Chapter 1 – The Order of the Gaze56Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡQYdSOJ1thu
Father Felipe finished Juan Alonso Maldonado’s confession and looked out at the long line of boys waiting their turn. He spotted Rafael Ernesto Larraín, fifteen years old, in the middle of the line, just like the rest. With a subtle wave of his hand, he signaled him forward, he would be next. Father Felipe understood perfectly the logistics required to give the sons of illustrious families enough time to prepare for their Sunday social obligations. Confession, though essential, was never to become an obstacle to those commitments.
Rafael’s wait for his post-Mass confession had stretched longer than usual. The reason: a conversation with the Edwards twins, who were speaking enthusiastically about a couple of girls from the French delegation. They had danced with them the previous evening at the Lyon mansion. Rafael had listened without interjecting, distracted. Seated near the back of the nearly empty pews by the entrance, he lost all sense of time.
Technically, Rafael could have moved to the front. Young aristocrats often had formal lunches that required meticulous dressing—sometimes an uncomfortable tuxedo—and everyone understood that boys like the Alessandris, Undurragas, Adunates, or Gallos needed to finish their confessions first to arrive on time and presentable. Rafael, however, rarely exercised this prerogative. It felt contradictory to cut the line only to enter a confessional and admit his sins.
As his turn approached, he squared his shoulders and drew back the curtain. Father Felipe was already waiting, his head tilted slightly in acknowledgment.
“Go ahead, Rafael,” he said softly. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Rafael knelt carefully, adjusting the hem of his jacket. The wood was cold, polished by time. He lowered his head without being asked.
“Speak freely,” Father Felipe added. “Here, we reflect; we do not condemn.”
Rafael nodded, absorbing the weight of the words.
“Father… I have had thoughts I shouldn’t have. Persistent, insistent thoughts. I didn’t seek them out, but I haven’t turned them away as I ought to.”
Father Felipe listened in silence, without interruption.
“I have committed no sinful acts,” Rafael continued. “But I feel my attention drifting. And that unsettles me.”
Father Felipe inclined his head a little further, attentive.
“Is it a vague unease, or does it have a face?” he asked gently.
Rafael hesitated for a moment—not from fear, but from modesty.
“It has a name, Father.”
“If you speak it here,” Father Felipe replied, “it is because you trust it will be understood.”
“Virginia.”
The name hung suspended between them. Father Felipe showed no judgment, no surprise.
“Don Agustín’s daughter,” he noted, simply stating a fact.
“Yes, Father.”
“Feeling attraction is not a sin in itself,” Father Felipe said at last. “Even less so when there is no intent to transgress. The danger is not the feeling, Rafael, but allowing it to become the center. When a person occupies too much space inside, they displace everything else.”
Rafael lowered his gaze.
“That is what I fear. That my eyes will betray me. That I will show disrespect without meaning to.”
“Discipline begins there,” Father Felipe answered. “In the gaze. In knowing when to look away. Not to deny what you feel, but to govern it.”
Rafael drew a deep breath before continuing.
“Just before coming in here… I acted on a sudden impulse, Father. I was talking with the Edwards brothers outside—Sebastián Andrés and Marco Antonio—while we were waiting. I asked if I could join them for lunch today, at their house.”
Father Felipe did not interrupt him.
“I invited myself,” Rafael admitted. “It was a bold thing to do. I only wanted to see her. Afterward, I felt out of place, even ashamed.”
“And did they accept?” Father Felipe asked calmly.
“Yes,” Rafael replied. “Of course. They couldn’t very well say no, ‘We are…’” He faltered, aware of the weight of the surname. “You know, Father.”
Father Felipe remained silent for a few seconds.
“It is good that you acknowledge it,” he said finally. “Impulse exists; what matters is what you do with it. When you see her today, remember this: Virginia does not belong to you. Not by desire, nor by thought. She is a daughter of God. Show her respect. And show yourself temperance.”
Rafael nodded.
“I want to do it right,” he said with sincerity.
Father Felipe nodded back.
“That is what sets you apart. Inner vigilance is not punishment; it is formation. And you are at an age to be formed.”
He assigned the penance with precision, but without severity.
