“It was built for six hundred and sixty, but our commercial limit nowadays is five hundred and fifty.”
Kim’s worries were assuaged. If they could fill this place for most of the season, they might do more than break even.
“And the wings? Is there much room?”
“Not brilliant unfortunately, only three meters on each side. It’s the main disadvantage with a historical building like this. But you do have a slight advantage of height. How do you say—thepeine?—it’s high, giving you another five meters above the stage to raise and lower sets.”
Kim nodded. It still seemed quite an insignificant theater to be holding the European premier ofThe Swan, but they would see.
Laia grabbed them both coffees from the theater bar, which was still closed, but the manager, whom she introduced as Manel, was there setting up, and had turned on the coffee machine. They continued their tour. Backstage, she showed him thecamerinosor dressing rooms, and technical area. Then by a back staircase, they climbed up to the large Rehearsal Room on the second floor, complete with a piano and a high ceiling for doing the large-scale puppet work that Kim’s show demanded. By the main staircase, they then went up to the offices on the floor above. By this time it was after nine and most of the office crew were there at their desks. The producer’s assistant, director’s assistant (herself), theater assistant, season coordinator and schools coordinator had desks cramped together in the main area, while the producer, Santi Puig, and theater director, Jordi Veràs, each had an office to themselves. He had been meeting them by video call for several weeks to hash out all the season’s technical and commercial details. However, this morning they were both away at a conference. Laia showed him a small unused space in between theirs, which had clearly been set up only lately with a desk and chair.
“That looks like it was the photocopying alcove,” he remarked dryly.
“To be honest, it is,” she said. They both laughed uneasily. “We don’t have a regular office for visiting directors, unfortunately. But if you need a larger space, the Reading Room above is almost never used. You could take over that.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll probably be doing most of my prep at my hotel,” he reassured her.
Lastly, she showed him up to the Reading Room. This was up on the building’s top floor, reached by a much narrower stone staircase. Here, a small landing gave onto two largish rooms, one on each side. In the left one, tall windows flooded the space with light. Around a vast black oval table, fourteen chairs were arranged. At each place, a notepad, pencil, and small bottle of water had been set out.
“We call this the Reading Room, though historically, this floor was all given over to costume andatrezzo—what’s the word?”
“Props, properties?”
Yes, of course. This floor has the best natural light in the theater, that’s why. We now have another building a few streets away for scenery, wardrobe and props.”
“What’s in the other room?”
“Our ghost.”
They both laughed.
“Really?”
“What theater doesn’t have thousands of ghosts, all crowding to be seen?”
“True.”
“But they say this is the ghost of Margarida Xirgu.”
“Sorry, who’s she?”
“You must know Federico García Lorca?”
“Yes, of course. The dramaturg and poet from Andalucia, writer of plays likeBlood WeddingandYerma. I directed hisThe House of Bernarda Albathree years ago for the Sydney Theater Company. He was shot by the fascists at the start of the Spanish Civil War.”
“The same. I personally love his poetry.Romancero Gitano, theGypsy Ballads, is my favorite collection.“ And she began to recite:
The Moon came to the blacksmith’s forge
with her bustle of spikenard flowers.
The boy is gazing, gazing.
The boy is gazing at her.
“Sorry, that’s the best I can do in English,” she said. “In Spanish it is even more beautiful.”
“That’s brilliant.”
