Chapter 4
“When are Santi and Jordi getting back from their conference?”
“It finishes this evening,” Laia replied. “They should be in the office tomorrow. Is it anything I can help you with?”
“No, I need to talk to them about replacing an actor.”
Laia went quiet, and began to organize her notes.
They were sitting in his “office”, the ex-photocopying alcove to which they had retreated after the reading.
Once he had declared the read-through officially “over”, the meeting had descended into an informal social of performers who had not seen each other since whatever production they had last worked on together.
It would have been impossible to keep working there.
That morning’s read-through—the key first activity in a rehearsal schedule—had merely limped along.
This initial meeting is where actors and director all meet together for the first time, and get a sense not only of how they’ll work together, but how the play might meld together as a whole with this particular group of actors.
His clash with Amat had had the effect of putting everyone’s nose slightly out of joint, including his own.
Amat read well, but not like the brilliant actor that he, Kim Delatour, had been sold.
Amat had been forced on him. Whether they truly needed him for box-office success or not, there were two substitutes Kim had in mind, who had both done brilliantly in their online auditions.
And he wasn’t about to keep working against that silent resistance and insolence that the lead actor was displaying not so subtly at every turn.
“How are you finding the Catalan?”
“It’s OK.” He wasn’t sure whether this was an attempt to steer the conversation onto safer ground.
“I don’t need to understand the words, though it does sound quite strange hearing them spoken in a foreign language.
I know the words back-to-front and front-to-back in English, since I wrote them.
But it’s their emotions I need to read.” He paused, unsure how much to confide in Laia.
But what the hell, she was his assistant.
They needed to have total, open communication.
“Look, I know he’s your friend, but Dídac Amat was reading sub-par today.
It’s an important part. If the actor in this part can’t do their job, the whole show falls apart. I can’t risk that.”
“I get you,” she said. “And I’m on board one hundred percent to make this show a success.
I’ll back you up completely in any decision you make.
I can’t defend Dídac’s effort today. He is normally totally on the ball.
But I will say that he’s an actor who has inside him what few actors can do.
He can connect with his emotions and bring that into his performance in a way that is not just truthful but riveting.
I’m not just saying that because he’s my friend. I really hope you can overcome your—”
“My? You think this is my problem?”
“No, no, Mr. Delatour… Kim, I didn’t mean that. I mean between the two of you, there’s a…”
“Between the two of us there should be a professional working relationship, and I don’t like sloppy, undisciplined actors.”
“Let me talk to Dídac, please. I’m sure after today he understands what’s needed of him in terms of professionalism, and I will make sure that he is crystal clear about his attitude from here on in.”
“Do what you feel you need to. OK, I can’t work in this little cubbyhole. I’m going back to my hotel to prep. See you here at nine tomorrow, and we’ll go over the first rehearsal, which will start punctually at ten.”
Kim gathered his papers and left, leaving Laia alone in the photocopying alcove.
Out in Hospital Street, Kim wandered lazily toward the Rambla.
He wouldn’t make the mistake of choosing any of the restaurants there for lunch today, but maybe there were some others in the area that weren’t too bad.
He should have asked Laia for a recommendation.
Following no particular plan, he turned up the Rambla, away from the touristy restaurants that covered the wide boulevard down in the port direction.
Then on a whim he turned right into a busy shopping street with an ancient medieval fountain on the corner, Portaferrissa, it was called.
This afternoon he’d place a zoom call to Santi, and discuss the problem.
With the producer’s agreement they could sack Amat straight away, and hopefully get one of the other candidates in to read sometime tomorrow.
That would put them back by one day of rehearsal in an already tight schedule, but he preferred to nip this problem in the bud right away, so he could get on with directing.
After ten minutes walking along this bustling street, filled with fashionable clothes shops but few restaurants, he came out onto a wide esplanade.
To the right rose up Barcelona Cathedral, a medieval construction boasting a forest of spires and pinnacles.
Its arched entrance looked impressively Gothic, though he’d read it was actually Gothic Revival—built in the nineteenth century to seem older than it was.
Back then apparently, like the rest of Europe, Barcelona began revaluing and trying to show off its medieval architecture.
Still, to a new-world Australian it looked impressively old.
Passing the cathedral, down a narrow street to the right, he came across a small restaurant facing the old Roman wall.
The menú del dia, or daily set menu, displayed on a sign outside, showed a price of fifteen euros—more than reasonable for his budget.
Inside, it was cool and dark. Red and white checked tablecloths gave the place a homely feel.
A young dark-haired woman came forward, smiling:
“Welcome!”
“A table for one?”
She waved him toward the back, where a single file of small tables lined the left wall of the passageway, which was flanked on its other side by the open kitchen across a chest-high food counter.
