Kim nodded dumbly, and watched Laia leave, looking as cool and contained as ever, her bright red hair like a slick metallic helmet from which sticks and stones would glance ineffectually. He felt devastated: Stay away? That was what he could do best for Dídac. Doing that would feel like ripping out his own insides and splaying them on a thorn bush for the blackbirds to peck. Gutted—the true meaning of the word.
Idly he took out his phone and opened up the map application, Typing in “canamat”—was that what Laia had said?—he quickly found “Ca n’Amat”, a dot at the end of a long squiggly twig of a road that extended into a lush expanse of mountainous woodlands. They had a family place, and Dídac’s surname was “Amat”. That had to be the place, didn’t it?
29
The only rental car company Kim could find open that late in the evening had just one car available, an early-model electric. After carefully taking down all the details of his Australian and international licenses, the young guy at the desk took him out to check over the car.
“Make sure you recharge at Girona, and you should be OK to get there and back. There’s a recharging point at the service station just by the number seven offramp. These early models don’t have the best autonomy in terms of battery life. But you know, take forty minutes, have a coffee, and you’ll be sweet.”
Kim thanked him, threw his suitcase in the trunk, and got in. The car was a stick shift, like most cars here, and it was the first time he’d driven one since getting his license at sixteen. He tried to ignore the attendant’s amused gaze as he stalled the vehicle no less than three times before getting it out of the car yard. Then he remembered to ease off the clutch more slowly as he was pressing the accelerator, and he got it into second smoothly, and then third. Driving on the wrong side of the road was a challenge. He narrowly missed side-swiping alorry before he had got more than a block away, and a couple of times cars tooted at him for forgetting to indicate while he was preoccupied with a gear change. A manual electric car—who ever heard of such a thing! But it was this or nothing. He crawled down Avinguda Paral·lel, driving as conservatively as a pensioner. The indicators and windscreen wipers were on the opposite sides to his old Australian Holden back in Melbourne, so he kept activating the windscreen wipers when meaning to indicate, and was then unable to turn them off.
Finding the on-ramp to go north was a nightmare as there were only three different, south-facing turn-offs, one of which, he understood from the confusing signage, was supposed to go north. He got into a line of traffic crawling south, unsure if he had chosen correctly. Then after about ten minutes and half a mile, they came to a roundabout with signs for the port underpass, the Ronda Litoral, and the freeway north. Once he had merged with the northward traffic, and entered the port underpass, things went more easily, and he breathed a sigh of relief, relaxing back in his seat as Roy Lichtenstein’s pop-art sculptureBarcelona Headflicked by in a gap to his right. Then he was out from under the roofed underpass into a spaghetti tangle of freeways, just as a few fat drops of rain hit the windscreen. His eyes snapped between the car’s map app and a bewildering array of signs and off-ramps, all claiming his attention. Trying to turn on the windshield wipers to clear away the rain, he activated the indicator instead. Then almost too late, he realized that the junction he wanted was coming up four lanes across on his right. So with more windshield-wiper-indicating, and angry car horns all around, he maneuvered his way over and, just in the nick of time, made the exit onto the freeway he needed.
Sweat was coming off his brow, but he could finally relax and enjoy the drive, such as it was. The evening was sweltering and gray, while lowthunder clouds hung over the Mediterranean to his right. Thankfully the traffic was not too heavy as he drove, though the rain continued to pelt down ever more intensely. In a few minutes he had slowed to a crawl, the sheeting rain making it impossible to see more than several yards ahead. While trying to turn on the headlights, he managed to switch off the windscreen-wipers for one terrifying moment in which his vision dropped to zero. But finally he started sorting out what was what on the car’s controls. Was this weather normal? They had gone from intense summer heat to an explosive thunder storm. The rain kept up for most of his drive north, making it impossible to enjoy the Mediterranean scenery, except for brief lulls in the rain. Occasionally the sun would break through, illuminating brilliant white buildings dotted along the coast, among umbrella pines that glowed a luminescent green against the vivid blue-turquoise sea. Then the clouds would close again, turning the sea slate-gray, and buckets more of rain would drop onto the freeway.
He thought about Dídac. He could well understand how he had decided to flee the city, away from tabloid journos’ intrusive questions and the paparazzi’s probing lenses. How must he be feeling? Kim felt like a cur for having treated the young actor so thoughtlessly when the scandal broke. He had simply reacted, and it had felt like a repeat all over again of the way his relationship with Tony had ended. He hadn’t stopped for a moment to wonder how Dídac might be feeling, seeing both his career and his budding romance crushed at one fell swoop from the published photos. He tried not to think about where he was going, as it felt totally crazy. What if he got to that far-flung spot on the map and Dídac turned out not to be there? He refused to think about it. Dídac would be there. He would be able to tell him to his face thathe cared about—no, loved him. They would work it out together, find a way to get through this together.
