“I’m a Frenchman, and your devoted servant. And you, senora, or senorita, you probably belong to Cordova?”
“No.”
“At all events, you are an Andalusian? Your soft way of speaking makes me think so.”
“If you notice people’s accent so closely, you must be able to guess what I am.”
“I think you are from the country of Jesus, two paces out of Paradise.”
I had learned the metaphor, which stands for Andalusia, from my friend Francisco Sevilla, a well-known picador.
“Pshaw! The people here say there is no place in Paradise for us!”
“Then perhaps you are of Moorish blood—or——” I stopped, not venturing to add “a Jewess.”
“Oh come! You must see I’m a gipsy! Wouldn’t you like me to tell you la baji?* Did you never hear tell of Carmencita? That’s who I am!”
* Your fortune.