“A drink?”
“I’m rather tired.”
Alex looked at Vicente, who shrugged.
Joanna’s eyes were animated with excitement as she spoke. “Just let me work on this in private. I’ll have something amazing to show you tomorrow night, I promise.”
“How can you promise—”
“Alex, I don’t know how, I just know I can. I’m feeling… Tomorrow, yes?”
Alex and Vicente exchanged looks again, knowing they’d be foolish to try to dissuade her.
“I’ll get a mop,” Vicente said, retreating backstage.
Joanna at last stepped down, graceful and elegant as she’d been throughout the dance. She took Alex by both hands and kissed his cheek. “You’re cleverer than you know.”
“You think so?”
“I’ve always known it.” She raised her eyebrows mischievously. “Now, I’m certain.”
“Thanks, I think?”
Together, the three of them removed any trace of the bizarre event, picked up their bags and crossed the darkened courtyard of the Culture Forum to the streets that lead into Chueca. They tossed around a few suggestions for dinner, most of them more expensive than they could afford before settling on Angel Sierra on Chueca Square. Joanna ordered them each an enormous gin and tonic along with some croquettes which wouldn’t nearly line their stomachs enough. Gin and tonics were the last thing Alex wanted to drink, but he humoured her, adding some patatas bravas to even things out. What he really wanted wasflamenquín. A huge, greasy piece of pork, wrapped in ham and deep fried would fortify him through a half-dozen gin and tonics.
Neither of the boys spoke, until Joanna, after ten minutes fawning over the café’s history—"did you know it opened all the way back during the first war, and survived Franco and…”—said “Jago seems quite brilliant.”
Alex felt his throat tighten, immediately wondering how to extricate himself from this topic. The silence it created grew thick with tension as a plate of croquettes and some potatoes slathered in spicy sauce landed on their table. The waiter had the good sense to hurry away.
Joanna raised her eyebrows. “Gosh. Never mind.”
“No,” Alex said. “No, you might be right. He certainly seems to knowBlood Weddingwell enough.”
“Everyone knowsBlood Wedding.” Vicente put a croquette and several pieces of sauce-slathered potato on his plate. “I’m glad he helped.”
Alex winced. Yep, his grandmother’s flamenquín sounded pretty good around now, if only because it would shut them up with a mash of pork, crumbs, ham and good commonsense discretion. “Yeah, I think he did. Nice guy.”
“Nice guy,” Vicente echoed, half-heartedly.
Joanna took another sip of her drink. “You said he pulled you out of the Basque protest on the weekend? That was brave.”
“Brave?”
“I just mean, he’s not a big guy. Wiry, though.”
“How do you reason that?” Vicente asked, taking a drink.
“Forearms, my love. He had his sleeves rolled up at the rehearsal. Those veins?” She wiggled her eyebrows at Alex.
“Are you suggesting something?”
“I’m suggesting you do what makes you happy,” she replied. “Nothing more.”
“Are you sure he’s not makingyouhappy?”
“I really don’t think I’m his type, do you?”
“Right,” Vicente said, getting up. “I need to piss.”