“Constancy,” he added. “And inner silence. Not everything that is felt should be cultivated.”
Rafael remained kneeling for a few seconds longer after receiving absolution. Not from fear, but from habit. The moment demanded an internal closing, a stillness before returning to the world.
When Rafael stepped out of the confessional, he walked slowly down the nave of the church. He felt relief, and a strange clarity. He had told the whole truth. Even the name.
Rafael still believed that the truth, spoken at the right time and into the right ear, always set the world in order.
He did not yet know that others, in that very same space, were learning exactly the opposite.
As Rafael walked toward the main doors, he noticed Fernando Pereira up ahead, waiting his turn. Fernando’s posture—slightly hunched, shoulders tense, an air of containment—struck him as unsettling. Rafael did not yet understand that not all confessions produced order or calm.
He adjusted his jacket, took a deep breath, and stepped into the real world: the Edwards’ house, Virginia waiting, and a lunch that promised to be as social as it was revealing.
Every step reminded him of Father Felipe’s words: the gaze, the temperance, the control of impulses. That silent warning would accompany his every gesture.
Chapter 2 – The Weight of Silence
Fernando Pereira had long known that impatience in the confessional line was a mistake. The urge to reach the wooden booth—stifling, though always polished—was strong, if only so he could escape it as quickly as possible. That midday, with the line crawling forward and several young aristocrats slipping ahead of him, his patience was being tested to its limit.
At last, when he glanced back and confirmed that no boy with an illustrious surname remained poised to cut in front of him, he felt a muted flicker of relief. It was finally his turn.
Inside the narrow cubicle, Father Felipe gave a sharp, impatient flick of his hand.
“On your knees, Pereira. Show some respect. This is a sacred place, and you’ve come to ask forgiveness.”
“With respect, Father, I’m well aware of that,” Fernando replied, kneeling with a measured, deliberate coolness—a restraint that always unsettled the priest.
“You are here to cleanse your soul,” Father Felipe continued. “You will speak the truth—without hedging, without excuses—with genuine remorse and a sincere desire to change. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Good. Then let us not waste time. This confession is an opportunity. Do not squander it with excuses or half-truths.”
Fernando knew exactly how to proceed. The strategy was simple: admit only minor faults—just enough to satisfy the priest—and bury the rest. His mind worked like a chessboard; every word had to be placed with precision.
He was about to begin when he sensed a shift in Father Felipe’s posture. Through the narrow slit of the confessional, the priest had spotted Julián Vicente Gallo approaching, visibly impatient. Father Felipe’s expression hardened.
“Stand up, Pereira. Go wait outside. Young Gallo will confess first. Reflect while you wait—this is your chance to change, not to ruin it with omissions.”
Fernando watched him with that quiet, unreadable calm that Father Felipe often read as silent provocation. A calm born not of arrogance, but something older—resentment.
“With respect, Father… I also have a commitment at one o’clock. A serious one. I cannot wait.”
Father Felipe raised an eyebrow, disdain sharpening his features.
“A commitment?” he asked. “And what, exactly, could be more important than young Julián’s family meal this afternoon?”
“I am expected for a luncheon at His Eminence the Cardinal’s palace. He asked for punctuality.”
Father Felipe’s jaw tightened. A boy like Pereira, invited to dine with the Cardinal—irritation mixed with impotent frustration he could scarcely conceal. He could not send him away now—but neither could he ignore such insolence.
“If you are lying to me, Pereira, you will need more than a confessional to save you.”
“I’m not lying. His Eminence Juan Francisco Errázuriz del Río is expecting me at one o’clock.”
“And why in God’s name would Cardinal Errázuriz want you anywhere near him?”
“That, Father, you would have to ask him yourself,” Fernando replied, his voice glacial.
“Pereira, if you think you’re being clever—”
“Not at all. May hell take me if His Eminence isn’t waiting for me at one.”
The name landed with weight. Father Felipe remembered then the scholarship the Cardinal paid for Pereira—six thousand escudos a month. Charity, yes. But an invitation to the palace… that was something else entirely.
He exhaled sharply, stepped out of the confessional, and exchanged a few curt words with Julián to excuse himself. Julián accepted with visible irritation. Father Felipe returned to the cubicle, tense.
