His teeth clenched, his legs stiffened. Two bits of foam dotted the corners of his mouth. I remembered that in his youth he had suffered from epileptic seizures. I was on the point of raising him in my arms as I did, so long ago, and speaking to him tenderly.
I yearned to whisper to him: “John, how have you forgotten your friend? I am Isaac,—he who loved you and whom you loved. Do you not remember the hours we spent together? Do you not remember that in each other’s company we discovered Woman? Oh, the starry nights when we walked together along the shore of the Jordan and upon the hills that surround Jerusalem! Oh, the golden words we uttered! John…has your heart turned to stone?”
The foam trickled over his beard. He had the appearance of some unclean animal. Could not Jesus relieve him of his affliction? He gave life without improving upon it. I had improved mine, but in spite of him…
John opened his bloodshot eyes.
“Go! Continue your devil’s work that your soul may become blacker and blacker. Fight the Lord, neglect virtue and sanctity that your punishment may be the greater. I shall remain in this place. When the Lord returns, He shall find one spot where His gospel is inviolate, one disciple more faithful than Peter…”
‘Still jealous of Peter,’ I thought. ‘My search for John is ended. That which may be found, is it worth the seeking? If time has such evil power, may I never behold the face of Mary again.’
“Go!”
“Come, Kotikokura,” I whispered.
I took Kotikokura’s arm and walked out slowly.
L: “KOTIKOKURA, WHAT ARE WE?”—DO THE STARS HAVE A PURPOSE?—GROWTH
THE Mediterranean had never been so beautiful nor I so sad.
“You cannot imagine, Kotikokura, what I have lost. You saw John…if it was really John and not merely the wraith of an evil dream– —”
Kotikokura made a grimace.
“But had you seen him in his youth– —”
He shrugged his shoulders and twisted his mouth. Kotikokura was jealous. Whenever I mentioned John’s youth and beauty, he became irritable or made gestures of depreciation.
John! John! Was it possible? Could a man change so, or was it merely a normal development? Was the youthful rebel destined to become the middle-aged hard and relentless zealot? Must the beautiful courtesan change into a hag, loveless and unforgiving? Had I escaped the inevitable only because I remained young? Were the mind and soul conditioned upon the functions of the body, upon a mere nerve, a slow or fast pulsing heart, a well-developed or atrophied muscle?
“Kotikokura, what are we? What are we?”
Kotikokura grinned.
“What shall I seek now, Kotikokura? Have I not already found what I sought?” Kotikokura continued to grin. He was not at all displeased by my disillusionment.
“And yet,—I cannot live without a purpose. It is foolish. Do the stars have a purpose? Does the Mediterranean have a purpose? Why should I?… And yet…”
“Whither shall we go, Kotikokura? Are we indeed wanderers, aimless and hopeless? Is it not for us scorners and unbelievers to crush under foot gods and circumstances? Are we not the flame that rises above the ashes?”
Kotikokura knit his forehead and pouted his lips.
“Let us never acknowledge defeat! Crusades, Jerusalems, Armenian Bishops, Johns,—what are they to us? We shall survive them all, destroying their illusions and superstitions.”
Kotikokura stamped his foot.
“Disillusioned? Why not? Disillusion is a sharp sword that cuts the chain about our necks. Pain? Sorrow? No matter! Does the mountain complain against the cloud that darkens it or the rain that beats against it or the snow that freezes its peaks? The mountain lives on. Living, after all, is what matters. If we live long enough, we shall conquer everything. We shall pluck and eat of every fruit on the Tree of Knowledge.”
Kotikokura struck his leg with his closed fist.
“God defeats man merely because He outlives him. Give man sufficient time and what god shall survive? Or if a god should survive, what a magnificent god he would be!”
“Ca-ta-pha—god.”
“Perhaps…but for that reason, Ca-ta-pha must be strong; must overcome himself, must step upon his heart as he steps upon withered leaves which trees shed in autumn; must grow—must become…”
Kotikokura’s eyes dashed to and fro.
“Kotikokura too must become– —”
He looked at me inquiringly.
“I do not know what, Kotikokura. That is unimportant. The seed which is sown does not dream of the possibilities that are within it. It must grow…it must break through the earth…it must rise high…high. That is sufficient.”
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.