CHAPTER FOUR
“It’s only been twenty minutes,” Joanna pointed out. “Maybe his train’s delayed?”
“Vicente’s never late.” Alex tapped his pen on the edge of his notepad, wishing it could crack open something in his skull. “He’s not with you?”
“Football,” they said together as Alex remembered.
A loud knock came from the house doors behind him.
“Hello?” called Jago, whose instincts had served him well. “Is this the Women’s Temperance Society meeting or is that a few doors down?”
“You came.” Alex got to his feet, giving their guest a warm hug. “Joanna, you didn’t meet Jago?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, extending a hand. “A pleasure.”
“All mine, I promise you. I’ve heard you’re the true talent driving this venture.”
“Have you? I’ve not heard anything about you at all. Though we saw you at the film the other night. Pepi, Luci, Bom?”
“Vicente didn’t say anything?” asked Alex. “They met this afternoon.”
“Briefly,” added Jago. “I don’t think I made the best impression.”
“I haven’t seen him since this morning,” Joanna said. “Perhaps they went for beers after the match?”
“That’s no reason to be late.” Alex nodded at Jago. “Not in Vicente’s book, anyway.”
“Well, I’m sorry I’m late,” said Jago. “I had to finish something at home that couldn’t wait.”
“Jago’s into taxid…” Alex bit his lip. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Taxidermy, yes.” Jago smiled at Joanna. “I don’t usually advertise the fact, but I have a feeling you’re my kind of people, if that’s not too bold of me.”
“You do have that sexy, young Anthony Perkins thing happening,” she teased. “But taxidermy? How interesting.”
“Please, don’t let me interrupt. I’m here to watch.”
“There’s not much to watch until Vicente arrives. Damn it!”
“Sweetheart,” cautioned Joanna. “He’ll be here. Did he give you the cues?”
“He did,” Jago reminded him. “Perhaps if you give them to me, I could help? I’m no Vicente, but I can at least make sure we see you.”
Joanna laughed while Alex shook his head. It beat the hell out of waiting.
“From the top then?” he asked. “I was hoping for a full run tonight.”
“I’m ready if you boys are.”
Jago nodded. “Just tell me where to go.”
Alex directed him to the tech booth, resettling in his seat as Joanna took her mark. Here went bloody nothing, then.
* * *
“What do you mean, it’s not embarrassing?” asked Alex, quoting Jago’s rave of the century.
“I mean, it’s a functional, sometimes beautiful telling of a story I know very well. It might be a little unclear to someone who doesn’t, but there is only so much you can do without dialogue in the space of an hour.”
“There’s only so much I can do in an hour, you mean,” Joanna pouted with a touch of ire.
“Exactly,” said Alex. “And she’s on stage the whole time without a break.”
“Your star isn’t the problem.” Jago shot a glance at Joanna that Alex supposed was a peace offering. “There are no problems as such. It’s just… safe?”
“Safe?”
“Great,” Joanna said. “So, I’m supposed to dress like a nun and slay it out on the bongos?”
Jago covered his face with his hands. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sorry.”
“Well, you did, and if you said it, at least some of the audience will think it. We haven’t put all this work in just to be safe.” Alex turned to Joanna. “Right?”
She shrugged, sipping more of her water. “Let’s have it, then.”
Jago offered them a tiny bow of contrition before continuing. “I just mean you’re telling a story about a cycle of violence and revenge.”
“Would you prefer a nun with a sword or a rifle?”
“Joanna…”
“The props don’t matter, though the nun’s habit is up to you.
The way I see it, you can take it in one of two directions.
Either you take on the energy and representation of both families in the story, manifesting a kind of self-destruction in the search for love—most likely of one’s self, since you’re a one-woman show—or, you go the meta route. ”
Alex winced. How he hated that word, meta.
“A beautiful dance, rising from the broken, bloodied grounds of this feud. The battle isn’t one between warring families. But between beauty and ruin, as one feeds the other.”
Alex studied Jago’s face, as if some line or twitch in his expression might reveal him taking the piss out of them, or reaching for platitudes that would numb Joanna’s dance into mediocrity. But it was mediocre. That was Jago’s point, and both Joanna and Alex knew it.
“We could try that,” Joanna said quietly.
“I’m not sure it’s what Lorca had in mind.”
“Are you sure?” Jago asked. “You might be surprised.”
Hell, they had the space for another ninety minutes. It couldn’t hurt to try something new. “All right,” Alex said. “From the top.”
