“He really doesn’t like me, does he?”
“He doesn’t know you,” insisted Alex. “Honestly, neither do I.”
“Perhaps we should do something about that.”
The two of them watched an ambulance drive by the end of the street, presumably carrying the body of the deceased Paco. Alex didn’t see any reason to share the victim’s identity with Jago. The air seemed fresher, somehow, for its departure.
Alex felt a shiver go through him. “I think Vicente would have kittens if I invited you up.”
“You know, I didn’t really bring the wine for him. Perhaps he can spare you for ten minutes? Perhaps fifteen?”
“Twenty?” Alex teased.
“You’re the one with somewhere to be. Or someone to be with.”
“Vicente? No, that ended a while ago.”
“But he’s still loyal to you.” Jago took Alex by the hand. “I promise not to keep you out too late.”
They weaved swiftly through the crowds on either side of the Gran Via before Jago led Alex into the now quiet streets of the theatre district, pulling him along like a child excited to share some hidden secret. As they reached Plaza Santa Ana, Jago at last turned to face him, his face a stupid, lopsided grin.
“Look!” Jago pointed at the posters on the edifice of the Teatro Espanol.
“Blood Wedding?” Alex read. “Yes, I know. It just closed.”
“And it will open again, with your show.”
“Okay, first of all, not here, and secondly, our show’s a dance show, not a straight play.”
“Like Saura’s film? Dance, yes, but it’s the same story.”
Alex tensed his fists. “What is your point?”
“I just want you to tell me why. Why this story? Why this same play that everyone is doing?”
“Because it’s one of the great—”
“Stop! I beg you to stop, please. Yes, ‘one of the great landmarks of the Spanish theatre blah, blah, blah. What about the great works of Goya or Velazquez? Where are they?”
Alex shrugged. “In museums?”
“Exactly. Slowly rotting and dying in museums while the nation whose spirit they supposedly capture pays to spend a few minutes gawking at them. Tourists too, just to say they’ve seen them, which is worse. Imagine, going around the world, looking for pieces of art, just to say, ‘oh yes, darling,wesaw that one in Paris last year. ‘Tick!’ It’s nauseating, not that having them in the private collections of the obscenely rich would be any better.”
“I…” Alex hesitated as a couple passed them. He watched Jago take out a cigarette and light it before offering him one. He declined. “I never thought of it like that.”
“Of course not. We’re not supposed to ask those questions or say those things. Not supposed to disrespect our great artistic saints. Yet we disrespect them constantly. We put them away to gather dust and die, pretending they still have life because we look at them every now and again in museums, or theatres.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“No?”
“Okay, so a young painter goes to the Prado, spends a few hours looking at Goyas and Velasquez…” The plural eluded him. “It lives because we keep it alive in new work.”
“Ah! New work, yes. Then tell me, Alex. You have a brilliant mind, a brilliant dancer, and a brilliant friend to support you. Why aren’t you making new work?”
“We are. OurBlood Wedding’s about—”
Jago pointed to the theatre again. “Look at this place. Inside, it’s one of the most beautiful buildings in Madrid. Have you been?”
