Kotikokura struck his leg with his closed fist.
“God defeats man merely because He outlives him. Give man sufficient time and what god shall survive? Or if a god should survive, what a magnificent god he would be!”
“Ca-ta-pha—god.”
“Perhaps…but for that reason, Ca-ta-pha must be strong; must overcome himself, must step upon his heart as he steps upon withered leaves which trees shed in autumn; must grow—must become…”
Kotikokura’s eyes dashed to and fro.
“Kotikokura too must become– —”
He looked at me inquiringly.
“I do not know what, Kotikokura. That is unimportant. The seed which is sown does not dream of the possibilities that are within it. It must grow…it must break through the earth…it must rise high…high. That is sufficient.”
Kotikokura stretched his arms upward, raising his heels.
“We shall never clutch the stars, Kotikokura. The higher we grow, the farther away the stars shall fly like birds teasing the rod of the fowler.”
LI: THE GUADALQUIVIR CHURNS LIKE BUTTER—DORA CRISTINA’S POLITE INVITATION—A TEMPLE OF LOVE—UNPLUCKED ROOTS—I MEET DON JUAN—DON FERNANDO—THE FURY OF DON JUAN—KOTIKOKURA BLUSHES
THE rain splashed into the Guadalquivir, churning it like butter. Kotikokura and I, hooded, so that barely our noses were visible, walked along the shore, making deep imprints into the mud which quickly filled with water.
To the right, the Mezquita, now surmounted by an immense cross, glittered through the long perpendicular trelises of the rain, like a loving face playing hide and seek. Farther on upon the hill, the Alcazar, its contours spoiled by recent repairs, looked disconsolate, like a man who has outlived his glory.
The rain stopped suddenly. The sun broke through the clouds which hung ragged-edged about his neck, like the hoop a bareback rider has ripped. The Guadalquivir, no longer tormented, flowed silently on, a little out of breath because of the new burden. The puddles our footsteps made glistened like mother-of-pearl.
The eye ached from the glare of the whitewashed walls of the houses, but rejoiced at long intervals at the remains of an ancient building still untouched by the vulgar brush of the conquerors.
“Kotikokura, this is Córdoba, the pride of the Moors, when we were on the road to Jerusalem to deliver the Holy Sepulchre. Whatever is beautiful and lovely was done before the Christians captured the city. The hand of the conqueror has weighed heavily upon it. Where are the palaces that once flourished upon the banks of this lovely river,—the Palace of Contentment, the Palace of Flowers, the Palace of Lovers? Nothing save arches and walls, like skeletons of dead men. But even the arches are more beautiful than the new palaces of the conquerors.”
Keepers of wine-shops wiped their tables and chairs, wet from the rain. Beggars, men and women, extended their hands, mumbling prayers and benedictions, and if their requests remained ungranted, curses. Friars and nuns and priests passed in long procession, until the black of their garbs gave the impression of Night disintegrated, cutting fantastic figures upon the white canvas of day.
Three youths, their red capes thrown over their shoulders, were laughing uproariously, holding their stomachs. I turned to see what amused them so hugely. Two thin horses were pulling wearily a rickety hearse. The coachman, an old Jew whose face was entirely covered by an uncombed beard and curls, tried vainly to crack his whip, a small knotted cord, which seemed as voiceless as the corpse.
The cortège, a few men with red or black beards and women whose heads were covered with black shawls, beat their breasts from time to time and sobbed bitterly.
The youths continued to laugh. One of them shouted, “How many more of you are there, cursed Jews? When will the rest of you croak?”
Another pulled at his beardless chin, imitating a goat.
The third one, not to be behind in his display of wit, rolled a fistful of mud into a ball and threw it at the hearse. The mud stuck against the carriage in the shape of a large dahlia.
“We ought to burn them all!” the thrower of mud exclaimed.
“Except the young Jewesses. They are pretty lively in bed.”
“Yes, they say that even Don Juan is in love with one.”
“She will be the thousand and third queen of his heart.”
