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.