“Kotikokura!” I exclaimed.
“Ca-ta-pha!” His sword dropped. “Ca-ta-pha!” He embraced me.
“This is the enchanted palace of Persia, Kotikokura,” I grumbled.
He took me in his arms like a child and placed me in a carriage. I fell asleep. When I awoke again, Kotikokura administered cognac and iced oranges.
“What has happened, Kotikokura? Where have I been?”
He explained that he suddenly became aware that I had disappeared from the salon of the Marquise. Nobody had seen me go. He shouted: Where is Ca-ta-pha, god Ca-ta-pha? Everybody laughed. He rushed out, upsetting several men and women. He looked for me at the hotel and at the cafe’s,—everywhere indeed where I was accustomed to go. He feared foul play. He had heard of spies and kidnappers. He rushed about the streets, calling out: “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” He stopped carriages, peered into windows, and finally returned to the hotel. I had disappeared! Meanwhile, day was breaking. He was desperate and commenced to search once more.
Finally, a lady, heavily veiled, stopped him, and pointed out the house where I was.
“It was Salome!” I exclaimed.
His jaw dropped.
“Dear old Kotikokura, best of friends and companions! What would I do without you?”
Kotikokura began to dance.
A lackey brought in a letter.
“From Salome, Kotikokura”
“Mon cher Lucifer,
Kotikokura, the most faithful of creatures”—Do you hear that Kotikokura?
Kotikokura grinned, his eyes luminous like a cat’s. “…must have taken care of you. Do you remember anything as grotesque as last night? Mon ancien, mon ami! Do not remain very long in Paris. The storm is rising. It is not safe.
“Before leaving, however, see Dr. Benjamin Franklin, inventor, publicist, statesman, and possessor of twenty-seven mistresses and several illegitimate children, which is not a mean record for a representative of a new country.
“Help him carry on the revolution. It may be that the New World will be a more habitable place than the old one. I doubt it. But let us try. Besides, you will lose nothing. Your banking system is splendidly organized. Rothschild is very clever. You have chosen well.
“Poor Herma! When she wakes up, she will find neither you nor me. A god-goddess for one night. But what a god—what a goddess, Cartaphilus!
“I am leaving for the Pampas, where I hope to create a more perfect being than Herma. I shall communicate with you as soon as I wish you to visit me. Meanwhile, take care of yourself and of your charming monster.
“Lilith, Regina.”
I remained pensive. I could not remember the embraces of Herma. Had I been enchanted by the ludicrous circus? Had I foregone godly pleasure? I tried to recollect. I remembered I protested against her—I called out: “This is not what I yearn for! You are neither Mary nor John! Go away!” I ran. Herma pursued me. “Help! Help! Monsieur le Chef de Police!” Suddenly, I noticed a tall pole with a yellow top. I climbed quickly. Herma fell and wept. I laughed.
“Kotikokura, oh that we may never find what we seek!”
He helped me descend from the bed.
“I am sick, Kotikokura.”
“Sick of the wine?”
“Sick of the earth…”
“No, no!”
“Pan—you love the earth too much.”
He gave me another cool drink into which he mixed cognac and orange juice.
“Bacchus!”
He began to dance.
I laughed heartily.
LXXXI: TWO PARALLEL LINES MEET—THE GARDEN OF SALOME—HOMUNCULA—A CENTURY IN RETROSPECT—ADVENTURES IN THE NEW WORLD—THE WOMB OF CREATION—A SIMIAN ABELARD—I PLAY CHESS—THE BLACK KING AND THE RED KING—THE LAST INGREDIENT—ULTIMATE MEANINGS—KOTIKOKURA SNORES
SALOME was standing at the tall bronze gate, waving her hand. In the reflection of the setting sun, she dazzled like a luminous body—a lake on fire or a full moon surrounded by a magnificent aureole. She was the snowy peak of a mountain, surmounted by a golden crown, a cataract of white roses, the foam of a gigantic wave congealed, a dream carved in stone.
“Gallop faster, Kotikokura, or she will disappear. She is Fata Morgana.”
We whipped and urged our horses and in our haste, we drove past her. Salome laughed, and ran a little to meet us. She embraced me, pressing me tightly to her breast.
Kotikokura stood a little aside.
“Come here, you little monster!” Salome ordered.
He approached her like a boy who is guilty of a misdemeanor. She embraced him.
“You are old enough, Kotikokura, to behave better.”
Kotikokura kissed her hand.
She took our arms and led us back to the gate of her inaccessible dominion. Meanwhile, a host of men and women whose faces were hidden by their enormous sombreros, ran from all sides, took care of our horses, and rushed to meet the long caravan which was approaching slowly.
“What is that, Cartaphilus?” Salome asked.
“My belongings and my gifts to the incomparable queen.”
She looked at me a little perplexed.
“I have come to stay, Salome. The Wandering Jew must have a spot to call his own. This is the twentieth century. He has exhausted all countries. The Zeppelin and the airplane make a jest of distance. I shall stay here for a century, perhaps forever…”
“Don’t be too sanguine,” she said, pressing my arm.
“Even in the most romantic novels or among the Anglo-Saxons, no hero waits more than two thousand years for his wedding night.”
“Incorrigible as ever and as ever, arrogant.”
“And more than ever in love with you.”
“Kotikokura, you should have taught your master patience and modesty.”
“Ca-ta-pha god.”
“In a godless world, there is still one believer,” she smiled.
“And in an unromantic world, there is still one lover,” I added.
“You are Don Quijote and not the Wandering Jew.”
“No, not Don Quijote,” I protested. “I saw him wandering about with Sancho Panza and their donkeys. He was a charlatan, a reformer of the kind one meets in America. He derived much profit from his grotesque notions, and the blows he received were much exaggerated by Cervantes who desired to arouse pity in the hearts of his readers. Sancho Panza, poor fellow, lived in the world of illusions attributed to his master. He believed in chivalry and in his master and received as recompense, rebukes and sarcasm from the latter, and the ridicule of every succeeding generation that reads the book.”
“Sancho Panza reminds me of Kotikokura. He too believes in his master and his master’s illusions and as reward, he obtains– —”
“His master’s love,” I interrupted.
“Ca-ta-pha god,” Kotikokura insisted.
Salome laughed and looked at me. Her eyes were like green stars.
“Salome is more beautiful than all illusions, more gorgeous than drug-begotten dreams.” I kissed her throat.
“Cartaphilus does not wait for his reward,” she said.
The gate opened wide at our approach. A burly individual bowed to the ground.
In the center of the garden, a tall fountain rose and fell softly like a long whip that strikes caressingly the back of a cherished animal. In the basin, black swans glided shadow-like. Peacocks spread wide their tails and followed their mistress, reflections of her magnificence. Upon the tall palm trees, small monkeys rushed up and down, screaming. A gigantic tortoise whose back glittered as a strangely polished jewel, moved imperceptibly, its head shaking like a silent bell.
I looked about, bewildered.
“Child,” Salome said, stroking gently my cheek, “you fear it is illusion again.”
“You always guess my thoughts.”
“No, this is not Persia—and what you see is reality.”
“So it seemed to me then.”
“This time you need not fear,” she assured me.
We entered the palace, a building massive and yet graceful, practical, solid. Here and there, however, were touches of daintiness that bespoke the nature of the owner. A strange mixture of freshness and antiquity pervaded the place which, instead of giving the impression of incongruity, suggested a beautiful harmony, as if time had merely removed the glare and blatancy characteristic of newness, but left all the freshness. I thought of an aged tree whose leaves had the tender greenness of saplings.