Fernando remained perfectly still.
“Very well, Pereira,” Father Felipe said at last. “Begin. Confess your sins of thought and deed with honesty and humility.”
Fernando nodded, controlled.
“Father… last week I let my mind wander during Mass. And yesterday I arrived late to athletic practice. It won’t happen again.”
The silence that followed was long and heavy. The rigidity in Father Felipe’s face made it clear this was insufficient.
Fernando sensed it and continued, adjusting his tone.
“I’ve also let opportunities pass to help classmates in subjects I know well. I’ve felt anger without clear cause… and, at times, a bit of envy toward those who seem to advance effortlessly.”
He stopped. He had said enough.
Father Felipe studied him.
“Anger and envy are dangerous,” he said. “And impure thoughts?”
“I’ve had distractions, Father. But I keep them under control.”
“The flesh is the first doorway to sin,” Father Felipe replied. “Night and morning are times of vigilance. You must master your body.”
Fernando listened as one listens to a performance repeated too many times.
Father Felipe leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“And another thing. Bathe. Scrub yourself properly. This is not just hygiene—your body shows where you come from.”
The words hung in the air like a verdict.
“Yes, Father,” Fernando said. “I understand.” He pressed his fingers together for a moment, then released them.
Through the slit, Julián waited, visibly annoyed.
“I believe that is all, Father,” Fernando concluded. “I’ve confessed what was required.”
Father Felipe paused.
“Very well. I expect real change—not just words. That is all.”
Fernando rose and stepped out of the confessional with the calm of someone who knows that true cunning lies not in what is confessed, but in what is withheld. He checked his watch, adjusted his jacket over his shoulders, and walked into the midday light.
He had learned nothing new; he had merely confirmed, once again, that his silences weighed more than all of Father Felipe’s prayers.
Chapter 3 – The Guarded Table
The Shimmer of the World
Rafael arrived at the Edwards’ house shortly after Sunday Mass. The change was immediate: from the contained silence of the chapel to the controlled shimmer of the social world. Midday light poured unabashedly through the hall windows, glinting off polished wood and discreet gold accents—an elegant order that never needed to flaunt itself to be felt.
His stride was confident, natural. Houses like this, with their measured greetings and polite conversations, were not foreign to him. He had grown up moving through similar spaces, reading hierarchies, restraining gestures. Nothing about it unsettled him.
The only thing that quickened his pulse was Virginia.
The thought of having her so near—perhaps seated beside him at lunch—tightened his chest with a mix of anxiety and anticipation he could barely master. It wasn’t fear of the Edwards or of Don Agustín; they posed no threat. What truly worried him was subtler still: that the brothers and the father, with their indulgent humor, might interfere, closing off any space he tried to open.
Virginia appeared at the drawing-room threshold. Her presence was neither loud nor dramatic; it simply was. She wore quiet elegance, her hair gathered in a deliberately effortless style. When she saw him, she offered a discreet, almost whispered smile—just enough to acknowledge him without drawing attention.
“Hello, Rafael,” she said, inclining her head slightly. “Thank you for coming.”
“The pleasure is mine,” he replied, lowering his voice so it wouldn’t betray the quickened beat in his chest.
The greeting was brief, proper. Nothing more. And yet that minimal closeness was enough to alter the air around him. Rafael felt every sense sharpen, his body tense with the simple awareness of having her before him.
As they moved toward the dining room, he barely noticed the others. The Edwards brothers were there, as always—animated, confident, owners of the space. Don Agustín spoke with one of the guests, relaxed, observing without seeming to observe. All of it was background noise. Rafael’s attention was fixed on Virginia, on the exact distance separating them, on the urgent need to find a moment, a crack, before the meal advanced and the overlapping conversations folded in on themselves.
He knew every gesture had to be measured. Any word out of place could be interpreted, commented on, neutralized. But if Rafael did nothing—if he let the lunch pass without establishing even the slightest dialogue—the boldness of having shown up that day—almost as a tacit invitation—would dissolve into empty courtesies.
