Lyrics: LUIS BLANCO DÍAZ Late in the afternoon, I took a short nap and, as I sometimes do, I put classical music on the radio. There was an opera playing—I don’t know who was singing—but I was already dozing off, and with that little bit of music, I fell completely asleep. Apparently, my brain kept following the music and somehow carried me into a dream, into an opera house full of boxes and well-dressed people—women in long gowns, in short, the very cream of society. I found myself there in the back rows with some of my friends, including the Marquis of High Horn and the rest of the gang. They were amazed, and suddenly one of them asked me: “Do you know what we’re doing here?” From experience, I said I thought we were in a dream. And he replied, “Man, you even drag us into dreams for these little bargains and perks.” I said, “This isn’t a bargain. You’re about to see the tenor, the great Chelovski, and for free—what more could you want?” People turned around. “Shhh!” "Silence!" We fell silent, waiting, when the opera director appeared up above. He said, “Good afternoon,” and immediately burst into tears. He was a two-meter-tall man in a suit and bow tie, and he was crying heavily. I thought, “Well, what is this? Why is the director crying at the beginning?” Between sobs, he told us that Rancherowski had taken ill and would not be able to perform. Wow! What a scene: “Refund the money!” the audience shouted. We didn’t really care—we were in a dream and hadn’t paid anything—but if they were giving something out, we’d take it, even if it was dream money. The director explained to the people that he couldn’t refund the money because if he did, he’d be left with none. I thought, “This man has rock-solid logic.” Then one of my friends whispered, “But the Beggar is here—one of the best tenors in Europe.” The director’s eyes and ears opened wide, and the crowd began chanting, “Bring out the Beggar! The Beggar!” I said, “But how can you do this to me?” and he asked me, “Please, come up here.” I went up and asked permission to speak to the audience: “I have neither ear nor voice, and when it comes to music, I’m hopeless. On top of that, I think the score is in a foreign language I don’t understand—so everything is wrong.” The director, in tears, begged me, “Please, I don’t want to refund the money. I have a family—eight children to support—it would ruin me.” I said, “I can’t, but…” He insisted, “Just sing a little, justify the ticket price, that’s all. Afterwards, say whatever you want.” I saw that I was between a rock and a hard place. “If you want, I can tell some jokes—I’m better at that,” I said. “No, no, you have to sing opera,” he replied. So I jumped into that madness and looked at the orchestra. “We’ll do our thing; you do whatever you can,” said the director. They handed me a score; I didn’t understand a thing, so I raised my hand and started… "Laaa, Looo; YUUU, YAAAA..." and it sounded: “Rogues, scoundrel, you have no idea what you’re doing!” I thought, “But I literally just told you that.” The shouting continued: “Get out of here! You’re all scammers!” I was fully pulled into the circus of the dream, and everything kept getting worse. People in the back rows stood up, those in the middle started glaring at me, and I kept going, completely off-key and off-everything. I looked to the sides: on one side, the two-meter-tall director crying with arms like loaves of bread; on the other side, powerful men—bodyguards; and straight ahead, the audience. My friends moved closer, regretful, trying to see if they could help, and there I was, still going. Then a man stood up in front of me, in the middle aisle, wearing a black suit and tie. He looked back as if asking for approval. He pulled out a huge gun, put his finger on the trigger, and, seeking the crowd’s approval, shouted, “This is unbearable! This cannot be tolerated! This is a disgrace!” I opened my eyes wide and screamed with all my strength, thinking he was about to shoot. Aaaahhh! No! I woke up. A nightmare, a dream. What an opera afternoon. Damn that Chelovski. I never saw my friends again—I don’t know what they did. In the dream, when the gun came out, I didn’t see them anywhere. The point is, everything passed—it was just a dream—and in real life, it would never occur to me to impersonate a tenor or anyone else. I don’t know why this dream came about. Maybe it means something. I don’t know. That’s all.
