Oranges and Lemons
Author: Julio Romero de Torres
A few days ago, I was at the Mosque in Cordova, Spain. The impressive ceilings rest upon a forest of nine hundred marble-and-jasper columns crowned with semicircular arches made of alternating stripes of white stone and red brick. It rendered the massive nave stunning beauty. In 1236, the Christian Kingdom of Castile conquered the Andalusian Moorish City. The new owners—who did not know any better—turned one-third of the building into a cathedral. Fortunately, most of the structure remained untouched. At night, a full moon presided over the glamorous city. I observed a few Muslim men caress with their finger pads the Arabic inscriptions on the doors.
The next morning, I sauntered outside the Mosque and admired the external architecture. A gypsy woman approached me. She had the beauty of the Cordovan ladies that artist Julio Romero de Torres had immortalized on his paintings—round face, bronze complexion, raven-black hair, and dark eyes with innocent and sensual look. She handed me a small twig of rosemary. Before I could refuse, she grabbed my right hand and read my palm,
“Your life line is long,” she said. “You will live many years.” She then looked straight in my eye and added, “You have a problem, but whatever it is, it will be solved.”
I did not ask her what kind of problem I had. At this stage in my life, I have none. She might use the same words for everyone. But to celebrate her good wishes, I have included a snippet of “The Hunchback of Notre Dame,” by Victor Hugo. It features Esmeralda, a gorgeous gypsy lady.
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At that moment a cry arose among the thieves:
“La Esmeralda! La Esmeralda!”
Gringoire shuddered, and turned towards the side whence the clamor proceeded. The crowd opened, and gave passage to a pure and dazzling form. It was the gypsy.
“La Esmeralda!” said Gringoire, stupefied in the midst of his emotions, by the abrupt manner in which that magic word knotted together all his reminiscences of the day.
This rare creature seemed, even in the Cour des Miracles, to exercise her sway of charm and beauty. The vagabonds, male and female, ranged themselves gently along her path, and their brutal faces beamed beneath her glance. She approached the victim with her light step. Her pretty Djali followed her. Gringoire was more dead than alive. She examined him for a moment in silence.
“You are going to hang this man?” she said gravely, to Clopin.
“Yes, sister,” replied the King of Thunes, “unless you will take him for your husband.”
She made her pretty little pout with her under lip.
“I’ll take him,” said she.
Gringoire firmly believed that he had been in a dream ever since morning, and that this was the continuation of it. The change was, in fact, violent, though a gratifying one. They undid the noose, and made the poet step down from the stool. His emotion was so lively that he was obliged to sit down. The Duke of Egypt brought an earthenware crock, without uttering a word. The gypsy offered it to Gringoire:
“Fling it on the ground,” said she.
The crock broke into four pieces.
“Brother,” then said the Duke of Egypt, laying his hands upon their foreheads, “she is your wife; sister, he is your husband for four years. Go.”
From the “Hunchback of Notre Dame,” by Victor Hugo