The Fine Maneuver
The dining room was arranged with the precision of a ritual repeated for years. The long table, the aligned silver, the glasses catching the midday light—everything spoke of custom, hierarchy, and control. Rafael took his seat carefully, aware of every movement and of the place assigned to him.
Virginia sat across from him, not beside him. Close enough to feel her presence, yet far enough that contact was impossible. That minimal distance—almost insignificant to anyone else—struck him as deliberate.
During the first few minutes, conversation flowed naturally: remarks about the upcoming trip to Europe, light anecdotes, well-timed laughter. Rafael listened, nodding when appropriate, waiting for the moment he could lean slightly toward Virginia and say something that might open a space just for the two of them. That moment never came.
When he finally summoned the courage to speak, Sebastián Andrés turned to him with a mischievous grin.
“But tell me, Rafael,” he said, resting an elbow on the table, “you won’t be in Rome while Marco and I are in Paris, will you?”
The question fell lightly, almost like a casual remark, but Rafael understood its purpose. Even so, he replied:
“Yes. I’ll be in Rome with my family.”
Marco Antonio didn’t wait a second before jumping in.
“Better yet, then,” he said, laughing. “From Rome, you come straight to Paris in January. By then we’ll have done the hard work…” He gave a quick wink. “We’ll introduce you to some lovely French girls so you don’t arrive too green.”
The twins’ laughter filled the dining room—broad, confident. Rafael felt the opportunity he had been waiting for dissolve amidst jokes and raised glasses. It wasn’t just youthful humor; it was a maneuver. A graceful, almost surgical way of reclaiming the center of the table and pushing him aside.
Don Agustín joined in with a calm, measured chuckle.
“Not a bad idea,” he said. “Paris always teaches more than Rome. And the younger one learns, the better.”
The sentence was light, almost casual, but Rafael caught the underlying message: not yet. Not here. Not now.
Virginia finally intervened, her tone soft, almost conciliatory.
“Oh, be quiet, you clowns!” she said. “You’ve left Rafael speechless.”
Her smile accompanied the scolding—light, without edge. She wasn’t really defending him, only keeping the balance of the room. Rafael noticed the nuance with a bitter sting. She wasn’t reaching out; she was preserving harmony.
The conversation moved on, driven by the twins, the father, and the social noise that imposed itself effortlessly. Rafael participated when necessary, but every attempt to redirect his attention toward Virginia was absorbed by a new joke, anecdote, or question delivered with surgical precision.
Rafael realized then that this wasn’t a frontal attack, but something far more effective: constant occupation. They weren’t denying him a seat; they were neutralizing him.
Under the table, he clenched his hands, feeling his nails dig into his palms. He lifted his gaze for a moment and met Don Agustín’s eyes. The look was brief, even kind, but unmistakable. Rafael read it clearly: we see you, boy. And we know what you want. But not yet.
He accepted the outward silence, though frustration burned inside. The lunch progressed, and with it the certainty that today would not be the day.
The Weight of Silk
It wasn’t intentional or planned; it simply happened. The unexpected arrival of other guests forced a slight reshuffling of seats, and Rafael ended up beside Virginia.
The closeness was immediate, overwhelming. As he settled in, her skirt brushed against his knee—a minimal, casual contact, yet enough for Rafael to feel it like a sharp blow to his chest. He sat motionless, acutely aware of every inch of his own body, and of the exact space he now shared with her.
Virginia’s perfume—light, faintly floral—reached him clearly. It wasn’t invasive, which perhaps made it all the more unsettling; it clouded his thoughts. Don’t look. Don’t betray yourself, he commanded himself.
Virginia, on the other hand, inhabited that silence with ease. She took part in her brothers' chatter, laughing at the right moments, while maintaining an impeccable, distant courtesy toward Rafael. A slight nod, a half-smile. Nothing more. That “nothing” carried weight.
Rafael then noticed Don Agustín’s gaze. It wasn’t immediate or constant, but intermittent and calculated. The father watched from the far end of the table with an attentiveness that didn’t seem directed solely at him, yet inevitably returned.
For a moment, Rafael thought the man had read him completely: the rigidity of his shoulders, the barely perceptible tremor in his hands beneath the tablecloth. He felt a hollow open in his stomach. But the expression he found was not one of censure.