“And change what?” Joanna asked. “You don’t want me to make it up as I go from scratch, surely?”
“Of course not,” said Jago. “The choreography you have is… fine. You just need to emphasise what’s underneath it. Let that rise through your movements. I mean, from the booth, I can see you, but… if I may?”
Alex caught on. “You want to sit out here while I work the lights?”
Jago shook his head, waving the suggestion away. “Forget the lights. Forget the music, even. Right now, I just… I’m sorry, I’m directing over you. I’ll stop.”
“I’d like you to finish your thought.” Alex knew he should have been pissed off, but he could also admit when he was intrigued.
“Take the scene where the Bride accepts the Bridegroom’s gift, the wax wreath of orange blossoms. She despises it and all it represents, yes? His wealth, security, safety… In her eyes, it’s not a decoration, but a cage, closed on her against her will.”
Joanna shook her head. “I know all this.”
“Of course, but are you feeling it? I see your rage in the moment. I see your rejection of the gift, but not of the bondage it represents. Of order, the favoured virtue of the Fascists.”
Alex ignored the faint rumble in his stomach. He was too fixed on the dark, animated face of this near-stranger who now spoke of their play—his favourite part of their play—as if it were his own. Damn it, he was right. “Just the orange blossoms, then.” He gave Joanna the nod.
Without a word, Joanna braced herself, lifted her arms high and began moving to the silent, memorised score.
When she lifted the imagined wreath from her head, she threw it to the ground with such force that even the silent movement startled Alex.
Feeling Jago squeeze his hand, he turned.
Jago was grinning all over, completely in his element.
“Dark clouds,” he said, referencing the script. “A cold wind inside you. Doesn’t everyone feel it? Make them feel it.”
They continued like this until the scene was done. Jago’s notes grew scarcer and scarcer as Joanna found them on her own, until she at last lay on the floor, hands resting on her throat. Jago’s hand remained in Alex’s until they both applauded earnestly.
“That was…” None of the words Alex fished for seemed adequate. “That was great, Joanna. Really, it was great.”
“Yes, what was that?” Vicente stood at the top of the steps, leaning against the house doors, his arms folded.
“What happened to you?” Alex asked.
“Train strike. Had to get a lift with Miguel and then he had a breakdown on the highway outside Fuenlabrada. Can you believe it? Joanna?”
She got to her feet, slow and steady as if they were new to her.
“How are you feeling?” Jago asked.
“Good! Good, I…” Joanna reached for her water and sipped. “I felt… You really liked it?”
“I said I did,” Alex answered.
“So did I,” added Vicente. “I just want to know what it was.”
“Jago was helping us with the rehearsal. You weren’t here, and he has some experience—”
“I did nothing.” Jago raised his hands in protest. “It’s your choreography. Your performance. I just reminded you of what was already there. But I should let you get to work.”
“You won’t stay and try one more scene?” Joanna asked, not taking her eyes off Jago.
“You don’t need me, and I’d hate to be in the way. You’ve a fine talent in good hands, mister director.”
Alex accepted a firm hug and a kiss on the cheek before Jago bounded up the stairs.
“Nice to see you again, Vicente.”
Vicente forced a smile as the doors closed behind their guest. “So, we’re in collaboration now?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Alex said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “It’s one of Jago’s favourite plays. He asked to watch a rehearsal and I owed him.”
“I know. I was there. And what do you mean, you owed him?”
“I got caught up in a protest just as the police arrived. It was bad. Jago pulled me out and took care of me.”
Vicente’s face was quizzical as he approached. “You didn’t tell me about that. Did he tell you about that? Joanna? Joanna?”
Joanna was already sweeping across the stage with elegant, powerful moves that accentuated her long limbs, as if snatching up scraps for the story unfolding in her imagination and consuming them whole, each one another morsel that made up the dance.
Alex could still see traces of his choreography, but only just. That suited him.
It was Joanna who brought a dancer’s mind to their stage.
Right now, she was reinventing their work, making her flow look effortless, a woman possessed by poetry.
“Joanna?”
“Shhh.” Alex didn’t even notice the glare Vicente gave him. He was too transfixed, absorbed by each graceful movement. He hadn’t dared presume they’d achieve anything so grand as expressing Lorca’s poetry through dance, but this was so close.
Joanna quickened her steps, arms sweeping through the air, legs arcing gracefully over the few props they’d put on stage, her gaze fixated—on what, Alex couldn’t say. Something that didn’t exist in that room. Possibly not in their world.