“It’s him!” he screamed, and as a mob, the photographers rushed the building, cameras clicking, leaving Laia abandoned behind.
At that, she simply got back in the car, and drove off. By the time the photographers reached the glass street door of Dídac’s apartment building, he had disappeared up the staircase. Deciding not to takethe elevator when he reached the next floor up, he continued climbing the stairs, preferring to work out some of his frustration in his aching thighs.
Now he carried Dragon through to the living room and sat down with her on the sofa. First thing he would do is clean her litter tray. After that he would have to hunt out her traveling case. She hated it as it normally meant one thing: vet. So, he would have to work out how to coerce her inside when the time came. That would be the last step before they left the apartment, if at all. Her last vet trip a year ago had left him with three deep gouges on his forearm from which he still carried the scars. At least he could pack his own things—she was used to him traveling, didn’t like it, but was used to it.
Without turning on the light—it was more comfortable in the dark, and less chance of alerting any paparazzi who might be scanning the windows—he didn’t notice at first how the orange square of night sky outside was turning misty. Then Dragon was licking the salt off his cheeks, her rough tongue rasping against his beard, her whiskers tickling his nose. He huffed, but couldn’t hold it in any longer. The tears began to fall thick and fast. Then came the sobs, and he wished he hadn’t sent Laia away. He had no one. It was always the same. And he had brought this on himself. He was an evil person. Why had he done it? Had he met Kim by then he never would have. That, at least, he wanted to explain to him. Sex with strangers, that was part of his past life. It felt like some act he’d committed years ago, nothing to do with who he was now. Meeting Kim had changed everything. But it had also proved that he truly didn’t deserve whatever dream life he’d been fantasizing about. His true self had been laid bare. He deserved this.
He held Dragon to him and just cried. Here he was, alone as always. Everything he had tried to create, his great acting career, all lay shattered,because he just couldn’t bare to be alone that one night. He should be used to it! Why had he thrown it all away? Ever since leaving drama school, ever since his first TV part, he’d been alone. It was his lot, one of the prices of fame. You went out, you had your career, you shone under the lights. But when he came through that door, it was Dragon and he against the world. He’d known that! He’d accepted it! He’d been living the monk’s life, not causing a scandal. Then one stupid time, one single time when he just couldn’t bear to spend another night alone, when he knew the big production was coming up, with the big foreign director, the idol of his adolescence, the figure who’d been responsible for him choosing acting as a career, just days before all of that happening, he’d gone out just one night, wanted to let off a little steam before being endlessly disciplined and professional for the next two long months, and he’d thrown his whole life away, everything he’d worked for! His sobbing was loud now, intense, but he didn’t care who heard. Damn them! His career was over. Worse, Kim despised him, had seen who he really was. And that was what was worse.
He stared at the rectangle of orange sky outside, as dark as the night sky ever got here in Barcelona. Ca n’Amat would be different. The night sky there could be as black as a theater curtain, except on no-moon nights, when the Milky Way lay scattered across it like a swag of diamonds, so bright you could almost see your way just by the stars. But it was over. He was over. Beyond the balcony it was a seven-story drop. For a long moment he considered it. A minute perhaps? No. What scared him most was the amount of time his mind lingered over that possibility. He wanted to be sick. No, that wasn’t him. And what would happen to Dragon? The scare his own thoughts had given him forced him up and off the sofa, Dragon leaping clear with a cry of complaint. He strode into his bedroom and took down his large suitcase, openingit on the bed. Then he had to sit down, he was trembling so bad. Dragon jumped into the suitcase and lay down, staring up at him with an intense frown on her face.
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 himen 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 theassembled 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 hadThe Swan. He still hadThe 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?
