CHAPTER FOUR #4
“Exactly. Slowly rotting and dying in museums while the nation whose spirit they supposedly capture pays to spend a few minutes gawking at them. Tourists too, just to say they’ve seen them, which is worse.
Imagine, going around the world, looking for pieces of art, just to say, ‘oh yes, darling, we saw that one in Paris last year. ‘Tick!’ It’s nauseating, not that having them in the private collections of the obscenely rich would be any better. ”
“I…” Alex hesitated as a couple passed them. He watched Jago take out a cigarette and light it before offering him one. He declined. “I never thought of it like that.”
“Of course not. We’re not supposed to ask those questions or say those things.
Not supposed to disrespect our great artistic saints.
Yet we disrespect them constantly. We put them away to gather dust and die, pretending they still have life because we look at them every now and again in museums, or theatres. ”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“No?”
“Okay, so a young painter goes to the Prado, spends a few hours looking at Goyas and Velasquez…” The plural eluded him. “It lives because we keep it alive in new work.”
“Ah! New work, yes. Then tell me, Alex. You have a brilliant mind, a brilliant dancer, and a brilliant friend to support you. Why aren’t you making new work?”
“We are. Our Blood Wedding’s about—”
Jago pointed to the theatre again. “Look at this place. Inside, it’s one of the most beautiful buildings in Madrid. Have you been?”
“No.”
“Right. Because it’s maddeningly expensive. A glorified museum where rich people pay to see the same stories done the same way, over and over and over again, pretending they’re patrons of our great national arts. It’s beyond fucking bourgeois, and it’s not culture.”
“I thought you liked Blood Wedding?”
“It is Lorca at the apex of his powers, which is why I despise what it’s become. But why are you doing it?”
Alex shook his head, a pitch in that moment far from top of mind. “Because of Lorca? A tribute, I guess? We’re both from Andalusia…”
“So? I’m from his home town. Try harder.”
“He captures something. The stupid prejudices and violence of rural minds. Provincial minds.”
“You’ve read a lot of his poems, I suppose? His other plays?”
“Of course.”
“Then why would you think he despises Andalusia as you do?”
The accusation, if Alex could call it that, stung hard. Yet there was no cruelty or cynicism in Jago’s face. He’d been sincere, even sympathetic.
“I don’t despise it.”
“No? Lorca celebrated the romance and beauty of his homeland, but you?” Jago shook his head grimly. “Why do you so despise it?”
Alex felt cornered. He didn’t know why he was justifying himself in the first place, and yet the question, now it was out, bothered the hell out of him. “Because it despised me first.”
“And there’s another old story. So, you run away to Madrid? Another young, outcast maricón in a city awash with them?” Jago mimed a yawn.
“What do you want me to say? It’s like you said.
Blood Wedding is Lorca at the apex of his powers.
I want to see if we can make it dance. Is that so strange?
Or maybe I’m just doing a story people know so they come see it—come see us.
And what do you care? Are you a director or a choreographer or something? ”
“No.”
“Exactly. You know what? I’m going home. Thank you again for everything. For the wine. It was great meeting you and having you at rehearsal, but we’re fi—”
“None of them see you though, do they?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The people you’re trying to be. The people you would be if you only trusted yourself, but of course you don’t. So you cling to an old story from the very place you despise, the very place they ridicule you for, if not to your face—”
“Oh, come on, enough!”
“—and you hope they’ll notice you for it?
Respect you for it?” Jago shook his head, his sympathy at last seeming more than a little patronising as he drew close enough for Alex to feel the heat from his body.
“Your Joanna understands the play’s emotions.
Its rage and violence. Do you understand yours? ”
Alex wasn’t sure why he allowed Jago so close to him their noses were touching. Or why he hadn’t taken his eyes off Jago’s stare since his last outburst. “One more time. Why do you care?”
“Because those who have the ability deserve every chance to be great. To share that ability with others. So, as good as it is, as much as I love it, if this old story isn’t lighting that fire in you?” Jago’s lips brushed his before he withdrew with a deep bow. “You have my blessing to change it.”
“Your blessing?” Alex laughed.
“Do I flatter myself?”
“Maybe. Hell, Joanna thinks you look like Lorca, but…”
“A little sexier, I hope?” Jago grinned, admiring the theatre’s facade one more time before turning back and giving a mocking flex of his biceps that made Alex laugh.
“I’m sure he would approve. He’d probably sleep with you.”
