“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 pr
ofessor 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.
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.
Doña Cristina pressed Kotikokura’s hand and whispered into his ear, “My bear…tonight, you are mine.”
Kotikokura blushed.
LII: OUT OF THE WINDOW OF THE PAST—KOTIKOKURA, THE LION—THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF DON JUAN—I VISIT DON JUAN’S HOUSE—I DISCUSS LOVE WITH DON JUAN—DON JUAN’S SECRET—I KILL DON JUAN
IT was nearly noon.
I opened the shutter, and looked out. At a distance, the Guadalquivir glistened like a long silver stripe on an officer’s coat. Still further, the hills rounded at the top as if a hand had smoothed them. The whiteness of the houses no longer annoyed me. It served as a fine background for the trees which cast long gray shadows, trembling a little. The chimes of the Mezquita, whose belfry towered about the city—rang slowly, lazily, inviting not so much to prayer as to slumber.
A driver urged a team of oxen, swearing by all the saints that if they would not hasten, he would deliver them into the hands of the butchers.
Two nuns made tiny steps, counting the while their rosaries. An officer on horseback rode proudly on, as if to an imaginary conquest.
I remembered myself dressed as a Roman captain. Lydia seemed to pass underneath my window, her silken toga ruffled somewhat by the wind.—Nero fiddled.—Poppaea smiled her lascivious, cruel smile.—Charlemagne grasped his leg in sudden pain.—The Armenian Bishop—Africa. The desert, the sand that rose like billows of the sea.—Salome, the gorgeous, the incomparable Salome. Had I possessed her in truth? Was it a dream? Was not everything a dream?
The chimes continued to ring.
Who was I? Where was I? I rubbed my eyes vigorously, and laughed. I was in the anteroom of Doña Cristina’s Palace of Love,—the purest in Córdoba which even Don Juan, the incomparable lover, frequented. Don Juan—he was still with his virgin from the country—and Kotikokura, the bear, the lion, had not yet unclasped the arms of his love.
Poor Fernando—a fine face, almost feminine.—He would die within twenty-four hours. It was a pity. But why not? A day, a year, a century—what matter?
And Don Juan—equally skillful as a duelist and as a lover. What did he seek? Was he a voluptuary or a philosopher? Did he find in women only a momentary spasmodic joy, or had he discovered some ultimate secret of sensual pleasure? Why the pride in the numbers? What secret motive animated his restlessness? What was the meaning of the affectionate look when he quarreled with the lad in the brothel? Why the regret? Why the inordinate fury?
He had mentioned the name of a Jewish girl—a rabbi’s daughter—with his last cup. Ah, if he could possess her! But in the same breath, he cursed the whole race, would gladly have put them all to the sword.
He must not get her! Don Juan shall be frustrated by a Jewess! Something in me revolted at the idea that a woman of my race should be the toy of this man. Was my mother speaking through me? Was it something even more remote? Woman is a symbol, the foundation of her race. While she remains pure, the race continues. Why this partiality to the Jews? The fate of other races did not concern me. Was it because as long as the Jew lived, Jesus was still defeated? He might persuade the whole world, but not those who knew him. We were the thorn in his side…
Did I unwittingly love the rabbi’s daughter whom I had not even met? A tenderness towards this un
known young person overwhelmed me. I had wandered long, I would return to my flock. It was always a woman who stretched her arms to welcome the prodigal…
Kotikokura entered quietly, and stood in back of me. I made believe I was not aware of his presence. He coughed a little and shuffled his feet. I turned. His head was bent, and he looked embarrassed.
“Well, my bear, my lion,—why the sheepish look?”
He pressed my hand to his lips.
“Has the lady bitten off—your nose, Kotikokura?”
He made a gesture of disgust. “Woman!”
I laughed.
He repeated, “Woman.”
“Woman, Kotikokura, is an attitude. She is either the loveliest thing in the world—or the unloveliest. It all depends upon what you seek in her, and how much you are willing to forgive in advance.”
He repeated, “Woman.”
“How about Salome, Kotikokura?”
“Salome—woman!” he exclaimed.
“You are an old hag! I shall never cross your threshold again!” Don Juan shouted from the next room.
“But señor, is it my fault? How could I tell?” Doña Cristina whimpered.
“Why don’t you instruct your women more adroitly?”
“She says she tried her very best, señor, but you were not in the mood to be pleased…”
The door opened brusquely. Don Juan came out. Doña Cristina, bent in two, her arms outstretched, followed him.
“Señor, señor!”
He threw her a purse. “Take it—and do not let me see your face again.”
“What is money to me if– —”
Don Juan placed his hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Go away—or I shall run you through like a sow.”
She snatched the purse and rushed out. Around her neck I noticed two fingermarks, which I recognized as Kotikokura’s.
“The stupid calf!” Don Juan exclaimed, walking up and down the room. His eyes were swollen a little from lack of sleep, and his face was drawn. He looked his age.
“Why do men rave about virgins, señor? They are awkward and clumsy and afford no satisfaction. Nobody wants wine which has been unfermented. Why do they insist upon virginity? The hen will cackle about it too. Don Juan was not in the mood! Is it for a man to be in the mood or for a woman to create it? Only boors are really hungry. A gentleman’s appetite is stirred by an apéritif. Not in the mood! Had she had an ounce of brain or training, or lacking these, an instinctive flair– —”
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 27
