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.”

“That is true, señor. She is a rose. Her roots are in the—Ghetto.”

Kotikokura opened and shut his fists, grumbling: “Woman” from time to time.

“She is protected like a king’s treasure. My very name is sufficient to alarm all Jews.”

Don Juan resumed his walking. His shoes glittered like golden mirrors every time he broke the reflection of the sun, while his temples shone like thinly hidden ivory.

“Are the women of your country, señor, also mainly foxes and geese?”

“I have traveled in many lands, Don Juan, and have known women of all races and of all colors. Everywhere man complains against them. Woman has been compared to all creatures, wild or tamed, and still has not been explained.”

He looked at me, placing his hand upon his hip and closing a little his eyes. “Señor, from the first glance, I recognized in you a kindred soul.”

I bowed.

“You seek, evidently, as I do, the ultimate– —”

“Unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged, Don Juan.”

“Unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged,” he repeated. “That is it! This is what I have been seeking. To know what one seeks is as difficult at times as to find it. Señor, you have the lasting gratitude of Don Juan. I swear it by the sword and the cross!” He touched both.

He muttered to himself, “Unendurable pleasure indefinitely prolonged! But señor, I forget the seconds of Don Fernando must be waiting for me at my home. May I ask you to be my guest?” Looking up at Kotikokura, “My guests, gentlemen, for the rest of your sojourn in Córdoba.”

We bowed. I thanked him.

“The air here is stifling, putrid.” He screwed up his nose. He reminded me at that moment of an oversensitive and fastidious young woman.

Don Juan’s mansion was a neo-Moorish building, situated upon the bank of the Guadalquivir. A rectangular garden in which the flowers and trees were arranged with mathematical precision surrounded it on all sides, so that only the upper part of the house was visible when approached.

“I hate irregularity and disorder,” he told me. “I prefer to dominate nature and arrange the colors and sizes of my flowers in a harmony which pleases my eye. But I suppose this is due to my masculine temperament. I am logical in all things.”

This regularity, on the contrary, struck me as profoundly feminine. It seemed to me more like the fussiness of an old maid. Two male servants helped us with our clothing. A third one prepared food.

“Even my servants are men. I cannot endure the whimsicality of women in my domestic environment.”

The walls were covered with swords, weapons, heads of wild boars and other mementoes of Don Juan’s masculine prowess. Two small parrots screeched “Bienvenido,” ceaselessly. Several tiny birds in cages flapped their wings, warbling and whistling.

Don Juan invited me to sit at the table. Kotikokura, a large jug of wine between his knees, seated himself in front of the fireplace.

“A friend of mine,” remarked Don Juan, “a young poet, has expressed my life in a poem. This poem shall be my epitaph.

“And a thousand women were unable to dispel your gloom, Don Juan?”

“Only while their embraces lasted, and frequently not as long. A thousand women… What does it mean, señor? One obliterates the memory of the other, leaving us empty-handed. A man always says: ‘This one is different. This one’s lips will burn the flesh and touch the soul.’—But they hardly scorch the skin.”

“Woman is an attitude,” I replied, repeating my remark to Kotikokura. “It all depends upon what one seeks in her and how much one is willing to forgive in advance.”