“Hah! All the great poets are peerless narcissists at heart. They never found his body, did they? Perhaps that’s the story you really wish to tell, and I will be your Lorca.”
Alex laughed, shaking his head. “I don’t think he was as fit as you.”
“Artistic license?” Jago’s smile turned shy. “And thank you. I am just as I appear.”
Alex felt a tinge of guilt for wondering just how Jago appeared under his shirt. “I should get home.”
Jago stepped closer. “May I see you again?”
It didn’t take Alex long to find an answer. “Rehearsal? You made quite an impression on Joanna.”
“To be honest, she made one on me. So, yes, rehearsal, but… in other places too?” Jago’s smile widened, even as he looked down at his feet.
Before Alex could pretend to stop him, their lips had brushed once more, and Alex took him in a deep, open kiss.
At last, it felt as if Jago were relaxing in his arms.
“I think I’d like that,” Alex finished the thought.
Jago’s grin lit up his face as he squeezed Alex’s hand and withdrew into the night. “At rehearsal then? Same time and place tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Alex called. “The same.”
Jago was already across the square, and if Alex wanted Vicente to not tear his flesh off one strip at a time, he’d need to be just as swift.
He was home and ringing his front door bell within ten minutes.
When no answer came, he tried again, then knocked on the door.
Still no answer. Another knock, louder this time, before he tried the bell again.
“All right, all right! Good heavens, who is it?” Lucia announced herself before throwing open the door and fixing him with such a glare, Alex was certain he’d just been cursed. “A fine time of night this is to be waking me up! You haven’t lost your keys, I hope?”
“No. I’m sorry, I gave them to my friend. I buzzed. I thought he’d let me up.”
The old woman shook her head and stepped aside, closing the door behind him. “A friend?”
“Yes, Lucia, a friend. Someone I know very well.”
She nodded begrudging acceptance. “Goodnight then.” She shuffled back to her apartment, closing her door with a loud CLUNK. What the hell was wrong with Vicente?
He bounded up the stairs two at a time, finally knocking on his door, where Vicente at last greeted him with a steely, flat expression.
“Really?” Vicente mumbled, giving him a second to feel ashamed before returning to the couch. He stretched his long arms over his head with a yawn.
Alex spied the empty wine bottle in front of him. “Seriously? You finished the whole thing?”
“You’ve been gone more than an hour.”
“I… I haven’t.”
“Oh, but you have. Look.” Vicente nodded at the old-fashioned clock Alex had kept with him since first leaving home. Its hands betrayed him, reading 12.55 a.m.
“I’m sorry. It honestly didn’t feel…”
Vicente drained the last of the wine in his glass, setting it down so hard on the coffee table. Alex was relieved it didn’t crack.
Alex flopped down in the couch next to him, wiping the sweat from his palms on his trousers. “He’s an interesting guy.”
“I didn’t ask. You got anything else to drink?”
He rolled his eyes. One of those nights, he did not need. “You haven’t had enough?”
Vicente made an exaggerated groan and lay his head in Alex’s lap. “Whoever said being poor had some kind of nobility to it was full of bullshit.”
“Yeah,” Alex laughed, gently stroking Vicente’s sandy hair. “Who was it who said that?”
“Arsehole.”
“Wanker.”
“Bastard.”
“Fascist.”
“Oh, definitely a Fascist!”
Alex paused his touch, letting his fingertips rest on Vicente’s cheek. Vicente brought a hand up and clasped his fingers. “You really think this guy can help?”
“This guy? It’s our show, Vis.”
“Right, so he’s not a distraction? He’s not changing the way you’re looking at it just a bit?”
“Look, what is this about? You can’t be jealous.”
“Can’t I?” Vicente sat up, smoothed his hair, and eyed Alex with curiosity. Then without warning, he leaned forward and kissed him full on the mouth.
Alex accepted his tongue without thinking, then pushed him away. “What is with you tonight?”
Vicente shrugged and got to his feet. “Don’t tell me you’re not distracted.”
“Vis, what the fuck?” Alex nursed his lip as if Vicente had hit him. “Joanna—”
“Don’t fucking hide behind Joanna, man. She’s not what’s going on here. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Without another word, Vicente gathered up his kit bag and left, letting the door slam behind him. A dog in one of the nearby apartments started barking. Alex sat on the couch, staring at the empty wine bottle. Piece by piece, ideas began to come, and he began to write.