F0143 · —Love is an exterminating angel.

Alberto had arrived at court from Rome with Jorge the Greek, bringing not only his musical talent but also a soul marked by profound torment. Since his youth, a vision had altered the course of his life: in a ruined church near the Tiber, an angel had appeared to him. It was not the luminous figure of celestial sweetness promised by the scriptures, but something terrible and majestic. With wings black as night and burning eyes, the angel whispered a phrase he would never forget:

—Love is an exterminating angel.

From then on, Alberto lived with the certainty that to love was to destroy and be destroyed. This idea, like a persistent shadow, led him to shun sincere affections and take refuge in music, his only space for pouring out his torment without being judged. On arriving in Spain, he found a court divided by intrigues and ambitions, fertile ground for his cynical view of the world. Yet Luis Méndez de Sotomayor watched him warily. He knew Alberto was no ordinary musician. There was something dark about him, a presence that even the midday light could not dispel.

Alberto regarded Luis with a mixture of compassion and contempt. In his mind, the nobleman was another pawn of that exterminating love which had devastated his life. Luis had loved Inés, a Jewish woman, and now lived tormented by the consequences of that forbidden love. Meanwhile, Alberto composed songs about the fragility of the human heart and the inevitability of loss. His melancholy, heartrending melodies resounded through the court’s halls, captivating everyone except himself.

One night, Alberto attended a gathering dressed as a jester. He arrived late, when almost all the guests were already there. As he entered, their gazes turned toward him with poorly concealed contempt. He tried to greet them elegantly, but his insecurity was evident. He felt out of place, unsure whether to drink, speak or remain silent. He sought refuge in little balls of dough filled with saffron rice that he had seen in the neighborhood shops, eating mechanically as his eyes roamed the room.

The company was far from noble. Most were rough, bearded sailors who smelled of garlic and salt water. Yet among them Alberto noticed a Castilian woman before whom Jews, Muslims and Venetians bowed alike. She was the Lady of Carpio, he later learned from Antonio. But it was not she who captured his attention; it was the young woman accompanying her, a girl of singular beauty who seemed to radiate something more than mere wealth. As he watched her, the wine began to take effect, and Alberto felt the night slipping away from him.

When Farid took up his lute and began to play, the sound filled the room, and Alberto felt he could breathe for the first time in hours. There was something in Farid’s music that resonated with his own soul, an echo of his torment which, instead of wounding him, brought him comfort.

Days later, while walking through the cloisters of the church where Luis prayed for his children, Alberto witnessed a scene that altered his perception. In a dark corner of the church, a mother wept as she held her dying son. She whispered prayers, invoking angels to protect the child. At that moment, Alberto understood that although love could be an exterminating angel, it was also the only force capable of defying destiny. That paradox, that balance between destruction and salvation, inspired him to compose a work that spoke not only of lost love but also of hope.

From then on, Alberto began to question his view of the world. Although the exterminating angel never ceased to haunt him, he began to glimpse in love a beacon in the darkness. This led his path to cross that of Beatriz, Luis’s loyal daughter. Her steadfast spirit and innate compassion challenged his cynical conception of love. In her, Alberto saw a spark of redemption, though he knew the angel’s shadow would always be near.