Chapter 4
four
Alex had just finished mopping up the last of the tea that his clumsy cowboy had splashed all over his caravan.
If that was his student, it was going to be a really long four weeks.
But he needed this gig. Earning a good name as a fight choreographer and coach to the stars might more than fuel his business.
It even had the possibility to be quite lucrative.
The challenge, however, was that he had to show he could do it first. And that meant somehow teaching this uncoordinated clown dressed as a cowboy who had trashed not only his own but Alex’s caravan too.
That reminded him. Leaving his own caravan and walking over to the cowboy’s, he tried the door.
Unlocked. Film workers tend to be pretty honest brokers, and Alex had never heard of anyone stealing on set, but if it had been him, he’d have locked his caravan while he was away.
Taking the initiative, he went inside. His cowboy—Isard had he said his name was?
—had left his things scattered throughout the interior.
A large suitcase lay open and enough clothes and personal items for a month lay scattered around the caravan.
Alex studiously tried to ignore his own curiosity, instead looking around for the fuse box.
It was as he suspected, a simple blown fuse.
Pulling out the blown one, he saw it had been wound with a long-enough length of wire for him to be able to unwind and rewire it.
From fight choreographer to sparky: whatever it took to save his business.
As he stood there, engrossed in the intricate task of threading the wire through the narrow channels in the porcelain fuse, and rewinding the ends back onto the electrodes, he didn’t hear the door open, until a voice said:
“What are you doing?”
He spun, automatically assuming a defensive posture. His cowboy, Isard, stood in the doorway.
“Fixing your fuse.” He held up the piece to prove his intentions, in case the guy thought he had entered his caravan to steal from him or anything.
“Oh.” Isard stood there, watching him for a few moments, before saying, “thanks”.
Alex finished winding the last of the wire onto the fuse and plugged it back into the fuse board. He tried the mains switch. Instantly the caravan lights came on, the heater started blowing hot air, and music began to play from somewhere, the gravelly tones of Tammy Wynette.
“Stand by your Man?”
“I like her, and it felt right as a mood track for this film. Thanks for fixing the fuse.”
“That’s OK. It was that or risk having you trash my caravan all over again.”
His cowboy blushed bright red, which showed up very obviously on his pale complexion.
“I’m really sorry about that—”
“Stop apologizing. So just to confirm, you are Isard Muntaner, the student I’m supposed to teach?”
“Yeah, sorr—”
“Hey!”
“Apparently my agent, Dolors Marsella, told the director, Valentí Sampere, that I’m a black belt.”
“Oh no, really!”
“Yeah, sorry. We have about three weeks to get me up to speed.”
Alex leaned against the bench in Isard’s caravan and let his gaze travel out through the window to where the Pyrenees dominated the landscape. In the bright morning sunshine, the range glowed with a brilliance that almost hurt the eyes. Finally, he turned to Isard.
“Well, we better get started,” he said. “No time to lose.”
Isard resisted the urge to apologize again.
Isard stood facing Alex in a clearing within a pine grove a few minutes’ walk from the filming location.
He had another sequence to shoot late in the evening, then they would both be driven down to Barcelona for a sequence in the city the next day.
The contract Alex had signed with Dolors stated that he should shadow Isard’s shooting schedule, taking advantage of any and all breaks in filming to teach his student the skills required for the part.
So, they had a window of three hours available for Isard’s first martial arts class before he had to go through make-up and costume once again, and then back onto set.
Alex looked formidable—and quite gorgeous—dressed in black and yellow tracksuit bottoms, and a gunmetal-gray sleeveless exercise top.
His perfect muscles shone brown and burnished, and his short spiky black hair glistened like obsidian under the sun.
Isard had now ditched his cowboy attire and was also wearing a full tracksuit, but his was white with crimson piping over a maroon tee-shirt.
He tended to go for white and cream shades, believing they set off his pale complexion and dark hair more dramatically.
“OK, we’ll start with the siu nim tau, or ‘little idea’.
It’s the most basic empty hand form, and its advantage is that you practice it stationary,” Alex explained.
“Later I’ll take you over the Wing Chun philosophy, which is where we should really start, but with so little time, I wanted to get you moving and standing right straight off the bat.
In the car, going down to Barcelona, I’ll talk you through the philosophy behind it. ”
Isard nodded. He was freezing, but he resisted the urge to wrap his arms around himself. He didn’t want to appear weak or foolish before Alex, who seemed impervious to the cold. And Alex’s attitude—brisk, efficient, and knowledgeable—conveyed to Isard that he didn’t like time-wasters or weaklings.
“Wing Chun?” Isard asked nervously. It didn’t ring a bell. “Is that a type of kung fu or karate?”
Alex huffed. “Kung fu just means ‘learning’ in Chinese. We don’t use it. We’d say Zhongguo wushu. Bruce Lee? You know him?” he asked. “Wing Chun is his style, very filmic.”
Isard had the feeling that might have been strike four, but he kept his mouth shut.
What to say that wouldn’t offend his buff martial arts teacher?
He didn’t want Alex to stay angry with him.
If they were going to be spending the next three weeks glued together, he needed to try and get the guy to like him a little, or at least not hate him as much as he had initially seemed to.
So, he tried to focus on Alex’s words as he explained the first basic stance, yee jee kim yeung ma, or the goat-clamping stance, copying Alex as he explained and demonstrated how to get there: consecutively swiveling the feet outward from the toe then the heel until they were planted at shoulder width, the toes pointing slightly inward, and the knees clamped.
