“No. I just felt silly, I guess.”
“Why?” Jago sat down on the bed beside him. “It’s a good song, and you’re an artist. Music is part of your soul. Music that you love. Music that you hear so much you never want to hear it again. Punk rock. Disco. Your grandmother’s favourite folk songs.”
“Just no flamenco, okay?” Alex added, feeling noticeably better.
Jago’s gaze shifted, as if he were scrutinising his guest, though his smile never wavered. “Perhaps if the ban had stayed, you’d get your wish?”
Alex’s smile drained from his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… You’re not Roma, are you?”
Jago let out a sharp, piercing laugh, covering his face as he flopped down on the bed. “No, no, it’s all right, really. I’d just rather talk about the music we love. Anything we love.”
Alex shrugged, relaxing again. “Speaking of music you hear so much you never want to hear it again? Franco hadn’t been dead two hours when my abuela started clapping and tapping away. We just stared at her. We all knew about her heritage, but she’d never talked about it. She just got on with life. Then, suddenly, it came out in one big dancing rush. It was the strangest, most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. She didn’t even keep in time. Just kept tapping and clapping, singing, if you could call it that, but she didn’t care. I guess that’s what thirty years out of practice will do to you.”
“I’d think that would give you reason to love flamenco, yes?”
“Right, except she didn’t stop until she died. Almost every day for three years, like a ritual. Until one day it was quiet. Okay, one day wasn’t so strange. Then came another. Six days of quiet. Then we said goodbye.”
No trace of the harshness that had crossed Jago’s face moments earlier remained. He just stared at Alex with kind eyes, the back of his fingers brushing Alex’s knee, not daring to patronise him by patting it. “You may not agree, but that’s actually a lovely reason for not wanting to hear it. Thank you for sharing that memory with me.”
Alex swallowed, unable to hide his awkwardness. The next song on the record, something in English about an armoured car, wasn’t helping. “I feel like I’ve killed the mood.”
“What mood?”
“Oh. Sorry, I thought…” Just when he’d thought nothing could make this more awkward, Jago leaned in, slowly, carefully,with tender consideration as if it were Alex’s first time. Jago’s kiss was sweet with wine, but under that, Alex tasted a power that excited him. A rich invitation to be himself, to tap along with whatever damn song he liked, and perhaps even jump up singing, dancing, tapping and clapping just as his abuela had.
Jago withdrew with a satisfied look, at last putting his hand on Alex’s leg. “I’m glad you wanted that too. Otherwise, I would have been the one killing the mood.”
“How did you know I—”
“I didn’t. I took a risk.” Jago stood, draining the last of his wine. “Though not one as big walking through a potentially violent protest on your way to work. Try to sleep. If you need anything, call out.”
“Thanks,” Alex murmured, though Jago was already gone. Try to sleep? The suggestion made him smile as he turned off the record player.
The sounds of the street floated into the room on another warm gust of breeze. Despite his protestations that Alex should have only one, Jago had left the bottle. Screw it. Not feeling the pull of sleep, he poured himself a little more wine and sat on the window sill, where the sun warmed his face. It was in this moment of complete calm that something in his gut seized. He couldn’t remember calling Victoria. Even on her most easy-going days, his boss wasn’t a fan of ‘no call, no show.’ Did Jago even have a phone? Yes, he’d said as much, hadn’t he?
Alex opened his mouth to call out when he heard a latch lifting below. A window swung open, and out onto the roof of the neighbouring building popped Jago. Alex watched in silence as he skittered across the roof, agile as a cat until he reached the dead pigeon. He unfolded a large piece of newspaper from hispocket and wrapped it around the broken body, cradling it with care.
Jago looked up, saw Alex watching, and smiled. “If I leave them, we get rats.”
Rats? Alex took another sip of his wine as he watched Jago return to the window, nimble as he’d been before. The wine tasted bitter compared to before, either from the heat or the sight of Jago scooping up the unfortunate bird. He couldn’t imagine stray cats ignoring such a prize for very long, and even so, why hadn’t Jago just tossed it to the street?
He drained the last of his wine, quietly stunned he’d not only finished it but wanted more. Would it be rude? No, Jago had presumably left him the bottle for that very purpose, and he felt fine. Better than fine. Whatever Jago had done for him had worked a treat. In that case, he reasoned, it was probably better to leave explaining things to Victoria and begging forgiveness until tomorrow. Right now, he looked more like a man enjoying wine in bed than one recovering from an injury.
He poured himself the last of the bottle before noticing the book Jago had discreetly left next to it.Blood Wedding and Other Works.
Perhaps some inspiration?read a small note in red ink tucked into the pages.
Alex smiled, stacked another pillow onto the pile and let it envelop him. He picked up the familiar text and thumbed through, barely noticing the rapid descent of sleep until it overtook him.
***
Alex woke with a start, warm air filling his nostrils as he closed his fingers around the hard cover of the book. He could see the silhouette of an almost full glass of red wine beside a lamp on the table beside him. The room’s only natural light now came from the reflection of the moon. He gripped the book as an awful thought hit him. Had he missed a rehearsal? Skipping work was one thing, but he couldn’t leave Vicente and Joanna in the… No, no, rehearsal had been yesterday. Right. Leo and his Alice in Fucking Wonderland.
He reached for the light switch beside his bed, bumping the empty wine bottle, which landed on the floor with a sharp thud before rolling away. He shifted the near full glass of wine away from the edge of the table.
His senses returning to him at last, Alex thumbed through the book to his favourite part, the Bride’s rejection of the gifted orange blossoms. He’d marked it with Jago’s note. There was no part of the play he didn’t have memorised, of course. Rumours flew that Saura was making a film version. It seemed weirdly appropriate, given that for their second date, Vicente had taken him to seeAna and the Wolves, claiming it to be his favourite film. One of Vicente’s most endearing qualities was that he had a new favourite film every four to six months. It would come as no surprise to Alex if in a few weeks, Vicente was extolling the virtues ofPepi, Luci, Bom.
Alex cradled the handwritten note in his fingers. He’d read that some cultures reserved red ink for writing the names of the dead. He hoped this didn’t bode ill for his inspiration. Still, Jago had already gone above and beyond, looking after him. The wine and the book, with such a personal note had been downright sweet.
