CHAPTER FOUR #2
Joanna let out a strong, fast exhale and dragged her outstretched hand across her body, beneath the collarbone, grasping at her shoulders before repeating the action.
Into this rhythm she brought the same clawing movement, this time along her inner thigh, tearing into what would be the wedding dress, once she was in costume.
But Alex saw no rage in her face. There was joy, even freedom, but none of the anger that had been present during her dance with the orange blossoms. Had she wandered off script?
“Alex? Joanna!” Vicente raced to the stage, gently taking Joanna and pulling her away from the spot where blood had trickled onto the floor.
The shouts snapped Alex from his dream state, while Joanna shook her head, looking down at her scratched thighs and the ruined legs of her body stocking.
“My god, Jo, are you okay?”
“She’s not okay, she’s bleeding. Call a doctor.”
“No, I…” Joanna held her bloodstained fingers up to her face, as if surprised to find them there. “How? I don’t feel anything.”
“Seriously?” Vicente pointed to the long scratch down her thigh. “You don’t feel this?”
“Stop fussing and give me a minute, will you?” Joanna nimbly got to her feet and with no show of pain, disappeared backstage.
“What the hell?” Vicente fairly hissed. “Okay, he is not to come to another one of these, is that—”
“Woah, hold on. I assume you mean Jago? Because he didn’t go anywhere near her.”
“There’s blood on the damn stage, Alex. Jo’s blood.”
“And Jo’s not…” Alex paused, trying to be tactful.
“No, I’m not.” Joanna’s voice was cold, detached, and matter-of-fact as she emerged from behind the flat, now dressed in a simple t-shirt and short shorts. “I just scratched myself. It wasn’t deep. See? Already gone.”
They stared at the smooth, pale skin on the inside of her thigh. It wasn’t bleeding nor broken, nor even bruised.
“How?” Vicente asked. “You scratched yourself. You said that.”
“Perhaps I didn’t break skin? I mean, I didn’t feel anything.”
“There’s blood on the stage, Joanna,” Alex reminded her.
“Clearly, not mine.”
“That’s not particularly any better.”
Joanna shook her head, the first signs of exasperation showing on her face. “I don’t know what to tell you. Let’s just mop the stage and forget about it, all right? Perhaps a drink somewhere?”
“A drink?”
“I’m rather tired.”
Alex looked at Vicente, who shrugged.
Joanna’s eyes were animated with excitement as she spoke. “Just let me work on this in private. I’ll have something amazing to show you tomorrow night, I promise.”
“How can you promise—”
“Alex, I don’t know how, I just know I can. I’m feeling… Tomorrow, yes?”
Alex and Vicente exchanged looks again, knowing they’d be foolish to try to dissuade her.
“I’ll get a mop,” Vicente said, retreating backstage.
Joanna at last stepped down, graceful and elegant as she’d been throughout the dance. She took Alex by both hands and kissed his cheek. “You’re cleverer than you know.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve always known it.” She raised her eyebrows mischievously. “Now, I’m certain.”
“Thanks, I think?”
Together, the three of them removed any trace of the bizarre event, picked up their bags and crossed the darkened courtyard of the Culture Forum to the streets that lead into Chueca.
They tossed around a few suggestions for dinner, most of them more expensive than they could afford before settling on Angel Sierra on Chueca Square.
Joanna ordered them each an enormous gin and tonic along with some croquettes which wouldn’t nearly line their stomachs enough.
Gin and tonics were the last thing Alex wanted to drink, but he humoured her, adding some patatas bravas to even things out.
What he really wanted was flamenquín. A huge, greasy piece of pork, wrapped in ham and deep fried would fortify him through a half-dozen gin and tonics.
Neither of the boys spoke, until Joanna, after ten minutes fawning over the café’s history—"did you know it opened all the way back during the first war, and survived Franco and…”—said “Jago seems quite brilliant.”
Alex felt his throat tighten, immediately wondering how to extricate himself from this topic. The silence it created grew thick with tension as a plate of croquettes and some potatoes slathered in spicy sauce landed on their table. The waiter had the good sense to hurry away.
Joanna raised her eyebrows. “Gosh. Never mind.”
“No,” Alex said. “No, you might be right. He certainly seems to know Blood Wedding well enough.”
“Everyone knows Blood Wedding.” Vicente put a croquette and several pieces of sauce-slathered potato on his plate. “I’m glad he helped.”
Alex winced. Yep, his grandmother’s flamenquín sounded pretty good around now, if only because it would shut them up with a mash of pork, crumbs, ham and good commonsense discretion. “Yeah, I think he did. Nice guy.”
“Nice guy,” Vicente echoed, half-heartedly.