“You can see why it’s called the goat-clamping stance, Alex explained. “This gives you a kind of structure, keeping your center of gravity low and protecting your center.”
“OK,” Isard brightened. “I think I recognize it. Is that like as in Gangnam Style?”
Alex just frowned, rolled his eyes, and kept talking.
Isard bit his lip. Strike five? He adopted the stance the best he could, swearing to himself he would eventually make Alex properly proud of him.
Alex watched Isard trying to copy his movements, and pushed his tongue hard up into the roof of his mouth to avoid cracking a smile, or worse, laughing.
It was chilly for both of them, so close to the mountains, even here in the bright sunshine, but for Alex the cold was stimulating, and he wanted to give his student a reason to keep moving.
Thankfully, Isard had changed out of that clownish cowboy getup.
The white tracksuit he was now wearing showed off his slim willowy figure, while that slight dusting of beard on his jaw gave his cheek an almost bluish hue.
But it was the solemn concentration in his large dark eyes that almost melted Alex’s heart.
Though he wasn’t about to let his mind wander along that path again—he was here for work not play.
But Isard was laser-focused, and surprisingly fast in learning the form.
Siu nim tau involves increasingly complex variants of subtle repetitive hand movements.
It requires a chess master’s brain allied with an ability to execute precise actions, then to set those moves in your body’s physical memory, so that they become instinctive.
Contrary to his first impressions of the actor as nervy and uncoordinated, Isard had a physical poise and calm that made him a fast student.
It felt like they hadn’t been practicing for very long, though his student was by then executing the form to near perfection, when Isard’s phone buzzed, calling them to lunch.
Looking at the time, Alex realized they had been working for well over two hours.
They were both warm and sweating, perspiration staining their armpits, and beads of sweat forming on their foreheads.
“That was good,” Alex grudgingly admitted. “I don’t know if we’ll make you a fighter in three weeks, but you’ll sure as heck be faking it convincingly.”
“I never fake it,” Isard replied. “I make it my truth.”
Alex had no idea what he meant by that, some actorly thing, probably. It actually sounded like something his own master might have said.
“OK, so we get free lunch here?”
“Of course,” replied Isard, “and the catering on this production is excellent. Come on, I’ll show you where the dining tent is.”
As they sat down to lunch, each carrying a tray they had loaded up with food at the catering caravan, Isard leaned in to Alex:
“Um, Dolors told you, didn’t she… if we… end up chatting to Valentí or any of the production crew, I’m… they think that I’m actually already a black belt. So, maybe play down the learning part?”
“Yes, you told me, and don’t worry,” Alex said. “I’m a professional. I never discuss my students with anyone else. Client confidentiality.” He winked. “But I’m going to work you mercilessly for that lie.”
Isard found himself blushing again. He had to stop this. Why did this guy bring it out in him? He normally had it more together. “Is that like…?” he asked, “Is that like you’re not supposed to lie in the Wing Chun philosophy?”
“You’re not supposed to lie in life,” Alex said, scooping up a spoonful of the rich meat and potato estofado stew they’d served him for first course.
“Damn, this is good, almost as good as Mom’s, but still good.
But yeah, in Wing Chun too, the philosophy is all about honesty…
being down to earth, straight-forward, and practical, no frills or falseness, but above all, honest.”
Isard stirred his soup. He’d asked for the sopa de galets, a sort of consommé with pasta shells floating in it, but it was thinner than he liked, definitely not as good as his mom made.
“It wasn’t really my lie though,” he defended, “but Dolors’….” Though when Alex gave him a look, he admitted: “Yeah, OK, I’m sort of caught up in it.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll make the best of it,” Alex said, and focused on his estofado.
A minute later, Dolors herself, bearing a steaming tray, plumped herself down beside them.
“Isn’t the food good here, boys?” she asked. “How are you getting on together?”
“Excellent,” and suddenly Alex was all smiles. “He’s a fast student.”
“I’m trying,” Isard said, hoping to reassure her. “I think we’ll be able to pull it off.”
“I know you will. I have complete faith in you boys. Now I’ve organized transport to take you down to Barcelona after Isard’s last sequence, which should be about eight or nine tonight.
Then Isard’s due on set at seven tomorrow morning, in the Barcelona location, Collserola.
After costume and make-up, he should have a couple of hours free.
So, you can find a private spot and work together some more.
Does that sound OK? Sorry, it’s so chaotically organized, but we have to work around Isard’s shooting schedule on this one, and just grab the time when we can. ”
And then Valentí, the director, materialized beside them in his catlike style, holding a black coffee in one hand, from which he took small sips.
“Hello, Dolors, glad I’ve finally had a chance to catch up with you. Has Isard mentioned how pleased I am with his work?”
He smiled across at Isard, who blushed again, feeling like he was six years old, while the adults in the room were talking about him.
“He hasn’t!” Dolors exclaimed. “Typical of him. He’s too modest. I’m so proud of him. And this is Alex, his martial arts partner.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Valentí said, extending his hand. “Have you guys been working together long?”
“A couple of years,” Alex lied, flicking a quick glance at Isard.
“I can’t wait till we get onto the fight sequences. It’s going to be exciting!” Valentí enthused. “I’m really looking forward to seeing what you can do!” He winked at Isard, before slipping off the bench and heading over to another group of actors who were just finishing lunch.
The three of them, Alex, Isard and Dolors all breathed out at the same time.
“Well, we can’t disappoint the director,” Alex deadpanned. “We have our work cut out.”
“Thanks for getting caught up in our lie,” Isard said.
Alex made a wry face. “Well, sometimes you just have to… do what you have to do.”