The prince

I will describe the unsettling situation I find myself in, since I have nothing but time. Maybe there is someone here who cares about this, wherever this place is, whenever this moment is.

Some theories postulate that the decline began with the 20th century. I disagree, and place the origin of this tragedy a century later. Be that as it may, the truth is that humanity's artistic talent has deteriorated, however much the majority lack the courage to accept it. Talent degeneration is the price we have to pay for the comfort of our lives, the price of our obsession with outsourcing our most innate abilities to technology. A seemingly benign custom that began with writing and continued with the printing press and artificial intelligence.

In my time works of art are no longer produced, this has led people to grant ancient works a divine value. In this civilization that once flirted with atheism, Renaissance paintings are now worshiped as gods, sects are formed around the tales of Edgar Allan Poe and in certain sanctuaries offerings are made to Verdi's La Traviata. I must emphasize that the apotheosis belongs to the works, not their authors. Although the prestige of the artists also increases, they are seen as nothing more than a mere instrument of the divine. It is difficult to establish categories for these religions, fanaticism or rituals usually depend on the individual.

My name is Samuel Fonseca and I'm now forty years old, my birthday was yesterday, May 29th. I'm from Madrid. I belong to a family of great power and I work as a manager in the company owned by my father, Juan Fonseca. Our relationship is not good, he always put work before family and he expects the same from me. We had both been widowed but my father married a second time, to despicable woman who only yearns for power. They had a son, Fernando, and my stepmother wants him to inherit the company. I became tired of these treacherous machinations and temporarily retired; I shut myself up at home and I dedicated my time to reading. My father worships Don Quixote and my stepmother a minor painting that she once mentioned and that I forced myself to forget because I didn't want to know anything about her. I haven't read Don Quixote, nor am I interested in painting or religion, but reading García Márquez in my living room I was able to see something unattainable. Although many will consider such works to be too recent.

In February of this same year I was kidnapped. I resisted in vain with unrecognizable violence, and my next memory is of the room I now find myself in. Once I got used to the brightness, I discovered that I was in a library. The crucifixes and the architecture suggested a monastery. In the middle of the room was a slender wooden throne accompanied by a lectern. The white greyhound hiding behind them received me with enthusiasm, the ears and tail had flecks of ochre colors. I was glad to know that I was not alone. The door and window were closed, there was no way out. The weight of the vigorous tomes seemed to compromise the health of the shelves. The books were old and the dust that varnished them advised me not to touch them. Later I learned that they dealt with religious and artistic themes, there were also encyclopedias, historical documents and even some anachronistic newspapers. In a wooden trunk I found what seemed to me to be the clothing of a king of the Middle Ages. The apparel was not to my liking, but the fight during the kidnapping had left my suit in an intolerable state and so I changed my clothes.

From the first day of my captivity I felt like I was being watched. I seemed to hear conversations on the other side of the window, but all I could see was a beautiful landscape of hills and blue skies that reminded me of Sicily. The days passed without news and to avoid boredom I resumed the habit of reading. Since I wouldn't be seeing anyone, I let my hair grow.

One Friday at the end of April I woke up more exhausted from the routine and the confinement than usual. I thought I had heard some words, nothing out of the ordinary. I put on a green tunic with yellow embroidery and covered myself with an ochre mantle of fur and feathers. For no other reason than aesthetics, I hung a heavy medallion around my neck. The day before I had seen some funny pointed sandals in the trunk and decided to wear them for the first time. The room was littered with parchment that I had carelessly abandoned. The clutter on some shelves was also my fault. I went to the throne carrying a hefty Bible and left it on the lectern, I had started reading it a few days before. I also grabbed one of the newspapers. I placed a red blanket on the back of the throne and a cushion of the same color at my feet. Once settled, I gave myself over to reading, with the window in front of me, as always.

After a few hours, fatigue stopped me. The greyhound was sleeping next to me and at that moment the boredom and terror of my captivity paralyzed me. I sat hunched over and exhausted; gazing lost at the horizon. It was then that I heard shouts of celebration. They came from the other side of the window. The uproar was such that it allowed me to clearly hear some words, among them was the name Carlos. The only impediment to my understanding was the multitude of overlapping voices. The celebration ended a couple of minutes later.

Already in the middle of May I examined an art book, more recent than the rest. Chance led me to a section about the paintings in the Prado Museum. On page 167, as if in a mirror, I saw myself sitting on the wooden throne with a lost gaze, moments before the celebration. But it wasn't me, the painting is titled The prince Carlos de Viana and its author is José Moreno Carbonero. My memory forced me to remember: that was the painting my stepmother venerates. The resemblance in our faces was impossible to comprehend: the same important nose on the sunken face, the prominence of the lower lip, the depth of the eyes under the long eyebrows.

I thought I understood what was going on and a week later I found evidence to support my theories. I looked for information about Carlos de Viana in the historical books of the library. I was not surprised to find it, nothing was a coincidence. I carefully read his biography and I saw mine reflected in his. The resemblance was not only physical, the details of my life that I mentioned before are mirrored in the life of Carlos de Viana, specially my relationship with my father. The fate of the prince is tragic, he died poisoned by his stepmother who sought to favor her son in the succession to the throne.

I was chosen for my physical resemblance and locked in this room by my stepmother's nefarious cult. They hoped that I would bring the painting to life and I did so, without knowledge and without coercion, with all my naturalness. Hence the celebration. This whole incredible sequence forces me to wonder if there really is something divine in that painting. I also wonder if they will consider me a messiah. And also if on September 23 I will die of poison at the age of forty, just like Carlos de Viana.