It was now getting dark, made even more so by the rain and clouds. No way in the world would he get back to Barcelona tonight, and he hadn’t even given Laia, Santi, or the actors a heads-up that he wouldn’t be at rehearsal the next day. He’d phone from Girona when he stopped to recharge. Yes, it was unprofessional, but this right now was more important than his career, a higher priority thanThe Swan. Felipa and Domènec could lead the actors for one day, going over with Isard what they’d already blocked. He couldn’t see that they’d do any worse than the way he’d run things this whole week at any rate.
After an hour and a half driving, he took the turn-off the rental-car guy had indicated, and searched for the service station. There was none there. This was a smaller road and he was able to pull over safely in the dark. It was still raining steadily, so he stayed in the car and did a search on his phone for charging points. The nearest one seemed to be in Girona city almost forty miles away. Either the rental guy had been wrong, or his map app wasn’t up to date. Either way, the car had more than fifty per cent battery remaining. Speaking of which, his phone was down to thirty per cent. He got out and went to grab his suitcase from the trunk, running to avoid the rain. Back in the driver’s seat, he put his case on the passenger seat, and rummaged through it for his charger. Damn, he must have left it at the hotel. A search of the car’s glovebox revealed no charging cord he could plug into the car’s USB. What to do? He put his phone on battery saving mode, and checked that the car’s map app was still showing their destination. He wasn’t about to make a forty-mile detour now just to top up on power—there was sure to be enough juice if he’d come this far on less than half a battery. So he started the car again and kept driving in the dark.
Now that he was off the freeway, the highway curved unpredictably in the darkness. After a little experimentation he found the high-beam setting for the lights, mostly remembering to dip them every time another car flashed past. Then he just followed the white line on the road’s right-hand curve. It was hypnotic but strangely soothing, peering through the rain hitting the windshield and following that glowing white ray that vanished unceasingly into the dark of an unknown country. Hopefully Dídac would be there at the end of it. And if he wasn’t? Kim wouldn’t allow himself to think such a thought. Dídac would be there—he knew it, was sure of it. Everything about where and who he was at this point in time depended on it.
According to the map, a junction was approaching. He slowed as he got close to the curve where the map indicated his route branched off. But still he couldn’t see it. He’d been jockeying between second and third gear to take the uphill curves for some time now, but now changed down to first as he came to the junction on the map—and almost didn’t see it. It was an unsealed metal road rising up the hillside to his left. He turned off and roared his way up it—as much as this tiny electric car could roar. No sign to indicate Ca n’Amat, but he presumed this was it. It had to be. He’d be in a right mess if it wasn’t.
Now he seemed to be on a private road. The metaled surface quickly gave way to mud, the double ruts of a cart track, which in the rain had turned to two rivers of mud. The car wheezed, slid and whined its way up the hill. He’d have to get it cleaned before he gave it back. If he ever got back. Outside of the car’s headlight beams, everything was pitch black. What a crazy idea this had been. Could he even turn around now if he wanted to? Every few yards, the car’s wheels spun in the mud before finding a grip and pushing him even deeper into the night. Then he noticed that the battery was down to twenty-five percent. He shouldstop, and turn the car around. He might be able to coast downhill until he reached the highway again and call a tow truck. Turn back! But he didn’t. He would find Dídac—he had to!
Twenty minutes later and he was still slithering around on the cart track in the dark. Then the engine seemed to lose its acceleration, and the headlights flickered. He checked the car’s map, which had dimmed to a fraction of itself. Still a way to go. What had he done? Here he was, lost in the night and about to lose power. And then it happened. The engine just cut, along with the electrics and the map app. The headlights stayed on, dimly peering into the void, vaguely illuminating a field through which this track wound, and a copse of trees in the distance. Then they too spluttered out, and he was left sitting in the dark. He pulled on the handbrake, and sat there listening to the patter of rain hitting the metal roof. Alone and lost in the heart of Catalonia.
Kim sighed. He deserved this. Around him, the black of night was absolute. He listened to his own breath, and wondered how he had got here. Just yesterday it seemed he’d been a promising young Australian director, preparing his masterpiece back in Melbourne, and now here he was, lost in the heart of darkness. He closed his eyes, opened them again. No change. Close, open, no change. Except for a tiny, dim prick of light up ahead. When he kept his eyes on it, he barely saw it. Only by shutting his eyes for a few moments, and then opening them again. Then it would appear, a gentle flicker in the distance. Dídac?
He checked his mobile, turning off all the applications except the map app, grabbed his jacket from the back seat, and got out of the car, hauling his suitcase behind him. It was still raining heavily, but he struggled into his jacket, and locked the car, more out of habit than because he seriously thought anyone would steal it out here. Then heshoved his phone in his pocket and began trudging toward the light, pulling his suitcase behind him.
As if on cue, the rain began to pelt down harder, and in a few seconds had soaked through his summer jacket. It was absolutely pitch black, and before he’d got three yards, he slipped and fell in the mud. Now he was wet and muddy to boot. And cold. This morning’s summer temperature had plummeted with the day’s continual rain, and his clothes, light cotton, were not made for cold rainy weather. His face was frozen, his eyes stinging. The rain mixed with his tears, now coursing down his cheeks. Determined, he slogged on.