“Do you think you will sleep with as many wenches, Miguel?”
“It is a trifle too many. Besides, I should not care to betray my friend’s wives and sisters with the light-heartedness of Don Juan.”
“Particularly not when the brother is my best friend,” another remarked. “Fernando cannot get over it.”
“Twins have a strange bond between them. Even physically, they say the sufferings of the one affect the other.”
“And Fernando and his sister look so much alike you could hardly tell them apart—except in bed.”
“What has become of her?”
“She has entered a convent.”
“Don Juan will get into trouble some day—mark my words.”
“He is the best swordsman in Spain.”
“His back, however, is not immune from a good knife thrust.”
I watched the hearse until it was out of sight, and the last member of the cortège disappeared.
“Kotikokura, my heart is heavy. There are roots within me which have not been plucked out. These poor people whose sorrow is ridiculed and mocked are my people.”
Kotikokura looked at me surprised.
“Ca-ta-pha had a low beginning, Kotikokura. You cannot tell the shape of the roots by the perfume of the flower.”
“Ca-ta-pha—god,” he said emphatically.
I laughed. “You are not prejudiced against the Jew, are you? Why do all the races of the world hate him? What curse is there upon him? Wherever he goes, he brings wealth and culture and art, and receives in return an irreconcilable hatred.”
Kotikokura looked perplexed.
“These people talk about a man who has possessed over a thousand women, Kotikokura. I am almost envious. It is too much for a mortal…”
“Ca-ta-pha…women…” He made a gesture to indicate that my harem was far more numerous.
“But Ca-ta-pha is god, and this fellow—what is his name—Don Juan—is only a man.”
The youths fixed their capes, struck their heels together and left.
“What strange dissatisfaction must lurk in the heart of a man who possesses a thousand women in so short a career! Ca-ta-pha experiments. He has time. But Don Juan– —”
A woman approached us. She was dressed in mourning, but her face showed no indication of sorrow.
“The gentlemen are strangers, are they not?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Strangers are lonesome…”
“Generally.”
“What is more consoling to lonesome gentlemen than…a woman,—young, beautiful…and loving?”
I looked at her.
“No, no, señor, I am not speaking of myself. I am Doña Cristina del Torno y Rodriguez, a poor widow,” she sighed. “I have no claim either to beauty or youth, but– —”She approached my ear, rising a little on her toes. “I know where you can find both beauty and youth.”
Kotikokura grinned.
“Not overexpensive either, señor, and not too far from here. Come, rejoice your body and soul, señores! You will not regret it. My Palace of Love is the finest in the city. Even Don Juan honors me with his visits.”
“Don Juan?” I asked. “In spite of his thousand sweethearts…?”
“He is insatiable, señor. He is the handsomest caballero in the world, and so generous.”
“Do you expect him in the near future?”
She knit her brows. “Why, yes… I expect him this very evening. I have– —” She placed a forefinger to her lips, “a virgin for him from the country—a real virgin. What does the excellent señor prefer…?”
“Very well, take us over.”
Taking our arms, she walked between us,
proudly, chattering the virtues of her girls and the glory of Don Juan who once, while her husband was still alive, had honored her with his affection.
“Was he unusual as a lover?” I asked.
“He was cold and cruel, and that pleases me. I like men to dominate me, even as the lion tamer masters his beasts.”
She looked at Kotikokura and squeezed his arm. He grinned.
The red shutters of the windows were slightly ajar, and two women’s faces pressed against them. When they saw us approach, they bent their heads out and waved to us with their fans.
The door was opened for us by an old man who bowed innumerable times.
“My father, gentlemen.”
I knew she lied.
“He was formerly a professor of mathematics at the university. He has become stone deaf, and besides suffers terribly from forgetfulness.” She sighed. “La vida es sueño.”
The walls of the waiting room into which we were ushered were painted with imitations of the Pompeian Catacombs. The furniture was of a neo-Moorish type,—heavy, bulky things, over-carved, over-ornamented. A servant helped us with our capes and hats; another brought us wine. Doña Cristina disappeared for a few minutes and returned dressed in a kimono of red silk, embroidered with large yellow flowers. Around her neck, she wore a rosary of immense beads.
