“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.
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.”