It was indulgence. A quiet, almost benevolent condescension—more humiliating than any reproach. As if saying without words: this is only natural, boy, but it isn’t serious yet.
Rafael swallowed hard. His body knew it; his blood knew it. Virginia suddenly laughed at something Sebastián Andrés said. The sound was clear, sharp, and it pierced him with an unexpected sting. There was no flirtation, no intent, but it hurt all the same. She moved through that world with ease, without fear. Two extra years of life that felt like an abyss between them.
Suddenly, Marco Antonio threw him a question about the coming weekend. Rafael leaned forward slightly to answer, and in that natural movement, his arm pressed against Virginia’s. It wasn’t a brush of silk; it was the real weight of his body against hers. Rafael held the pressure a second longer than necessary, feeling the pulse racing in his own neck, before straightening with a control that cost him dearly.
She didn’t seem to notice. Or perhaps she simply knew how to hide it better.
Lunch continued amidst overlapping conversations and measured laughter. Rafael participated just enough, guarding every gesture and every word. Inside, however, the certainty settled with blunt clarity: he was far too close and, at the same time, completely out of reach.
When dessert arrived, he barely took a bite. His attention was fixed on Virginia’s breathing, on the way she rested her hand on the tablecloth, on the minimal distance he had to maintain so as not to betray himself.
Yet, despite the frustration, something persisted.
I’m not a child, he repeated to himself with silent obstinacy.
Perhaps not today. Perhaps not here. But he would learn. He would wait. Because, even under the father’s watchful eye and the brothers’ barriers, the desire remained intact. And that, he told himself, also mattered.
The Forced Wait
Coffee marked the beginning of the end. The cups appeared as a tacit signal that the after-meal conversation was winding down; there were visits to make, pending engagements, and other protocols to attend to. Conversation drifted into small groups—less structured, but no less watched.
Rafael took the moment to catch his breath. He leaned back slightly in his chair, stretching his fingers under the table as if only then regaining feeling in them. Virginia remained beside him, though angled a bit more toward her father, listening attentively as he commented on something trivial about the coming week.
There was no opening.
No opportunity.
And yet, the closeness had been enough to leave him shaken.
They rose one by one. Rafael did the same, his movements controlled, conscious of every gesture. Virginia stepped ahead a few paces to say goodbye to some guests. The dining room light fell on her naturally, as if the world knew exactly where it was meant to rest.
Don Agustín approached him then.
“Rafael,” he said cordially, “I’m glad you came. It’s always good to see the young people gather after Mass.”
The tone was kind, proper, even affectionate. But beneath the words lay a clear message: everything was in order because nothing had stepped out of line.
“Thank you, Don Agustín,” Rafael replied. “It was a pleasure.”
The man nodded, placing a brief hand on Rafael’s shoulder. The gesture was short, almost paternal. Rafael felt it like an invisible mark: approval, yes—but within precise limits.
Virginia returned at that moment. She stopped in front of him.
“Thank you for coming, Rafael,” she said. “It was a pleasant lunch.”
Pleasant.
The word was impeccable. Neutral. Final.
“Thank you for having me,” he answered, holding her gaze just a second longer than necessary before letting it go.
She smiled—light, polite. Nothing promised. Nothing denied.
As Rafael stepped out of the house, the afternoon air struck him with almost violent clarity. He walked a few unhurried steps, straightening his jacket, breathing deeply. The outside world felt different after that dining room: wider, less controlled, but also colder.
He had gone hoping for an opening.
He left with a different certainty.
He had been observed, measured, contained. The brothers, the father, even Virginia—each in their own way—had marked the limits of the space he was permitted to occupy. It wasn’t rejection. It was forced waiting.
As he walked away, Rafael understood something he didn’t like but accepted with clarity: desire wasn’t enough. Neither was courage. In that world, time itself was a form of power.
And he didn’t have it yet.
But he would.
Not today. Not at fifteen.
But the seed was planted, and Rafael had no intention of leaving before seeing it grow.