30
Dídac threw another log on the fire, and used the iron poker to settle it right, so that there were enough air currents pushing up from the bed of embers for it to catch properly. The poker, with its handle in the shape of a dragon with arching wings, was the work of his grandfather, Bernat Amat, whose house this had been. He had been the local ironworker and blacksmith in the village of Castelladral, just over the hill.
As he sat back down on the sofa, there was another lightning flash and almost immediately, a huge crash of thunder. Dragon dug deeper into his side—her claws connecting with his skin even through the thick jersey he was wearing. Winter or summer, open fires and woolly clothes were mandatory at Ca n’Amat.
“Ouch!” he growled at Dragon, trying to ease her talons out of his flesh, at which she only growled back, and dug in her claws harder. “It’s only thunder. We’re safe here inside. I wouldn’t be caught dead outside on a night like tonight.”
The farmhouse’s heavy stones had resisted storms worse than this for generations, so they were safe here. Maybe a little bored, but safe. Since they had arrived here, Dídac had avoided turning on the dusty TV that sat in one corner of the cavernous living-dining area. Reception was dodgy anyway, and virtually non-existent for mobile phones. So he’d done as his family always did when they came here, and left his phone in the dresser drawer. That was a bit of a family tradition: coming to Ca n’Amat meant digital detox. And with things the way they were in the world… in his world, his former world, he had little interest in knowing what was going on. For entertainment he read or played cards with himself. Or just sat with Dragon on the sofa, cradling her in his arms and staring into the fire. This was the third time Dragon had stayed here, but each time, Dídac was careful to keep her cooped up inside with him for the first few days, until she had properly marked the farmhouse interior as her territory. During the daytime, he let her out so that they could sit in the sunshine, and if he went for a walk, he carried her, the cat normally lying across his shoulders like a mink stole. These last few days they’d been inseparable. She seemed to sense his need for comfort.
He tried not to think of Barcelona, Teatre Romea, or the production that was going on in his absence. Or of Kim. The man would be fully engrossed in his production—that was all he lived for. And no doubt he was by now also obsessed with his new young star. Who would it be? Isard Muntaner? He didn’t know where he’d heard that. Something Laia had said? It didn’t matter. His life was over in that world. He couldn’t care less. Strange how theater—which he’d been living and breathing since he was fifteen years old—no longer seemed that important. The thing that had been the central pillar in his existence for the last decade seemed to have just evaporated into air. Maybe theater was, as they said,just smoke and mirrors, all effect, the illusion of truth, yet not true at all. It certainly didn’t feel real to him anymore.
Kim. Kim had felt real. They’d really connected, hadn’t they? But he’d hardly stepped up—stepped back, more like—when Dídac’s world had collapsed. All of this just for some drunken kisses outside a club. He’d known better, of course he had. Laia had always been on at him. But it had just got too lonely in his gilded cage. He’d only wanted some real human contact. It had been in the period previous to starting onThe Swan, before meeting Kim, and he’d been at his absolute lowest point ever, taking stupid risks, drinking ridiculous amounts, doing brainless things to try to assuage his loneliness. Well, he had no worries on that score anymore. The bird had well and truly flown its golden cage. Or been released. Now he was free, and beyond any of those concerns.
Lightning flashed, and almost immediately thunder crashed outside, rattling the old shutters as if something had just exploded in the near distance. The storm must be right overhead. A night for Serrallonga. Serrallonga was the ghost story his dad had scared them with on nights like this. A peasant turned robber who would rob the wealthymasiafarmhouses in the area, distributing his ill-gotten gains among the poor of Catalonia. But it was said that after his death, on stormy nights he would haunt themasiasready to carry off naughty children to join his band of robbers. To Dídac that seemed more like reward than punishment. As a child he’d often dreamed about running away and living some astonishing adventure lifestyle that would leave his parents and brothers gob-smacked and awe-inspired. Maybe that was how he’d ended up as an actor, able to embody one exotic role after another.
The wind groaned outside, sounding almost like a human cry. Serrallonga? He stroked Dragon, holding her close to his side. “Dídac!” the wind seemed to call, and he imagined it was Kim’s voice out there in the storm, calling to him. Of course it wasn’t. But then it came again. It did sound like someone calling out all right. Was it a bird calling, somehow lost out there in the middle of the storm? But no bird would be out in this weather. Perhaps a fox? When they called, they could sound surprisingly human, like someone in distress. He remembered as a child lying here in the dark, and listening to the symphony of the summer evening outside, and then panic, hearing what sounded like someone shrieking for help. His grandfather had calmed him, tucking him in tighter.
“Don’t worry, lad. It’s only a vixen calling for her mate.”
But the eerie, strangely human call had unnerved him. And there it came again:
“Dídac!”
