F0141 · The Maroon Kingdom / Song and Dream
Alberto not only sang well. He was extraordinarily beautiful. Jorge, leaning against the tall window’s threshold, watched the candlelight dance across the monk’s face. His features were an unwritten poem, a justification for existence in themselves. “Everything about him is enough to justify his life,” Jorge thought, almost devoutly.
—Nothing will be more beautiful than making that monk sing pagan songs on my wedding day —he murmured to himself, his low voice charged with an emotion that hovered between admiration and desire. Then, turning to Farid, he added—: And you will accompany him.
Farid did not answer. His duduk kept filling the room with music that seemed to rise from the very heart of the desert, a melody that blurred time and space. That very night, before he began to play, he had said to Al-Hákim:
—You must hear that beautiful monk sing in Santa Sabina.
Hákim, with his customary indifference bordering on arrogance, had said yes. But where would he be now? Jorge wondered as he let the music envelop him. Surely wandering the streets of Rome, among murderers and prostitutes, as though those lost souls were an echo of the world in its purest state, without masks or redemptions.
That was the connection he had always felt with Hákim, a deep identification born in Trebizond that remained alive like a fire neither of them wished to extinguish. Both shared the same dark longing: to corrupt what they considered too beautiful or too pure. To tear their chosen ones from Zeno’s fate, from Epicurus’s chance, and free them from what they saw as humanity’s greatest error: the implacable steadfastness of the Christian message. To them, nature, in its wild immorality, was the true religion. As beautiful as the music Alberto and Farid would create together, Jorge was certain.
As these ideas danced through his mind, Jorge let himself fall onto a divan. He closed his eyes and, as so many times before, found himself dreaming of the last morning of Constantinople, the holy city that had fallen to the Ottomans. In his dream, he did not feel like a Greek from the decadent Byzantine Empire, but an Athenian, a Macedonian or, at worst, a Spartan. He saw himself as a modern Lycurgus, a legislator of his own destiny, willing even to accept Stoicism if it could reach the intellectual heights he attributed to his own mind at that moment.
Farid’s music kept resounding in the depths of his consciousness, like a distant echo, as he recalled the words of Brother William of Ockham, one of the few monks he truly considered worthy of that title. “Every logical problem is a problem of understanding, and reality resides exclusively in the brain.” Jorge smiled at the memory, convinced that, at least in that instant, he possessed the purest truth.
The thought faded as sleep claimed him, leaving the music, the candlelight and Alberto’s face floating in the dimness of his mind.
F0141 · The Maroon Kingdom / Song and Dream
Alberto not only sang well. He was extraordinarily beautiful. Jorge, leaning against the tall window’s threshold, watched the candlelight dance across the monk’s face. His features were an unwritten poem, a justification for existence in themselves. “Everything about him is enough to justify his life,” Jorge thought, almost devoutly.
—Nothing will be more beautiful than making that monk sing pagan songs on my wedding day —he murmured to himself, his low voice charged with an emotion that hovered between admiration and desire. Then, turning to Farid, he added—: And you will accompany him.
Farid did not answer. His duduk kept filling the room with music that seemed to rise from the very heart of the desert, a melody that blurred time and space. That very night, before he began to play, he had said to Al-Hákim:
—You must hear that beautiful monk sing in Santa Sabina.
Hákim, with his customary indifference bordering on arrogance, had said yes. But where would he be now? Jorge wondered as he let the music envelop him. Surely wandering the streets of Rome, among murderers and prostitutes, as though those lost souls were an echo of the world in its purest state, without masks or redemptions.
That was the connection he had always felt with Hákim, a deep identification born in Trebizond that remained alive like a fire neither of them wished to extinguish. Both shared the same dark longing: to corrupt what they considered too beautiful or too pure. To tear their chosen ones from Zeno’s fate, from Epicurus’s chance, and free them from what they saw as humanity’s greatest error: the implacable steadfastness of the Christian message. To them, nature, in its wild immorality, was the true religion. As beautiful as the music Alberto and Farid would create together, Jorge was certain.
