He stressed the wordprofessionallike the heel he would have loved to stamp down on Dídac’s insolent smirk.
“Of course, I understand. I am a professional. But professional means more than simply clocking in on time as if we were working at a factory.”
“Professionalism starts with punctuality. That’s the first building block. Anyone who doesn’t understand that can get the hell off my ship. Understood?”
And Dídac pulled up his right hand in a slow mock salute:
“Yes. Captain.”
Kim breathed out slowly. He was close to losing it completely, but to do so here and now could jeopardize his entire production. Luckily this was the sixth time he had done this particular gig—Melbourne, Sydney, Tokyo, London, New York, and now here. He was damned if he’d let some upstart actor, however charismatic, force him to blow his cool. He breathed out again and went onto autopilot again:
“OK, I’m going to recap quickly what Mr. Amat here missed, and then we go into the read-through.”
He began to speak.
4
“When are Santi and Jordi getting back from their conference?”
“It finishes this evening,” Laia replied. “They should be in the office tomorrow. Is it anything I can help you with?”
“No, I need to talk to them about replacing an actor.”
Laia went quiet, and began to organize her notes. They were sitting in his “office”, the ex-photocopying alcove to which they had retreated after the reading. Once he had declared the read-through officially “over”, the meeting had descended into an informal social of performers who had not seen each other since whatever production they had last worked on together. It would have been impossible to keep working there.
That morning’s read-through—the key first activity in a rehearsal schedule—had merely limped along. This initial meeting is where actors and director all meet together for the first time, and get a sense not only of how they’ll work together, but how the play might meld together as a whole with this particular group of actors. His clash withAmat had had the effect of putting everyone’s nose slightly out of joint, including his own. Amat read well, but not like the brilliant actor that he, Kim Delatour, had been sold. Amat had been forced on him. Whether they truly needed him for box-office success or not, there were two substitutes Kim had in mind, who had both done brilliantly in their online auditions. And he wasn’t about to keep working against that silent resistance and insolence that the lead actor was displaying not so subtly at every turn.
“How are you finding the Catalan?”
“It’s OK.” He wasn’t sure whether this was an attempt to steer the conversation onto safer ground. “I don’t need to understand the words, though it does sound quite strange hearing them spoken in a foreign language. I know the words back-to-front and front-to-back in English, since I wrote them. But it’s their emotions I need to read.” He paused, unsure how much to confide in Laia. But what the hell, she was his assistant. They needed to have total, open communication. “Look, I know he’s your friend, but Dídac Amat was reading sub-par today. It’s an important part. If the actor in this part can’t do their job, the whole show falls apart. I can’t risk that.”
“I get you,” she said. “And I’m on board one hundred percent to make this show a success. I’ll back you up completely in any decision you make. I can’t defend Dídac’s effort today. He is normally totally on the ball. But I will say that he’s an actor who has inside him what few actors can do. He can connect with his emotions and bring that into his performance in a way that is not just truthful but riveting. I’m not just saying that because he’s my friend. I really hope you can overcome your—”
“My? You think this ismy problem?”
“No, no, Mr. Delatour… Kim, I didn’t mean that. I mean between the two of you, there’s a…”
“Between the two of us there should be a professional working relationship, and I don’t like sloppy, undisciplined actors.”
“Let me talk to Dídac, please. I’m sure after today he understands what’s needed of him in terms of professionalism, and I will make sure that he is crystal clear about his attitude from here on in.”
“Do what you feel you need to. OK, I can’t work in this little cubbyhole. I’m going back to my hotel to prep. See you here at nine tomorrow, and we’ll go over the first rehearsal, which will start punctually at ten.”
Kim gathered his papers and left, leaving Laia alone in the photocopying alcove.
Out in Hospital Street, Kim wandered lazily toward the Rambla. He wouldn’t make the mistake of choosing any of the restaurants there for lunch today, but maybe there were some others in the area that weren’t too bad. He should have asked Laia for a recommendation. Following no particular plan, he turned up the Rambla, away from the touristy restaurants that covered the wide boulevard down in the port direction. Then on a whim he turned right into a busy shopping street with an ancient medieval fountain on the corner, Portaferrissa, it was called.
This afternoon he’d place a zoom call to Santi, and discuss the problem. With the producer’s agreement they could sack Amat straight away, and hopefully get one of the other candidates in to read sometime tomorrow. That would put them back by one day of rehearsal in analready tight schedule, but he preferred to nip this problem in the bud right away, so he could get on with directing.
After ten minutes walking along this bustling street, filled with fashionable clothes shops but few restaurants, he came out onto a wide esplanade. To the right rose up Barcelona Cathedral, a medieval construction boasting a forest of spires and pinnacles. Its arched entrance looked impressively Gothic, though he’d read it was actually Gothic Revival—built in the nineteenth century to seem older than it was. Back then apparently, like the rest of Europe, Barcelona began revaluing and trying to show off its medieval architecture. Still, to a new-world Australian it looked impressively old. Passing the cathedral, down a narrow street to the right, he came across a small restaurant facing the old Roman wall. Themenú del dia, or daily set menu, displayed on a sign outside, showed a price of fifteen euros—more than reasonable for his budget. Inside, it was cool and dark. Red and white checked tablecloths gave the place a homely feel. A young dark-haired woman came forward, smiling:
“Welcome!”
“A table for one?”
She waved him toward the back, where a single file of small tables lined the left wall of the passageway, which was flanked on its other side by the open kitchen across a chest-high food counter. From his table not only could he see out into the street ahead, but he also had a view of the chef and kitchen hands working to his right, while waiting staff bustled to and fro beside him, collecting plates off the counter. It may not have been the most prestigious table, but it gave him an enjoyable slice-of-life view of the working establishment.
Two of the male waiters also had gorgeous asses, giving him a front-row peek of their tailored upholstery every time they came tocollect a dish. Moreover, one of the chefs, a dark muscular Latin with bulging forearms, looked the splitting image of Tony. There’s a name he hadn’t thought of in a while. This guy was slightly squatter, and a few years younger perhaps—the way Tony had looked when they’d met. But now one of the cute-bummed waiters was in front of him, asking for his order. And he hadn’t even glanced at the menu.