She balanced her hips coquettishly, looking intently at Kotikokura whose eyes darted from one corner to the other, like young stallions.
She took our arms and led us into the salon. A stifling but not unpleasant smell of perfumes mingled with human flesh pervaded the place. The women greeted us with giggling and words of double meaning.
“Silence, geese! Do you not see that these are foreign noblemen?”
The women remained quiet. They reclined on couches and on the floor, their skirts raised to their knees and further, and their bodices half open, as if they had been suddenly disturbed in the process of dressing.
“Wine!” one called out.
“Sweets!” another one.
“Wine, sweets, wine, sweets!” they all shouted in unison.
“Silence! Their lordships have not yet deigned to indicate their choice…”
“Look, look,—your lordships!”
Doña Cristina pressed lightly Kotikokura’s arm and sighed.
“Let there be wine and sweets!” I ordered.
The women clapped their hands, and shouted: “Long live los señores!”
One, blue-eyed and raven-haired, threw her arms about my neck. “My love, my Don Juan.”
Doña Cristina pinched Kotikokura’s leg. His face was flushed. His hands trembled a little. I whispered into her ear. “My friend is inexperienced. He is younger than he looks.”
She raised her arms. “Santa Maria! Santa Maria! Jesus!” She pressed him to her voluminous chest. “My love, my bear, my lion!”
The girls laughed and applauded. They drank to our health and our strength, and munched noisily the sweets and the nuts. The former professor of mathematics looked in. His head, bald to the neck, glistened like yellow ivory.
“Doña Cristina! Doña Cristina!”
“What do you want?” she asked irritably.
“Don Juan! Don Juan!” he stammered.
Doña Cristina shouted to the rest, “Don Juan, Don Juan!”
They echoed: “Don Juan! Don Juan!”
She dashed out and reentered, preceded by a man still young, but already scarred by two parallel wrinkles on either cheek, and as he raised his hat upon which waved a large, white plume, his forehead and temples showed signs of baldness. He placed his left hand, covered with rings, upon his hip and looked about haughtily. Upon his chest glittered a small cross studded with precious stones, and the tips of his pointed, gilded shoes reflected the last rays of the sun.
“Foreign noblemen,” Doña Cristina whispered into his ear, trembling a little. Don Juan bowed. I returned the salutation.
“Don Juan,” Doña Cristina said in a low tone of voice, “I have the virgin. She is as pretty as a flower…plump, red-cheeked, corresponding exactly to your specifications.”
“Are you sure she is– —?”
“I swear by the Holy Virgin Herself.”
Don Juan turned to me. “It is an appalling state of affairs, señor. Girls of thirteen and fourteen are no longer virgins. I often think they are not even born untouched.”
“Is virginity so important?”
“You are foreigners, gentlemen, and you are not aware, perhaps, of the terrible ravishes of the New Disease.”
“What disease?”
“A kind of leprosy. The last Crusaders brought it with them from the Holy City. There is no safety except in virginity and in the cordon de sureté—the girdle of chastity. Romance has become more dangerous than warfare. You cannot be certain of any woman. Who knows how many of Doña Cristina’s girls are capable of inflicting wounds more dreadful than those of the javelin…?”
Doña Cristina threw up her arms in horror.
“Oh!” the girls shouted.
“Don Juan, my girls are all as pure as virgins. The gentlemen that visit them are the finest in Spain and– —” pointing to us, “in the world.”
“Come, come, my little one, do not get exasperated.”
He placed his hand upon her shoulder. “I only mentioned that by way of example.” And addressing me, “It is true, indeed, señor,—this is the only safe Temple of Love in Córdoba.”
Doña Cristina kissed his bejeweled hand. The girls laughed and drank another cup to Don Juan, the incomparable lover.
