The Moors Last Sigh

than a spiced-up rehash of the European surrealists; he even made a short film called Kutta Kashmir Ka (‘A Kashmiri’ – rather than Andalusian – ‘Dog’). But Vasco’s career would not tarry long on these kooky, derivative shores; he soon discovered that his genuine gift was for the kind of bland, inoffensive concepts for which the owners of public buildings would pay truly surrealist sums, and after that his reputation – never very serious – declined as rapidly as his bank-balance increased.
    In the letter he announced himself as Aurora’s unsuspected soul-mate. Both ‘Southern Stars’, both ‘Anti-Christians’, both exponents of an ‘Epico-Mythico-Tragico-Comico-Super-Sexy-High-Masala-Art’ in which the unifying principle was ‘Technicolor-Story-Line’, they would strengthen each other’s work ‘ … like Frenchy Georges and Spanish Pablo, only better, because of the difference in Gender. Also, I perceive that you are Public Spirited, and interested in many Topics of the Moment; whereas I, I fear, am completely Frivolous – when the Political Sphere bounces into view I become a malevolent and untamable child, and with a good sharp kick I despatch the said Sphere out of my Zone of Operations. You are a Hero, and I am a spineless Jellyfish; how can we fail to sweep all before us? It will be a union of dreams – for you are Right, while I, unfortunately, am Wrong.’
    When Lambajan Chandiwala at the gates of Elephanta heard his mistress’s peals of laughter, her banshee howls of merriment, wafting towards him on the breeze, he understood that Vasco had outsmarted him, that comedy had vanquished security, and the next time that cheap clown came up the hill he would have to stand to attention and salute. ‘I’ll be watching him, but,’ the chowkidar muttered to his ever-taciturn parrot, ‘one day the stupid lafanga will slip up and when I catch him let’s see on what side of the face is his laugh.’
    On an Isfahani rug in the chhatri at the corner of the high terrace, Aurora Zogoiby was reclining in an approximation of the clothed-Maja position when Vasco was brought before her at sunset the next day. She was sipping French champagne and smoking an imported cigarette through a long amber holder, with her Ina-swollen belly propped up on silken cushions. He fell in love with her before she had spoken, fell for her as he had meant never to fall for any woman, and in his falling set in motion a great deal of what would follow. As a spurned lover, he became a darker man.
    ‘I’ve been look-o’ing for a painter,’ Aurora told him.
    ‘I am he,’ began Vasco, striking an attitude, but Aurora cut him short.
    ‘House painter,’ she said, a little brutally. ‘Nursery requires to be decoratoed in no time flat. Are you up to it? Speak up! Pay is generous in this house.’
    Vasco Miranda was deflated, but also broke. After a few seconds he flashed her his most dazzling smile and inquired, ‘Your preferred subjects, madam?’
    ‘Cartoons,’ she told him, looking vague. ‘You go to the pictures? You read comic-cuts? Then, that mouse, that duck, and what is the name of that bunny. Also that sailor and his saag saga. Maybe the cat that never catchoes the mouse, the other cat that never catchoes the bird, or the other bird that runs too fast for the coy-oat. Give me boulders that only temporarily flattofy you when they drop down on your head, bombs that give black faces only, and running-over-empty-air-until-you-looko-down. Give me knottofied-up rifle-barrels, and bathfuls of big gold coins. Never mind about harps and angels, forget all those stinking gardens; for my kiddies, this is the Paradise I want.’
    Autodidact Vasco, just up from Goa, knew next to nothing about wicked woodpeckers or pesky wabbits. In spite of having no idea what Aurora was talking about, however, he grinned and bowed. ‘Madam, money talks. You have the hit-fortune to be addressing the absolutely-greatest number-one-in-the-parade Paradise-painter in Bombay.’
    ‘Hit-fortune?’ Aurora wondered.
    ‘Like hit-take, hit-alliance, hit-conception, hit-terious,’ Vasco explained. ‘Opposite of mis-.’

    Within days he had moved in; no formal invitation was ever issued, but one way and another he stuck around for thirty-two years. Aurora treated him, at first, like a sort of pet. She unhicked his hairstyle and convinced him to stop trimming his moustache, and, when it grew luxuriant and long, to wax it until it