Dolores and the commissioner

In my grandfather's house there was a formidable radio apparatus, which occupied an entire bedside table.

Dolores and the commissioner

In my grandfather's house there was a formidable radio apparatus, which occupied an entire bedside table. He had been cornered by television, but he retained that arrogant and aristocratic air, almost cavalier, of the old Hollywood stars. It was handled with wheels located at the bottom. It had a yellowish screen with names of remote cities: London, Bogotá, Buenos Aires, Caracas. The conversations between Cospedal and Villarejo that the newspaper 'El País' has exhumed have something of a post-war radio serial and I would have liked very much to listen to them on that device, which ended up lost between moves and inheritances. As in those soap operas, there is in these audios a careful casting of voices and a script full of surprises. An announcer with a bombastic diction announces the day's program: 'Dolores and the commissioner. Chapter 2,458'. Dolores' voice is then heard and she is the voice of a well-off girl, of a lady educated in paid schools who wants to hide something. There is in her tone a shadow of drama, the hint of a slip, a harbinger of storm. We imagine her with medium hair, elegant, beautiful, restless. She is talking to the commissioner, a tawdry guy, his voice broken by whiskeys and farias. One would swear that at that moment the commissioner is drinking a mixed drink from a highball glass in any highway brothel. The ice cubes collide. The commissioner reassures Dolores and tells her that yes, she's going to be on the lookout, while she winks at the waitress, who is showing her tits in the air.

There is in this fantastic serial a meeting of two worlds, a mixture of the high and the low, the last confirmation that 'Torrente' was not a hooligan, but rather a good documentary film.


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