It has surprised me between a lot, a lot, and not at all. See the four kings of Spain, the two in office and the two retired to their respective intimate purgatories, sitting gluteus to gluteus at the state funeral of Elizabeth II of England, I say. The most coveted image did not depend so much on the will of any of them, no matter how real, but on those responsible for the protocol of the act, God preserve them the British phlegm. They had enough to square the sudoku of placing 2,000 notables among notables without doing less or more than anyone to go tuning other bagpipes that were not their own.
The fact is that cousin Lilibeth, if she were Catholic, already accredits her first posthumous miracle to be considered a candidate for a sudden saint. Bringing together on the same plane, the four of them heartbroken, father and son, father-in-law and daughter-in-law, husband and wife with no other bond than the children. The images did not let us scrutinize their faces. Does not matter. They were livid. The incomparable setting, the overwhelming music, their own and collective emotion helped to hide any other feeling that could happen inside them. Because, beyond the political readings, that having them there will be, what was taking place on that bench was a live family drama. A father disowned by his bad head for his son and his heir. A stubborn old man in search of redemption and recognition. A humiliated wife biting the bullet for the umpteenth time in her life for her son, for her kingdom, for herself. And a stunned daughter-in-law torn between two worlds, perfectly aware of being the center of the news.
The news is that the ice between the King and the King has been publicly broken, because between the father and the son we will never know if it had already melted through love, what reasons it has that reason does not understand. And that the ice, once broken, cannot be broken again for the first time. It will never be the first photo. What we don’t know is if it will be the last. I do not think so. I bet there will be others. It may be at a wedding: the Borbón-Marichalar, the Borbón-Urdangarín and the Borbón-Ortiz grandchildren are of an age to deserve and they will surely deserve sooner rather than later. In a baptism it is already more difficult and, in any case, it would be after the corresponding wedding, except for the major surprise that a child born out of wedlock in the line of succession to the throne. Perhaps, most likely, the inevitable for sheer life expectancy, is that it be at the funeral of one of the two oldest. Don Juan Carlos, Doña Sofía, or vice versa. Because the thing about a wedding coming out of another wedding is usually a matter of romantic movies. But that another funeral comes out of a funeral is a pure and hard law of life. At the time
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