F0091 · The Maroon Kingdom / The Duduk at the Casa de Dante
Alberto arrived at the Casa de Dante with a mixture of anxiety and curiosity, wrapped in the uncomfortable costume of a court jester that Lionel had insisted he wear. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the eyes of those present fixed on him, examining him with a contempt that seemed to grow with each of his awkward movements. The hall was filled with a jumble of rough, cosmopolitan, and exotic men. The smells of garlic, salt, and spices filled the air as conversations shifted between maps of distant lands, rumors of alchemy, and political disputes. Unsure where to stand or what to do, Alberto approached a table of refreshments and clung to some little balls of dough filled with saffron rice, as though that simple act might give him some sense of security. In the distance, his attention was caught by a Castilian woman whose presence radiated a serene power. The Lady of Carpio, as someone whispered to him, inspired equal respect among Jews, Muslims, and Christians. But it was the young woman accompanying her, a girl of singular beauty, who truly unsettled Alberto. He felt their eyes meet in a way that left him vulnerable and bewildered, as though she could read his most intimate thoughts. As the minutes passed, Alberto began drinking more than he should. The warmth of the wine enveloped him, and he was about to make a fool of himself when an ethereal sound interrupted his thoughts: the duduk. From a corner of the hall, Farid, the young Arab, made the instrument’s deep, melancholy notes resound. Alberto, who stood some distance away, stopped to listen. The music reached him like a breeze crossing a desert, filling the space with a melancholy that seemed to come from the depths of time. Each note of the duduk became a lament evoking loss, longing, and a strange sense of beauty. Farid, with his serene bearing and enigmatic air, seemed to command not only the instrument but also the audience, which fell into a reverent silence. From where he stood, Alberto could not take his eyes off the musician, who radiated a quiet confidence and a power that depended on neither titles nor riches. As the notes continued to float through the air, Alberto remembered the words of his singing teacher in Rome: “You must not believe that singing is a privilege. Whoever has no need to sing is the truly privileged one. We, by contrast, bear the cross of our voice.” That music seemed a cross that Farid bore with unequaled dignity. Although he was far away, Alberto felt every vibration of the duduk like an echo of his own longings and fears. The notes seemed to answer questions he had never dared to ask, and at that moment he understood something that would mark him: music was not only art but also a portal to the transcendent. When the duduk’s final chord faded, the room filled with murmurs, but Alberto remained motionless. Farid’s music had transformed him, although he did not yet fully understand how.
F0091 · The Maroon Kingdom / The Duduk at the Casa de Dante
Alberto arrived at the Casa de Dante with a mixture of anxiety and curiosity, wrapped in the uncomfortable costume of a court jester that Lionel had insisted he wear. As soon as he crossed the threshold, the eyes of those present fixed on him, examining him with a contempt that seemed to grow with each of his awkward movements. The hall was filled with a jumble of rough, cosmopolitan, and exotic men. The smells of garlic, salt, and spices filled the air as conversations shifted between maps of distant lands, rumors of alchemy, and political disputes. Unsure where to stand or what to do, Alberto approached a table of refreshments and clung to some little balls of dough filled with saffron rice, as though that simple act might give him some sense of security. In the distance, his attention was caught by a Castilian woman whose presence radiated a serene power. The Lady of Carpio, as someone whispered to him, inspired equal respect among Jews, Muslims, and Christians. But it was the young woman accompanying her, a girl of singular beauty, who truly unsettled Alberto. He felt their eyes meet in a way that left him vulnerable and bewildered, as though she could read his most intimate thoughts. As the minutes passed, Alberto began drinking more than he should. The warmth of the wine enveloped him, and he was about to make a fool of himself when an ethereal sound interrupted his thoughts: the duduk. From a corner of the hall, Farid, the young Arab, made the instrument’s deep, melancholy notes resound. Alberto, who stood some distance away, stopped to listen. The music reached him like a breeze crossing a desert, filling the space with a melancholy that seemed to come from the depths of time. Each note of the duduk became a lament evoking loss, longing, and a strange sense of beauty. Farid, with his serene bearing and enigmatic air, seemed to command not only the instrument but also the audience, which fell into a reverent silence. From where he stood, Alberto could not take his eyes off the musician, who radiated a quiet confidence and a power that depended on neither titles nor riches. As the notes continued to float through the air, Alberto remembered the words of his singing teacher in Rome: “You must not believe that singing is a privilege. Whoever has no need to sing is the truly privileged one. We, by contrast, bear the cross of our voice.” That music seemed a cross that Farid bore with unequaled dignity. Although he was far away, Alberto felt every vibration of the duduk like an echo of his own longings and fears. The notes seemed to answer questions he had never dared to ask, and at that moment he understood something that would mark him: music was not only art but also a portal to the transcendent. When the duduk’s final chord faded, the room filled with murmurs, but Alberto remained motionless. Farid’s music had transformed him, although he did not yet fully understand how.
