Sir Lancelot set out on the crusade on the pretext that God wanted it that way. He longed to see new places, that’s the truth; he was bored like a lighthouse keeper and thirsty for adventure. He, moreover, had heard of the women of the East, whose breasts are like palm trees and their waists like ivory doves. Or vice versa, he did not remember well. The fact is that Sir Lancelot began to make preparations for his trip. When his wife asked him why he was leaving, he replied solemnly: “-God wants it.” Pure lies: he wanted it. Sometimes we make God complicit in our desires, and we say that he orders what we want to do. That’s how we are. Before setting out on the journey, Sir Lancelot had the castle’s blacksmith make a chastity belt for Lady Guinivere, his wife. He knew her well, so he ordered the iron belt of the 14 (the same thickness as the sides of the “Titanic”). Naive! He didn’t know that when a woman wants to donate her person, it’s no use for the world to oppose her. Now her guardians can surround her with high walls, lock her up in strong dungeons, put an army of gatekeepers to guard her, hide her in the most intricate labyrinth: she will come out through the eye of a needle, she will scale the walls in a ray of sunlight, she will go invisible shadow among its custodians and will finally find the means to give what was given to be given. But I have gone through the hills of Úbeda. I mean I lost the thread of my original story. I go back to him. A friend of Sir Lancelot found out about the chastity belt and asked Sir Lancelot with the confidence of his friend: “-Forgive my frankness, comrade: why do you send Guinivere to put on that contraption? You know well that she is uglier than an endriago, an amphisbaena, or a dragon; You are not unaware that milk sours in its path, sheep miscarry, plants wither, the sky clouds over, statues crumble, and even the dogs that look at it remain cross-eyed, squint-eyed, squint-eyed, squint-eyed, or cross-eyed. On the other hand – I don’t say which one – she is more frigid than the snowy peaks of the Jungfrau. When she opens her mouth, a light bulb catches on, like future refrigerators. He once passed 14 leagues from a papaya field and froze them all; not a single one was left for the house. Why then, if she is as ugly as a harpy is your wife, do you make her wear a chastity belt? Sir Lancelot replies: “-When I return from the Crusade I am going to tell him that I lost the key on the trip”… Barbarian Sir Lancelot! He wanted to avoid at all costs the conjugal debt, an obligation prescribed utroque jure, by both civil and ecclesiastical rights. But, I ask, what was the point of her getting into so much trouble? Doing it without light would have been enough, or to imagine that he was, for example, with Clemencia Isaura, a lady whose pilgrim beauty inspired a thousand love songs to the ardent troubadours, or to think that he was enjoying himself with some lady similar to the legendary Novella d’Andrea –Umberto Eco quotes her in one of his books–, who professed a chair at the Bologna Athenaeum, whose magnificent rector made her give her class behind a curtain so that her prodigious beauty would not overwhelm the Piarists, separating them from the arduous discipline of study or – even worse – putting them in the temptation of concupiscent carnality. Do not apply your understanding, Lancelot, to external attractions: beauty – Chaucer said – is skin deep, it does not go beyond the skin. I hope this aphorism will help you: “A woman for what she is worth, not for her…”. Finish the aphorism yourself… END.
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