As these ideas danced through his mind, Jorge let himself fall onto a divan. He closed his eyes and, as so many times before, found himself dreaming of the last morning of Constantinople, the holy city that had fallen to the Ottomans. In his dream, he did not feel like a Greek from the decadent Byzantine Empire, but an Athenian, a Macedonian or, at worst, a Spartan. He saw himself as a modern Lycurgus, a legislator of his own destiny, willing even to accept Stoicism if it could reach the intellectual heights he attributed to his own mind at that moment.
Farid’s music kept resounding in the depths of his consciousness, like a distant echo, as he recalled the words of Brother William of Ockham, one of the few monks he truly considered worthy of that title. “Every logical problem is a problem of understanding, and reality resides exclusively in the brain.” Jorge smiled at the memory, convinced that, at least in that instant, he possessed the purest truth.
The thought faded as sleep claimed him, leaving the music, the candlelight and Alberto’s face floating in the dimness of his mind.
F0141 · El Reino Cimarrón / El canto y el sueño
Alberto no solo cantaba bien. Era extraordinariamente hermoso. Jorge, apoyado contra el umbral del ventanal, observaba cómo la luz de las velas bailaba en el rostro del monje. Sus facciones eran un poema no escrito, una justificación en sí misma de la existencia. “Todo en él basta para justificar su vida,” pensó Jorge, casi con devoción.
—No habrá nada más hermoso que hacer cantar a ese monje canciones paganas el día de mi boda —musitó para sí, su voz baja, cargada de una emoción que oscilaba entre la admiración y el deseo. Luego, volviéndose hacia Farid, añadió—: Y tú lo vas a acompañar.
Farid no respondió. Su duduk seguía llenando la habitación con una música que parecía surgir del mismo corazón del desierto, una melodía que desdibujaba el tiempo y el espacio. Esa misma noche, antes de que comenzara a tocar, le había dicho a Al-Hákim:
—Tienes que escuchar cantar a ese hermoso monje en Santa Sabina.
Hákim, con su acostumbrada indiferencia que rozaba la arrogancia, había respondido que sí. Pero ¿dónde estaría ahora? Jorge se lo preguntaba mientras dejaba que la música lo envolviera. Seguramente vagando por las calles de Roma, entre asesinos y prostitutas, como si esas almas perdidas fueran un eco del mundo en su estado más puro, sin máscaras ni redenciones.
Esa era la conexión que siempre había sentido con Hákim, una identificación profunda que había nacido en Trebisonda y que seguía viva como un fuego que ninguno de los dos deseaba apagar. Ambos compartían el mismo anhelo oscuro: corromper aquello que consideraban demasiado hermoso o demasiado puro. Arrancar a sus elegidos del hado de Zenón, del azar de Epicuro, y liberarlos de lo que veían como el mayor error de la humanidad: la firmeza implacable del mensaje cristiano. Para ellos, la naturaleza, en su salvaje inmoralidad, era la verdadera religión. Tan bella como la música que Alberto y Farid crearían juntos, estaba seguro Jorge.
Mientras estas ideas danzaban en su mente, Jorge se dejó caer sobre un diván. Cerró los ojos y, como tantas veces antes, se encontró soñando con la última mañana de Constantinopla, la ciudad santa que había caído ante los otomanos. En su sueño, no se sentía un griego del decadente imperio bizantino, sino un ateniense, un macedonio o, en el peor de los casos, un espartano. Se veía como un Licurgo moderno, un legislador de su propio destino, dispuesto incluso a aceptar el estoicismo si este podía alcanzar las alturas intelectuales que él atribuía a su propia mente en aquel momento.
La música de Farid seguía resonando en el fondo de su conciencia, como un eco lejano, mientras recordaba las palabras del hermano Guillermo de Ockham, uno de los pocos monjes a quienes realmente consideraba digno de ese título. “Todo problema lógico es un problema de entendimiento, y la realidad reside exclusivamente en el cerebro.” Jorge sonrió ante el recuerdo, convencido de que, al menos en ese instante, estaba en posesión de la verdad más pura.
El pensamiento se desvaneció mientras el sueño lo reclamaba, dejando la música, la luz de las velas y el rostro de Alberto flotando en la penumbra de su mente.