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 unknown 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– —”
I remembered my experience with Poppaea. Had Don Juan failed to be—Don Juan?
“Perhaps, señor,” I suggested, “you were distracted by something or other?”
“Perhaps. The fool Fernando came into my mind again and again, I do not wish to kill him. Why did he act like an idiot?”
“Is it really so important if he continues to live or not?”
He looked at me. “No! To the devil with him!” he shouted.
He walked up and down, his hands upon his back.
“And that Jewess has disturbed my thoughts. She is a virgin too—like all young Jewesses. But she cannot be so stupid! Besides, she is beautiful. How can such an abominable race produce such an exquisite creature, señor?”
“The roots of roses are set deeply in the mud.”