Joanna took another sip of her drink. “You said he pulled you out of the Basque protest on the weekend? That was brave.”
“Brave?”
“I just mean, he’s not a big guy. Wiry, though.”
“How do you reason that?” Vicente asked, taking a drink.
“Forearms, my love. He had his sleeves rolled up at the rehearsal. Those veins?” She wiggled her eyebrows at Alex.
“Are you suggesting something?”
“I’m suggesting you do what makes you happy,” she replied. “Nothing more.”
“Are you sure he’s not making you happy?”
“I really don’t think I’m his type, do you?”
“Right,” Vicente said, getting up. “I need to piss.”
“Go find yourself a nice bored masochistic housewife,” Joanna said, playfully.
Vicente tossed her a half-hearted smile and retreated to the small door leading to the toilets.
“Holy shit,” whispered Alex.
“Relax. Vicente will come around, if there’s anything to come around to. I mean, you’ve only just met this boy, correct?”
“Yes, and don’t say it like we’re dating. I don’t know what you’d call it. We’re not even friends. He’s…”
“Your muse?”
“Don’t be pretentious.”
“What? You don’t think he looks like Lorca? Just a bit? Same nose. Same bright eyes. Same small stature.”
“Are you joking? You said he looked like Anthony Perkins barely an hour ago. Besides, Lorca, may he rest in peace, had to be at least twenty pounds heavier and ten years older when he died.”
“So? Jago’s a younger, prettier model, with muscles. I’m not seeing a downside.”
“He’s from a farming region.”
“I rest my case.”
“Lorca’s hometown, actually.”
Joanna smiled quizzically. “That’s an interesting—”
“—coincidence? Yes, it is. Joanna, that’s all it is.”
“He could be a relative. A distant one, at least. Maybe that’s why he was so invested in our little show.”
“I doubt it. Why wouldn’t he say so?”
“Probably just too modest. Look, we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Do you like him? I assume yes, since you brought him to rehearsal.”
“Of course I like him.” Alex popped a croquette into his mouth, praying to any saint who would listen that Joanna would do the same. Or at least drink more. Or complain of a headache and go home. “He looked after me that day, I told you.”
“You didn’t tell us much, but go on.”
“Then he… I don’t know. It was strange. Scary, in a way.”
The motor powering Joanna’s interrogation seemed to pause. “In what way?”
“I went looking for him in his apartment. I found him in this small office, full of… I don’t know how to describe it, except that it creeped me out.
Old books, stuffed birds, tapestries with these strange symbols on the wall, a human skull, even—God knows if it was real—and the smell?
Like Moroccan incense mixed with straw.”
“Sounds positively fascinating.”
“I suppose it was, until he saw me and screamed at me. I mean, he screamed at me to get out.”
“After he spent the day looking after you?” Joanna shook her head, taking another sip of her drink. “Sorry, I’m lost.”
“Me too. I just left. Whatever his deal was, I couldn’t stay.”
“I get that.”
“Then today he came by the café.” Alex shrugged, spooning himself more potatoes. “He apologised. Said he was worried his taxidermy hobby would freak me out or something.”
“So, he cared about what you thought, presumably because he wanted to see you again?” Joanna sipped again. “Sounds like an utter psychopath.”
“You’re glossing over the yelling.”
“Yelling or screaming? There’s a subtle difference.”
Alex managed to hold back a growl. “Joanna…”
“Fine. He yelled, or screamed, or barked at you to get out of his apartment. Then what?”
“I left, of course. Although today he said he wasn’t actually telling me to leave the apartment. Just that room.”
“To which you had looked in uninvited, taking him by surprise.”
“You’re determined to not take my side in this, aren’t you?”
“What side are we talking about? I don’t know him, and this may sound esoterically bonkers to you, but all I’m hearing is that you caught a sensitive man who cares what you think of him doing something he wasn’t ready to show you, and it seems to me like he’s already forgiven you.
Stop stressing. It’s not like you walked in on him masturbating. ”
Alex swallowed, biting both lips. “I really wish Vicente hadn’t told you about that.”
Joanna laughed. “I’m sorry. It might not be a fairytale romance, but it’s cute.”
“Cute? That I walked in on… ugh!”
She smiled, taking hold of his wrist. “That you then dated for more than a year after, silly.”
“What did I miss?”
Joanna and Alex gripped their drinks tighter, trying not to giggle as Vicente sat down. It gave them away immediately.
“Really?” Vicente asked, plating himself another croquette and some potatoes. “You’re never gonna let that story go, are you?”
“Sorry, it tickles me.” Joanna gave an innocent shrug, scooping up some of the bravas sauce on her fork, slipping it between her lips and moaning with soft appreciation.
“It’s much better with the potatoes,” Alex pointed out.