The former professor of mathematics stuck his head in once more. One ray of the sun pierced its center like a long golden horn. “Doña Cristina, Doña Cristina…”
“Well?”
“Don Fernando is at the gate.”
Doña Cristina was flustered. “Santa Maria! Jesú!”
“Who is it, did you say?” asked Don Juan.
Doña Cristina was reluctant to answer.
“Who?” he demanded.
“Don Fernando, señor.”
“Ah, that is a stroke of good fortune. We have not met for a long while.”
“But… Don Juan… I thought– —”
“Perish your thoughts! Let him come in!”
“Let him come in!” Doña Cristina shouted in the professor’s ear.
Don Fernando entered. He was a lad of about twenty, graceful and lithe; his aquiline nose and dark skin betokened an admixture of Moorish blood. Upon seeing Don Juan, the young man shook his fist in Doña Cristina’s face.
“Fool! Why did you not tell me– —?”
Doña Cristina whimpered.
Don Juan smiled. “Is señor so angry at me that he would not even see me?”
Don Fernando glared at him without answering.
“We have no quarrel, I am certain. It is all gossip.”
“No! It is not gossip—and we have a quarrel! “
Don Juan looked at him, his eyes partially closed and his lips stretched into a faint smile. “I have always considered Don Fernando my friend.”
“You have done wrongly, señor. Don Fernando is your enemy.”
“It is ridiculous to break friendship because—of a woman.”
“The woman is my sister.” Don Juan looked at the young man and breathed deeply. “I
regret– —”
“What?” the young man asked.
“That she is your sister.”
“And not your cowardly deed?”
“Señor, master your tongue!”
A white patch shone on Don Juan’s forehead. His nostrils shivered. But his eyes, which I expected to glitter like knives, preserved a curious tenderness.
“Master my tongue? It is fortunate for you that I master my arm.”
“What!” Don Juan exclaimed. “You dare– —”
“I dare! I am undaunted by Don Juan.”
Don Juan opened and closed his fists. The patch upon his forehead shone like an ominous star.
<
br /> Why was he so furious? And why did his eyes continue to be almost affectionate? A young man’s taunt ordinarily, I felt, would have merely made Don Juan laugh uproariously. I remembered the conversation of the three youths.
Don Juan suddenly regained his composure. The patch upon his forehead disappeared.
“Fernando, for the sake of our former friendship, do not excite my anger. I am not able to control my sword, once it is out of its scabbard. You know that.”
“Coward! You say that because you fear me in your heart.”
“What! I fear you? Think of it, gentlemen! Think of it,—all of you! Don Juan fears this—child!”
Fernando raised his hand and slapped Don Juan’s face. “I’ll teach you to call me child!”
Don Juan straightened up, placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword, and exclaimed: “Impudent stripling, your own hand has sealed your death-warrant.”
The young man placed his hand upon his sword, and drew it half way out of its scabbard.
The girls shrieked.
Doña Christina knelt between the two men. “Please, gentlemen, not in my house…please…you will ruin me!”
Don Juan pushed her away with his foot.
She clasped the legs of Don Fernando. “I beg you, gentlemen…not here!”
Don Juan laughed suddenly. “You are right—not here. He shall be dispatched elsewhere.”
“At your service, wherever and whenever you wish,” said the young man proudly.
“Gentlemen,” Don Juan addressed us, “although I have never had the pleasure of your previous acquaintance, may I ask you to be my seconds?”
We nodded.
“For the friendship I once bore you, señor,” he said to Fernando, “you shall die as a gentleman and not as a hog. I shall give you the opportunity to display your prowess.”
“Within twenty-four hours, I shall send you my seconds,” the lad answered proudly, and left.
“I am sorry for the boy,” Don Juan remarked.
“Why not merely wound him to teach him a lesson, señor?”
“Hardly. Once in combat, my arm rules my sentiments.”
He ordered drinks.
“The virgin…” Doña Cristina whispered into Don Juan’s ear.
“This evening at ten,” Don Juan replied, slightly bored.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 26