27. Chapter 27
Kim walked into the rehearsal room, Laia a step behind, followed by the other actor.
The entire cast was gathered together, despondently warming up.
But it was clear, no one’s heart was really in it, and when Kim entered, the whole company turned toward him en masse, puppeteers included.
Movement stilled, conversations trailed off, they waited.
There was no easy way to do this.
“This morning Dídac Amat sent an email to the management of Teatre Romea. He has decided to step back from this production, citing personal reasons. This is…” he said, turning to the other actor, “Isard Muntaner—though I’m sure you all know him, and are familiar with what a fine actor he is.
He’ll be taking over D—Dídac’s part.” Turning on his heel, Kim strode from the room, desperate for the actors, especially Isard and Laia, not to see the liquid starting to well up in his eyes.
“Warm up!” he shrieked over his shoulder.
“When I get back we’ll be improvising the whole first half of the play.
No scripts… just… just going for relationships, the village ambience…
you know the sort of thing… I’ll be… ten minutes. ”
And he was gone. He thought he had to get out of the theater, but surprisingly his steps led him bounding up the stairs, past the offices, up to the floor of the Reading Room, where it had all begun that first morning.
But instead of going in there, he turned right and rushed into the box room, the ghost’s room, a room of memories, the place where he and Dídac had had sex, right here, in the theater, with the ghost of Margarida Xirgu looking on.
He expected the young actor to be here, at least his presence, but the room was empty, empty of anything, except ghosts.
Perhaps he could ask the long-dead actress what he should do, how he could win back the young man?
But she just stared at him, her lips set in a grim line, her eyes wide and accusatory as a wolf’s, the whites like two crescent moons cut from stiff card, even if a doe-like softness glowed within her pupils.
She seemed to be telling him what he should do, but his mind refused to hear, or couldn’t.
He’d done the right thing, followed Santi’s lead.
When he had got in this morning, ready to face the music, take charge, he’d found Isard Muntaner sitting on the sofa in the office.
Barely before they could greet each other, Santi had whipped him into his office, where he had shown him an email from Dídac, resigning from the production.
After that, things had evolved like one of those half-real dreams, where you are pulled along against your will by some force resembling a powerful current, an undertow that at any moment might drag you down into the depths of your psyche.
Suddenly it was nearly ten, and Isard was following him downstairs.
Laia was there at his side, quiet and efficient as ever, so they walked into the rehearsal room a seemingly united triumvirate, a grim iron wedge or phalanx, set and poised to drive bloodily into the soft bodies of the assembled actors.
But it was seeing his dismay reflected in their faces that finally broke him.
Now here alone, tears rolled down his face, and he sank down into the dust, tried to spy where traces of their coupling might have left a mark.
But there was almost no evidence. Or at least through his tear-blurred vision, he couldn’t see a thing.
They had come and gone with little sign.
Something that had felt so profound for the few days it had lasted had vanished into the dusty air.
Even the ghost of the dead actress would not swear it had ever existed.
Dídac Amat was gone, as thoroughly as if he’d never been.
As he gazed up at the shadowy forms in the room, he seemed to see the actress, her large almond-shaped eyes gazing down upon him, framed by an unruly mane of dark wavy hair.
Perhaps she was mocking his agony despite the fact that her frustrated ethereal form could no longer feel even a trace of what was seriously tearing up his heart.
“This is what love is,” she seemed to breathe at him. “Learn it, for without knowing love and heartbreak you cannot create anything of value.”
He would. He had The Swan. He still had The Swan.
It was his creation, and he had built it all himself, totally without love.
He dried his eyes and got up from the floor, brushing down his clothes.
He had a play to put together, a new actor to rehearse into the part, in the shortest rehearsal period of his life.
He had overcome challenges as tough as this before; he would do so again.
Without Dídac, just by the force of his will.
Straightening his clothes a final time, he turned and left the shadowy room, and headed downstairs. He had a play to direct.
Kim was panting. Sweating. Perspiration had drenched his rehearsal clothes. And he hadn’t even been very physically active today. Nothing was quite going according to plan.
“Back to the top. And this time, Dana, Carme, can we have a bit more intensity? Ground yourselves in that feeling of… whatever you’re experiencing.”
You’re actors not mannequins, he wanted to add. Paid to emote not sit propped there like fresh-sawed timber. Instead, he drew a deep breath.
“Let’s remember what this play is about. It’s the story of the little guy, the ugly duckling, who overcomes all the hurdles that life has placed in his way to grow up into a thing of beauty. The swan represents real, innate beauty, the kind that can’t be faked—pure, natural beauty.”
“I thought…” Felipa looked troubled. “Isn’t the swan a symbol of love?”
“Yes, of course,” Kim snapped crossly. “That goes without saying. But love is expressed through this beauty, the image we see.”
As if he needed lessons on interpreting his own play, one he’d written himself! Especially from a hack character actress like Felipa! He turned to Isard, who was standing dejected, and alone in the center of the rehearsal room.
“OK, that was good. It’s getting there.” He wanted to weep inside.
The kid was a like a wooden doll. Beautiful, yes, but where had he got the undeserved reputation that he could act, after starring in just one movie?
Four solid days he’d been working with this block of wood and they were still no closer than they’d been on the first day!
How could he get this guy to give him what he wanted?
With children and animals you used counting, didn’t you?
Perhaps he could try something similar? Count to three.
Turn. Look at her. Count to two. Move. Some audiences were fooled.
You can fool some of them all of the time…
Kim walked over to his bag, grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face and neck. He felt fresh out of ideas.
