What if you were able, somehow, to travel back to the very beginning of time, and then began to draw up a comprehensive taxonomy of all discoveries: a list of what came about by pure chance and what was the product of deliberate application and dedicated research? Two lists, then. On which, do you think, would you find the sciences, or theories? Where would the name of this artist be, or that football player? What about these territories and islands and mines, these emotions and betrayals? Which list would claim civilization? The wretchedness of the human condition?

Salaam, the singer—if he might be allowed to describe himself as such—could not make up his mind. He couldn’t even decide on which of the two lists his own discovery might fall. The initial discovery of his voice had been his and his alone, which may have been why he thought of it as his secret. He didn’t have the courage to sing in front of others, only to himself, so he had no idea whether his voice was truly sweet or whether it was all in his mind.

He developed a stutter when he was young. His mother sought out special schools and therapists, but in vain, and he had continued to stutter and stammer to the amusement of his classmates and exasperation of his teachers until, at last, he had withdrawn into himself, his lesson learned: don’t speak.

Only when he spoke to himself—in himself—did that inner tongue unknot and free. Once, breathing along to a song on the radio, he nearly convinced himself that voice was beautiful, after all. And then he smiled: Don’t we all feel that way? Another time, feeling bold, he sang in front of the mirror, as though he might catch sight of the song issuing from between his lips. Once again he took pleasure in his voice, and once again he smiled. And then he stopped, astonished.

His surprise had nothing to do with the loveliness of his voice, it was that the words of the song had flowed out of him without a break: no stammer, unfumbled. Like he was a professional singer. Better yet, like he was any other ordinary young man, just singing a tune. And for the first time he felt that he was a human being. He couldn’t have said why, but the very next thing that came to his mind was love. So he stopped singing and for a brief moment, closed his eyes. He opened his mouth and began to speak to the mirror, to talk, but almost immediately fell silent again. The stutter had returned. He drew a breath and sang, and again that enchanting river of a voice. Then he spoke and the stutter was back. He banged his hand on the rim of the sink beneath the mirror and let out a stutter of despair.