Chapter 4 – The Orbit of Power
The Shadow of the Palace
Fernando Pereira arrived at the episcopal mansion shortly before noon. The Santiago sun fell straight and unforgiving, and the contrast with the building’s austere façade struck him as almost offensive. High walls, pale stone—a stillness that belonged not to the real world but to another, slower and heavier.
He pushed the large wooden door with a decisive gesture. His boots carried traces of dust from the road; his jacket, worn past its prime, did not fit the immaculate silence of the vestibule. He sensed the contrast immediately. Here, everything was designed so that one felt observed even before being seen.
An assistant led him down a long corridor adorned with portraits and crucifixes. Fernando walked without lowering his gaze, yet without defiance. He had learned, through invisible blows, that open insolence served no purpose in certain places. In others, yes. Not here.
As he moved, the reason for his presence crossed his mind. This was no ordinary invitation. Not a courtesy. Lunch at the Cardinal’s mansion carried its own weight—a weight measured neither in dishes nor in words, but in what it meant to be summoned, upheld, observed from above.
Unbidden, he thought of his school, the Santa Cruz Academy. Of the hallways, of the glances that never fully turned away, of the barely muffled whispers whenever he passed. The repeated surname—a history known by all and named by none. There, he was always the one who had to prove a little more. Here, however, he was received.
The main room had been prepared with impeccable sobriety. Nothing ostentatious, nothing superfluous. Cardinal Juan Francisco Errázuriz del Río waited seated, upright, his cassock perfectly arranged. He did not rise immediately. He lifted his gaze first.
“Fernando,” he said, his voice calm, unhurried. “I’m glad to see you.”
The tone was neither warm nor cold. It was exact. Measured.
Fernando stopped a few steps away. For a moment, he considered responding as he would anywhere else, with the quick, easy boldness that came naturally to him. But not here. Not now. He straightened his shoulders slightly and spoke with a correctness that would surprise anyone who didn’t know him well.
“Thank you, Your Eminence. The trip was short.”
The Cardinal nodded, studying him closely. Not as one who judges, but as one who evaluates something deemed important. Fernando felt the gaze move over him without touching him, pausing on the smallest details: posture, tone, control.
“Sit,” the Cardinal instructed, indicating the table.
Fernando obeyed. As he did, he couldn’t help thinking how strange the scene was. Nowhere else in the world would someone like him be seated here—invited, expected. Not for his surname, not for his origin, but for something he still didn’t fully understand.
Lunch had not yet begun. But the test, he knew, was already underway.
The Measure of Merit
The meal was served without ceremony. A discreet gesture from the Cardinal was enough for the assistant to disappear and return with the dishes, placing them with almost mechanical precision. Everything at that table seemed to obey a pre-established order—invisible yet absolute.
Fernando watched in silence. It wasn’t the food that commanded respect—he had seen far more abundant tables—but the way every movement seemed calculated to leave no residue: no noise, no excess, no undue familiarity.
“The rector spoke well of you,” Errázuriz del Río said as they began. “Not only of your results, but of your consistency.”
Fernando lifted his gaze only slightly.
“I do what I can, Your Eminence.”
It wasn’t false modesty. It was caution.
“That is often more than most do,” the Cardinal replied. “On the field and off it.”
Fernando understood the subtext immediately. It was never just about football.
“You play a strong rival tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Fernando said. “But we’re prepared.”
The answer was automatic. Steady. Like when he spoke about the game—there, he never hesitated.
The Cardinal allowed himself the faintest smile.
“Confidence is a virtue… as long as it doesn’t turn into arrogance.”
Fernando nodded. He had heard versions of that phrase too many times, almost always directed at him. But here, it sounded different. Less corrective, more preventive.
They ate in near silence. Not uncomfortable. Dense.
Fernando thought, unwillingly, of other lunches. Of tables where laughter blocked, where jokes closed doors, where polite words said nothing. Here there was no mockery, no warmth. Only a constant attention that weighed more than any contempt.
When the plate was taken away, the Cardinal spoke again:
“After the match, I want to know how it went.”
It wasn’t a request. Nor an explicit order.
“Of course, Your Eminence,” Fernando replied.
Lunch had ended.
But Fernando knew he had not yet stepped out of the orbit of the man before him.