F0091 · El Reino Cimarrón / El duduk en la Casa de Dante
Alberto llegó a la Casa de Dante con una mezcla de ansiedad y curiosidad, envuelto en el incómodo disfraz de bufón cortesano que Lionel había insistido en que usara. Apenas cruzó el umbral, las miradas de los presentes se clavaron en él, examinándolo con un desprecio que parecía aumentar con cada uno de sus torpes movimientos. El salón estaba lleno de una mezcolanza de hombres rudos, cosmopolitas y exóticos. Los olores de ajo, sal y especias invadían el aire mientras las conversaciones fluctuaban entre mapas de tierras lejanas, rumores de alquimia y disputas políticas. Sin saber dónde quedarse ni qué hacer, Alberto se acercó a una mesa de bocadillos y se aferró a unas pequeñas bolitas de masa rellenas de arroz con azafrán, como si ese simple acto pudiera otorgarle algún tipo de seguridad. A lo lejos, su atención fue capturada por una mujer castellana cuya presencia irradiaba un poder sereno. La Señora del Carpio, según le susurraron, era alguien que inspiraba respeto entre judíos, musulmanes y cristianos por igual. Pero fue la joven que la acompañaba, una muchacha de belleza singular, la que realmente perturbó a Alberto. Sintió que sus miradas se cruzaban de una forma que lo dejó vulnerable y desconcertado, como si ella pudiera leer sus pensamientos más íntimos. Con el paso de los minutos, Alberto empezó a beber más de lo necesario. El calor del vino lo envolvía y estaba a punto de hacer el ridículo cuando un sonido etéreo interrumpió sus pensamientos: el duduk. Desde un rincón del salón, Farid, el joven árabe, hizo resonar las notas profundas y melancólicas del instrumento. Alberto, que estaba a cierta distancia, se detuvo a escuchar. La música lo alcanzó como una brisa que atraviesa un desierto, llenando el espacio con una melancolía que parecía provenir de las entrañas del tiempo. Cada nota del duduk se convertía en un lamento que evocaba la pérdida, la añoranza y una extraña sensación de belleza. Farid, con su porte sereno y su aire enigmático, parecía dominar no solo el instrumento, sino también a la audiencia, que se sumió en un silencio reverencial. Desde su posición, Alberto no podía apartar los ojos del músico, que irradiaba una confianza tranquila y un poder que no dependía de títulos ni riquezas. Mientras las notas seguían flotando en el aire, Alberto recordó las palabras de su maestro de canto en Roma: “No debes creer que cantar es un privilegio. Quien no necesite cantar es el verdadero privilegiado. Nosotros, en cambio, cargamos la cruz de nuestra voz.” Esa música parecía una cruz que Farid portaba con una dignidad inigualable. Aunque estaba lejos, Alberto sentía cada vibración del duduk como un eco de sus propios anhelos y temores. Las notas parecían responder a preguntas que él nunca se había atrevido a formular, y en ese momento comprendió algo que lo marcaría: la música no solo era arte, sino también un portal hacia lo trascendente. Cuando el último acorde del duduk se desvaneció, la sala se llenó de murmullos, pero Alberto permaneció inmóvil. La música de Farid lo había transformado, aunque todavía no entendía del todo cómo.