“Nice to see you again, Vicente.”
Vicente forced a smile as the doors closed behind their guest. “So, we’re in collaboration now?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Alex said, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand. “It’s one of Jago’s favourite plays. He asked to watch a rehearsal and I owed him.”
“I know. I was there. And what do you mean, you owed him?”
“I got caught up in a protest just as the police arrived. It was bad. Jago pulled me out and took care of me.”
Vicente’s face was quizzical as he approached. “You didn’t tell me about that. Did he tell you about that? Joanna? Joanna?”
Joanna was already sweeping across the stage with elegant, powerful moves that accentuated her long limbs, as if snatching up scraps for the story unfolding in her imagination and consuming them whole, each one another morsel that made up the dance. Alex could still see traces of his choreography, but only just. That suited him. It was Joanna who brought a dancer’s mind to their stage. Right now, she was reinventing their work, making her flow look effortless, a woman possessed by poetry.
“Joanna?”
“Shhh.” Alex didn’t even notice the glare Vicente gave him. He was too transfixed, absorbed by each graceful movement. He hadn’t dared presume they’d achieve anything so grand as expressing Lorca’s poetry through dance, but this was so close.
Joanna quickened her steps, arms sweeping through the air, legs arcing gracefully over the few props they’d put on stage, her gaze fixated—on what, Alex couldn’t say. Something that didn’t exist in that room. Possibly not in their world.
Joanna let out a strong, fast exhale and dragged her outstretched hand across her body, beneath the collarbone, grasping at her shoulders before repeating the action. Into this rhythm she brought the same clawing movement, this time along her inner thigh, tearing into what would be the wedding dress, once she was in costume. But Alex saw no rage in her face. There was joy, even freedom, but none of the anger that had been present during her dance with the orange blossoms. Had she wandered off script?
“Alex?Joanna!” Vicente raced to the stage, gently taking Joanna and pulling her away from the spot where blood had trickled onto the floor.
The shouts snapped Alex from his dream state, while Joanna shook her head, looking down at her scratched thighs and the ruined legs of her body stocking.
“My god, Jo, are you okay?”
“She’s not okay, she’s bleeding. Call a doctor.”
“No, I…” Joanna held her bloodstained fingers up to her face, as if surprised to find them there. “How? I don’t feel anything.”
“Seriously?” Vicente pointed to the long scratch down her thigh. “You don’t feel this?”
“Stop fussing and give me a minute, will you?” Joanna nimbly got to her feet and with no show of pain, disappeared backstage.
“What the hell?” Vicente fairly hissed. “Okay,heis not to come to another one of these, is that—”
“Woah, hold on. I assume you mean Jago? Becausehedidn’t go anywhere near her.”
“There’s blood on the damn stage, Alex. Jo’s blood.”
“And Jo’s not…” Alex paused, trying to be tactful.
“No, I’m not.” Joanna’s voice was cold, detached, and matter-of-fact as she emerged from behind the flat, now dressed in a simple t-shirt and short shorts. “I just scratched myself. It wasn’t deep. See? Already gone.”
They stared at the smooth, pale skin on the inside of her thigh. It wasn’t bleeding nor broken, nor even bruised.
“How?” Vicente asked. “You scratched yourself. You said that.”
“Perhaps I didn’t break skin? I mean, I didn’t feel anything.”
“There’s blood on the stage, Joanna,” Alex reminded her.
“Clearly, not mine.”
“That’s not particularly any better.”
Joanna shook her head, the first signs of exasperation showing on her face. “I don’t know what to tell you. Let’s just mop the stage and forget about it, all right? Perhaps a drink somewhere?”
