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"I like opera." Jim really does like opera. No, that's not a strong enough word. He loves opera. He knows that's probably another nail in his pin-striped coffin as far as these four boys are concerned. But it's true; he loves the pathos and the spectacle of it all. But he suspects that Freddie may just love it, too. Of all the records Jim might expect to hear at a meeting with Ray Foster and Queen, he would never have predicted "Carmen." Another element of surprise is that Freddie has chosen La Divina, the exquisite Maria Callas, in the title role. She is Jim's favourite singer. So far. He watches Freddie make his case with Ray. All the elements of La Divina are there in Freddie as well: the passion for music, the work ethic, the striving for something beyond mere fiscal success. And, most importantly, the PRESENCE. Freddie Mercury is simply the most mesmerizing person Jim has ever seen. Then there's the band. He's heard the records, of course, and he's seen the pictures, but this is the first time he's seen the band in front of him. Up until now they've been pigeonholed in his mind, reduced to high volume and long hair, but as Jim looks around the room he sees that they are so much more. The photographs don't do them justice. No studio portrait could ever convey Brian's keen intelligence, and it certainly wouldn't prepare the listener for his erudite and well-phrased commentary. A still image would never be able to reveal how closely John listens when he cocks his head, couldn't possibly present the volumes he communicates silently with just a subtle shift of his expressions. Then there's Roger, the boy Jim had dismissed as a teenybopper pin-up with his drowsy, luminous eyes and rosebud mouth - he's actually a tightly coiled spring, as volatile as he is brilliant. But nothing in this world could have prepared him for Freddie. Not hearing the otherworldly voice, not seeing the photographs of the fey King, not even John Reid's honest appraisal ("He's a fucking genius, Jim, there's no one like him in the world") or Paul Prenter's fulsome admiration that borders on the obsessive. Freddie, animated and vivid, stalks across the room. He's an original, there's no doubt, but Jim can also see a distillation of his friends. Freddie has absorbed them, has synthesized Brian's acumen, John's focus, and Roger's passion, and made them his own. He builds exquisite castles in the air and lowers the drawbridge so everyone can enter his world. No wonder Freddie chose Carmen's aria as the backdrop to his proposition. It's not simple - nothing about Freddie is ever going to be simple - but it's more than just playing a pretty song about love. He's telling everyone who Queen is. Brian is the one who speaks well. John is the one who rests silently. Roger, of course, is the gypsy child who's never known the law. And Freddie Mercury himself? He's the rebellious bird that no one can tame. Even if you catch him, he will beat his wings and fly away.
Enfant de Bohême. Jim is so mesmerized by the whole experience that he almost doesn't hear Ray ask his opinion. He flicks a gaze at the band, knowing that they expect the worst, the square, safe answer. But Jim can be an enfant de Bohême, himself, so he throws his lot in with the four brightly-burning flames. With Brian, and John, and Roger, and, God help them all, Freddie. "Fortune favours the bold."