Voltaire and Paganini set sail from France for England. Aboard the ship, they debate matters both worldly and divine. Under the cover of night, four men cast them overboard. The waves wash them ashore onto the coast of Spain. Voltaire fears for his life, knowing that if the Inquisition unmasks him, he will be burned at the stake. Yet the reality awaiting them comes as a profound shock: Spain has become a haven of political, religious, and sexual freedom.

SYNOPSIS:

Voltaire & Paganini in the Spanish paradise by Ismael Camargo

An earthquake destroys a Spanish city. As survivors recover the bodies of the dead, a man (an

actor who arrived in the city that same day) begins a speech. This orator blames the libertines

for having unleashed God's wrath. Religious sentiment touches the hearts of those who listen,

and before a cross, they swear to live austere and sober lives. They light a bonfire and throw in

their jewels, perfumes, portraits, and mirrors, and then begin to destroy the statues in the city,

especially the funerary monuments.

The actor (accompanied by a group of friends, including a young woman from the aristocracy)

crosses the river that divides the city in two. There, he gives a second speech, this one about

the brevity of life and the folly of postponing love, pleasure, and life until tomorrow for fear of

others' opinions. He is so persuasive that right there, on the riverbank, a joyful and unrestrained

celebration of life erupts: everyone declares their love for one another, and no one refuses to

participate.

A group of the religious zealots who were flagellating themselves on the other side of the river

watch the celebration and see only depravity. They tell the others what they have witnessed,

everyone arms themselves and goes to punish the devil's followers.

And the battle begins, and blood begins to flow.

The actor mounts a fine horse and rides into the heat of the battle.

I am the King, and I will punish with death anyone who does not throw down their weapons at

this very moment."

The battle instantly subsides.

So convincing is the actor's performance that five minutes later he is attacked by the King's

enemies, his friends defending him manage to save him.

Part Two.

Voltaire and Paganini sailed from France to England. On deck they talked of God and man. Forty

people traveled with them. Thirty-nine laughed along. That night four men threw the “impious” into

the sea. Voltaire for being Voltaire. Paganini, for having "made a pact with the devil."

The waves left them on a beach. They looked at the stars and discovered they were in Spain, the

stronghold of the Inquisition. Both men were afraid. If found, they would burn. They walked toward

France. Half a league on, Paganini heard singing. French words, in the trees. The voice belonged to

Jacques the Fatalist.

"Jacques. What are you doing in Spain?"

"I work for a bookseller. A nobleman, from La Mancha. He knows books, chivalric novels most of all.

At fifty he loaded his wagon and left home. The house was driving him mad.”

The bookseller appeared and joined. He was tall and thin.

"Last time I saw Jacques," Voltaire said, "he was telling me about his love affairs. He never finished."

"It was written. That we would meet in Spain. That the story would end here. And if you came to die

like Joan of Arc, there's no help for it. Don't worry."

The four became friends fast. God and man—that was the thing they all loved to argue about.

They reached Seville. Freedom there was total. Political. Religious. Sexual. This was not Spain. This

was the Garden of Earthly Delights.

"It started," the bookseller said, "after the earthquake took Lisbon. A thing that size makes people

think. About life. Death. Good, evil. Body, soul. Lisbon changed overnight. Spain followed. Or vice

versa, people are arguing about this now.”

Prostitution had disappeared. Rich and poor enjoyed love and beauty, only merit was considered.

Paganini stood barefoot in the river, playing Spanish songs for a crowd of lovers who'd made a party

out of nothing. The others watched, with a troupe of actors they'd met along the way. Jacques

noticed the cart was gone. They followed the tracks two leagues and caught the thief. He said he

wasn't one. Young. Dark-skinned. Aquiline nose. An accent none of them knew.

A native of the Indies.

"An army is coming to burn this city," he said. "All of Spain. I only wanted to save the books."

They looked back. Seville was already burning.

The native told them what he knew.

“A couple of years back, in San Antonio, Texas, they staged Don Juan. All Spaniards—gentlemen and

ladies—laughed all night, because a Comanche played the part. Every tribe that heard it took it as an

insult. Comanche. Apache. Cheyenne. Cherokee. Chichimeca. Tlaxcaltec. They organized. The

English brought them across the water.”

Voltaire looked at him. He was certain now—this was the actor who had played Don Juan. He had a

beautiful voice and a certain majesty that made him think of Moctezuma. Still, the casting struck

him as absurd. Voltaire wanted to turn it over. There was no time for that now. Now it was urgent to

decide: flee, or return to fight. Seville was burning.

All eyes went to the bookseller.

Voltaire knew: whatever this man chose, Jacques would follow. So would the rest. So would he. So

would the rest. So would he. The old man's eyes lit up the way an old man's eyes light up when he

decides to do what only the young do.