‘Your piece of paper buys nothing,’ he shouted down the telephone. ‘Wait on and see who can pay more for a judge.’ Flory’s green stones could not match the family’s renewed affluence; and if indeed they were hot rocks, she’d think twice before showing them to court officers, even those willing to feather their nests. What were her options? She had lost her belief in divine retribution. Vengeance was for this world.
    Another avenger! Another ginger dog, or murderous mosquito! What an epidemic of getting-even runs through my tale, what a malaria cholera typhoid of eye-for-tooth and tit-for-tat! No wonder I have ended up … But my ending up must not be told before my starting out. Here’s Aurora on her seventeenth birthday in the spring of 1941, visiting Vasco’s tomb alone; and here, waiting in the shadows, is an old crone …
    When she saw Flory dart towards her out of the shadows of the church, Aurora thought for a startled moment that her grandmother Epifania had risen from the grave. Then she collected herself with a little smile, remembering how she had once ridiculed her father’s ghostly notions; no, no, this was just some hag, and what was that paper she was thrusting out? Sometimes beggar-women gave you such papers, Have mercy in the name of God, cannot speak, and 12 kiddies to support . ‘Forgive me, sorry,’ Aurora said perfunctorily, and began to turn away. Then the woman spoke her name. ‘Madam Aurora!’ (Loudly.) ‘My Abie’s Roman whore! This paper you must read.’
    She turned back; took the document Abraham’s mother proffered; and read.

    Portia, a rich girl, supposedly intelligent, who acquiesces in her late father’s will – that she must marry any man who solves the riddle of the three caskets, gold silver lead – is presented to us by Shakespeare as the very archetype of justice. But listen closely; when her suitor the Prince of Morocco fails the test, she sighs:
A gentle riddance. Draw the curtains: go .
Let all of his complexion choose me so .
    No lover then, of Moors! No, no; she loves Bassanio, who by a happy chance picks the right box, the one containing Portia’s picture ( ‘thou, thou meagre lead’ ). Lend an ear, therefore, to this paragon’s explanation of his choice.
 … ornament is but the guilèd shore ,
To a most dangerous sea; the beauteous scarf
Veiling an Indian beauty; in a word ,
The seeming truth which cunning times put on  …
    Ah, yes: for Bassanio, Indian beauty is like a ‘dangerous sea’; or, analogous to ‘cunning times’! Thus Moors, Indians, and of course ‘the Jew’ (Portia can only bring herself to use Shylock’s name on two occasions; the rest of the time she identifies