From his table not only could he see out into the street ahead, but he also had a view of the chef and kitchen hands working to his right, while waiting staff bustled to and fro beside him, collecting plates off the counter.
It may not have been the most prestigious table, but it gave him an enjoyable slice-of-life view of the working establishment.
Two of the male waiters also had gorgeous asses, giving him a front-row peek of their tailored upholstery every time they came to collect a dish.
Moreover, one of the chefs, a dark muscular Latin with bulging forearms, looked the splitting image of Tony.
There’s a name he hadn’t thought of in a while.
This guy was slightly squatter, and a few years younger perhaps—the way Tony had looked when they’d met.
But now one of the cute-bummed waiters was in front of him, asking for his order. And he hadn’t even glanced at the menu.
“Ah… un minut, si us plau,” he stammered, picking up the single laminated sheet.
For thirty seconds he studied the range of dishes—three entrées and three mains—before hurriedly deciding on spinach sautéed with raisins and pine nuts to start, followed by what he hoped was a type of fish baked in the oven. “I una copa de vi blanc”.
“Moltes gràcies!” The waiter gave him a winning smile, and Kim discovered a pair of sparkling chestnut eyes. “I gràcies també per parlar Català!”
He was slightly shocked: the waiter was thanking him for speaking Catalan.
Back in Australia, he’d made the effort to learn some basic Catalan phrases, having read that it made a better impression than speaking Spanish in this part of the world, but this was the first time he’d taken the leap of trying to utter even the simplest sentence.
He wasn’t about to make a fool of himself in front of Laia or the actors, so he’d so far limited himself to speaking just English with them.
Tony, his Greek-Australian boyfriend. Ex.
He had the same surly, sexy presence as that chef, who just then had caught him looking, and scowled.
He looked away, out into the street, where tourists were continually passing by in the harsh sunshine.
Tony wouldn’t have scowled. He would have smiled in his mischievous, challenging way, and ten minutes later you’d find yourself on your knees choking on his big fat dick.
If ever a guy couldn’t keep it in his pants.
Half of gay Melbourne, and a quarter of Melbourne women had first-hand tales to tell about Tony’s trouser snake.
So yeah, you’d have to be a fool to consider him boyfriend material, which hadn’t stopped Kim from trying.
To give him his due, Tony had tried too.
They’d lasted nearly two years living together before Tony declared that he needed more space.
Kim agreed, as the last year of their relationship had left him drained, devastated, and embittered.
And then… he just plunged into his work.
If he was ever going to make it as a theater director, he had to stop measuring himself by the rulers that regular folk used—relationships, jobs, mortgages, and what-have-you—and just focus, focus, focus.
Theater had to be it, only it. Too many people failed.
Those who succeeded were laser-focused. Tonys there were by the millions in this world, however cute, however hung, but world-class artists formed a comparative handful.
Tony had wanted to keep some form of contact—at the end of the day it was his first serious attempt at a relationship too.
Did that reflect on Kim, say something about his desirability as a boyfriend?
He liked to think it did. After all, three quarters of eligible Melbourne had been chasing after Tony, and he had chosen Kim. But in the end, it wasn’t enough.
The spinach arrived, conveyed from the counter beside him by that same sexy waiter in an elegant pirouette—offering him first a flash of that tantalizing bum followed by a blazing smile and the twinkling chestnut eyes.
He could imagine living permanently in a spot like this.
The greens had been sautéed and reduced in olive oil, garlic, raisins, and pine nuts, with a couple of toast slices on the side.
After a tentative bite, Kim decided it was his new favorite dish.
He sipped his glass of house wine, which was nicely dry and woody, not bad at all considering it came included in the menú.
After lunch, he would head back to his hotel, do his prep, get on a video call with Santi, and get one or both of the other possibles lined up to read tomorrow.
He’d send an email to sack Amat, copying in Laia.
Most actors only read their mail about once every three months, so Laia unfortunately would have to be the unofficial bearer of that bad news.
Tomorrow morning he’d start improvising around the scenes that didn’t involve the character Anton.
If they resolved the actor situation before lunchtime, they might even get to impro with the newbie in the afternoon.
Unbidden, Amat’s smoldering green glare floated into his reveries.
The guy was sure to totally spit his dummy, but as long as he did that off theater premises, Kim couldn’t give a toss.
It was even quite fun to think of him ranting and raving to Laia on some drunken rampage, getting that sexy ass all hot and bothered.
The same waiter arrived to whisk away his plate, and place the fish before him, and Kim found himself once more drowning in that dazzling smile.
“Thank you, uh… gràcies! That was absolutely delicious.”
“You are welcome, senyor, de res.”
It would be quite easy to become addicted to this town.