The Ground of Patience
Coffee arrived as a silent transition. The cups were placed with the same precision as everything else. What came now was different: a space where words could say less and yet carry far more weight.
The Cardinal took his cup without haste.
“And you?” he asked suddenly. “How do you feel in all this?”
The question wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t about grades or football. Fernando knew that immediately.
He leaned back slightly in his chair. Not in a gesture of confidence, but of calculation.
“Fine,” he said at first, almost by reflex.
Silence.
Errázuriz del Río didn’t react. He waited.
Fernando exhaled slowly.
“Sometimes… it’s tiring,” he added. “Not the school. Everything around it.”
The Cardinal nodded, as if he already knew that answer.
“Glances weigh more than punishments,” he said. “Especially when they are constant.”
Fernando gripped the cup between his hands. He wasn’t used to someone putting exact words to what he was usually expected to keep silent.
“You learn to endure it,” he said. “Or to give it back on the field.”
A shadow of a smile crossed the Cardinal’s face.
“The field allows for releases that social life does not tolerate,” he replied. “But it won’t always be there.”
Fernando lowered his gaze for a second. He knew it. That was the point.
“That is why I observe you,” Errázuriz del Río continued. “Not to correct your every step, but to make sure you understand the ground you walk on.”
Fernando looked up.
“And what ground is that?”
The Cardinal studied him carefully, measuring how much to say.
“One where merit is not always enough. Where origin carries weight. Where patience can be a form of power.”
Fernando felt the blow with clarity. It wasn’t a reproach. It was a warning.
“Patience?” he repeated. “Is that what you expect of me?”
“I expect you to survive without breaking,” the Cardinal replied. “And that when the moment comes, you know how to move without destroying yourself in the process.”
Fernando shifted in his chair. Part of him rejected the idea. Another part understood it all too well.
“I don’t want favors,” he said. “I’ve never asked for them.”
“And I’m not offering any,” Errázuriz del Río replied calmly. “What I do is hold a door open. Walking through it is up to you.”
Silence settled between them again. Not awkward. Dense, like everything in that house.
Fernando thought of what was left unsaid. Of the words that never appeared. Father. Son. Of the impossible kinship, the rumors, the way everything had to remain hinted at, never affirmed.
“Sometimes,” he said at last, “I feel like I have to prove twice as much just to be seen half as much.”
The Cardinal did not look away.
“That is true,” he said. “And it won’t change anytime soon.”
Fernando nodded. There was no comfort in that. Only clarity.
The Cardinal stood, marking the definitive close of the encounter.
“Go,” he said. “Play well. Study. And don’t confuse anger with direction.”
Fernando rose as well.
“Thank you, Your Eminence.”
There was no affection in the farewell. No coldness either. It was something more uncomfortable: a controlled closeness, deliberately incomplete.
The Unbridgeable Distance
The meeting came to an end. Fernando rose carefully, feeling the weight of the distance that separated them. The Cardinal remained seated, watching him for a few seconds more—evaluating his posture and the way he walked, like someone inspecting a long-term investment.
Fernando knew that silence weighed more than any reproach. It was a silence made of expectations and invisible boundaries.
“Goodbye, Your Eminence,” he said, his voice firm and measured, inclining his head slightly.
The Cardinal nodded just enough. A minimal, correct gesture that granted nothing and promised nothing.
Fernando stepped out into the courtyard. The midday light fell harshly on the pale stone and the restrained gardens.
He walked, once again, between two worlds: the world of impeccable authority he was leaving behind, and his own—marked by the street, by cunning, by an origin that never quite faded.
He drew a deep breath and allowed himself a thin, joyless smile.
“Elegant old man…” he muttered to himself. “Always so careful not to dirty his hands.”
Crossing the threshold, he felt that familiar mix of relief and tension: the freedom to move again without eyes upon him, and the certainty that even from a distance, the Cardinal’s shadow still stretched across his back.
He left behind the solemnity of the episcopal mansion and stepped into his neighborhood. He knew he was returning to his world, but also that something had been branded: an elegant warning about where protection ended and where what he would have to earn for himself began.
“In the end,” he murmured, disappearing into the crowd, “I’m the one who scores the goals.”
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and then Add to home screen.