“OK, take fifteen, and then let’s run this from the top, to the point we’ve got to, today. And please, maximum concentration, from everybody. We have precious little time before we open. Please use the break to go over what we’ve just worked on.”
The cast shambled toward the door of the rehearsal room, reminding him of a herd of gray bison, drought-stricken yet sensing an oasis ahead—in their case, the theater café.
Once they had gone, he turned around in the empty space, relieved to be alone, only to find Isard standing there, big doe eyes ogling him.
“Yes, Isard?”
“Ah, Mr. Delatour, could I… I’m having trouble feeling the part. Could we…?”
And in that moment the young actor had crossed the space toward him.
It was true his presence was commanding.
He wasn’t just a cute young actor—he had a quiet magnetism, like a deep still pool, a mountain tarn.
And as he stood close, Kim looked into those big dark eyes, inhaled the boy’s breath, which smelled sweet like hay with an undertone of something…
animal. It would be so easy. Was that what this boy was wanting?
Would that be what made it—this production—click again?
“Sorry, Isard, could you give me a moment? I need to think about what we’ll be doing when we come back from the break.”
“Yes, of course. Sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to take up your time.”
The actor began to leave, and now Kim felt guilty that he’d rebuffed him like that.
“Just… a little later… Maybe we could meet after rehearsal, and talk over any worries you have then?” He tried to keep his voice coolly professional.
Isard turned. He stood for a moment, regarding Kim, head tilted to one side.
“It’s OK, Mr. Delatour.” He shook his head. “I need to do some work at home alone on the part. Then maybe we can work through any doubts I have during rehearsal?”
“Yes, of course. That would be best. See you back here in fifteen.”
Once the actor had gone, and Kim was finally alone, he lay down on the floor and stared up at the ceiling.
The building’s wooden beams had been stripped back to bare wood and then stained.
In between, cream-painted brick formed shallow vaulting.
Catalan vault, they called that, the same as they had used on the ceiling of New York’s Grand Central Station.
How did he know that? Maybe Laia had told him on their tour of the theater that first day.
The second day after he met Dídac, when he was trying to get him fired.
Well, he had his wish. He thought of the young actor.
Everything had happened so fast, it didn’t feel real.
Where was he? Four days and Kim had not dared to ask Laia or the theater for his number.
He’d felt that first day if he could just get through rehearsal, maybe he could find Dídac and talk.
But instead, he’d gone back to his hotel, had a whiskey in the hotel bar, while he thought how he could convince him to come back to the play.
And in the end he’d gone to bed drunk, not having contacted Dídac, not having his number.
What would he say to him? At this point the play didn’t matter at all.
Could he convince Dídac to… what? Stay… Come with him to Manchester maybe?
Would he even have a season there now? It felt like a dreary chore he had been charged with overseeing.
He would give up Manchester and all the rest if Dídac didn’t want that.
He had no idea how he was going to pull the production together now.
The actors were demoralized, and resentful at Dídac’s rapid departure.
Isard, his replacement, wasn’t bonding well with them.
And Kim himself couldn’t see what anyone saw in him.
Except that he was beautiful in a slim yet slightly bovine sort of a way, like one of those sacred cows that amble through the streets in India.
He recalled the morning when he had surprised Dídac down here.
Was it the second or third day of rehearsal?
Standing in the doorway, watching Dídac move, the way his limbs had seemed to flow effortlessly, expressing the deepest feelings within himself, a vulnerable yet powerful spirit that appeared to be yearning to break free from his mere corporeal self, striving for immortality.
Dídac had brought all that to the play, along with his lightning social energy.
He had dynamized the cast and made them feel they were creating a masterpiece together.
All that had fallen apart. Kim seemed unable to coax even the simplest emotional response from them now.
Dídac had brought that quality into his own life too.
His confidence and friendliness, young as he was, chatting with the ma?tre d’ at that restaurant, asking after his family, and discussing life as if he, Dídac wasn’t one of Catalonia’s most sought-after stars, a familiar face in every living room in the country, but simply a friend with whom he hadn’t caught up in too long.
From that moonlit dinner, his mind slipped to the moonlit terrace of his hotel, Dídac standing there, his torso bare, hands restrained behind him, reveling in the erotic game they were playing together, that mischievous grin flickering across his features, along with real nervousness for what was about to happen.
And feeling him under him on the bed as he entered him, seeing the love in his eyes, and leaning down to kiss those gorgeous lips.
Losing himself in the smells and tastes of Dídac, his bergamot cologne, his sweat, salty and delicious, and something else, Dídac’s wild animal smell, that seemed to live in his hair, unique to him, like a sweating stallion, which drove Kim wild.
He groaned, realized he had a hard-on, and quickly rolled onto his front in case anyone should enter the rehearsal room.
Damn, here he was lying on the floor dreaming of Dídac when he had a play to rehearse.
Any moment now the actors would come trooping up the stairs, and deploy before him like a firing squad.
He would have to come up with the goods, and he had not a single clue in the entire wide world what he would do.
Come on, director, pull it together! He got up, noting that at least his erection had gone down.
He would take them through a full run of the play, and Isard could struggle along as best he was able.
Damn, he hated this play! Whatever had possessed him to devise a show on such a ridiculous subject!
How the previous productions of The Swan had come together he had no idea, because this one was rapidly collapsing in on itself like a sodden castle of cards.
This wasn’t the attitude. As the first of the actors’ footfalls sounded on the stairs, he turned to stare at the wall and forced himself to concentrate on the job at hand.