"His heart busied itself, stubbornly, in the belief that the beautiful woman  he dreamed of belonged to him alone, because the others bought her and used her, but he would adore he forever. He committed the error of letting his guard down and allowing the delirium of that woman's name to lodge in his bloodstream in the form of jealousy, which is as obstinate as malaria itself, and from then on he began to carry within him the two plagues, which embraced him like twin rivers of fever and fire, distinct yet fluent. 

That was the serious problem, that he was jealous of Sayonara even before he loved her.
[...]
"Maybe they grieved for many women, each man for his own", acknowledges Sacramento today, "but to me it was as if they only spoke of her. No other name entered my ears, only Sayonara, Sayonara, falling like snow onto the high treetops in the midst of the suffocating heat, and I couldn't believe that there was any greater passion than the one that emanated from her."