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By Root 775 0

more comfort in the low ones. Actually he knew his sense of anxiety was proportional to the attraction he felt for this music. Now that he thought about it, he really liked it, though he couldn’t have called it a passion. Aside from Chelo, he did know people who were passionate about opera. Something to do with the sea. There was a time great companies performed here on their way to America. Ships, however, no longer transported bel canto. What to do? A melancholy vision of things. It had been neglected. They had to agree that musical culture in the city had grown less. He’d mentioned this to various authorities. It’s not just a question of trusting in the use of force and propaganda. A cultural vacuum is dangerous, etc., etc. But of course idiots abound . . . He hadn’t said this, he’d kept it to himself. What he’d heard about the mayor. A spokesman for Friends of the Opera had gone to seek support for a festival and the mayor had replied with an intimidatory question, ‘How many friends are you? We’ll put you on a bus and . . . off to La Scala in Milan!’

What to do?

Chelo’s face goes back to normal, but is somehow different. Her gaze has the unthinking hardness of someone who’s managed to prevent a collapse, there is no collapse, and makes Ricardo decide to back down. Everything in him changes. He reveals the greatest discomfort, that of someone who’s lost control.

‘Excuse me. I was half joking. It doesn’t matter anyway.’

‘Of course it doesn’t. Stop thinking about what can or cannot be and think about what is. Stop seeing it as a curse.’

Ricardo Samos was silent for a moment. The time it takes for a coin to be flipped in the air and land on the palm of the hand.

‘I see it like that. I can’t help it. As a curse. I want my son to be a judge one day. I’ve a right to want this. I want him to be the best. And yes, you’re right. Do you know what they’re saying? The look in their eyes when they ask, “How’s your son? Can it be helped? Did you know about the orator Demosthenes?” And they keep cracking jokes. “When the judge finally passed sentence, the defendant was already in the street.” And so on. The whole city cracking jokes.’

‘The whole city?’

‘Those who matter to us at least.’

He’d been sincere. Often, in his lectures, he’d defended the concept of Dignitas non moritur. According to this traditional viewpoint, having dignity meant wielding and handing down power. He wasn’t going to discuss this now, the underlying coincidence between medieval political theology and his thought, a victor’s thought, which made this unwritten law applicable. The old idea that ‘dignity does not die’ and is inherited, a justification of privilege, ‘corporation by succession’. But no. This was not the time to explain to Chelo what he thought and felt, there was probably no point.

‘He may or may not become a judge,’ said Chelo, ‘but don’t talk to me about a curse ever again.’

This time, Ricardo Samos took notice. No, he wouldn’t use that word again. Besides, Gabriel’s difficulty with speech soon entered a new phase. Of rapid improvement, it seemed.

During a visit to Madrid, Grandpa Samos, who was then a high-ranking Navy legal officer, had tried to convince the judge that Gabriel’s problem was, in fact, the faltering expression of a sensitive and extremely gifted young boy. Ricardo didn’t pay much attention. He didn’t think his father an expert in such matters and, most of all, he couldn’t marry the idea of being extremely gifted with tripping over your tongue, being unable to express yourself, having such a terrible fear of words.

But when he heard the same thing from others he held in high esteem, such as Gueldo the judge, Fasco the prosecutor, Professor Sulfe and even Father Munio, his old fears gave way to this new idea that sooner or later there would be a change in Gabriel when all his aptitude came to the fore.

What worried Chelo, who’d assumed the task of seeking out and consulting specialists, was how little was known about speech impediments. The pedagogical vacuum. The lack of treatments. And, what shocked her more than anything,