“No.”
“Right. Because it’s maddeningly expensive. A glorified museum where rich people pay to see the same stories done the same way, over and over and over again, pretending they’re patrons of our great national arts. It’s beyond fucking bourgeois, and it’s not culture.”
“I thought you likedBlood Wedding?”
“It is Lorca at the apex of his powers, which is why I despise what it’s become. But why are you doing it?”
Alex shook his head, a pitch in that moment far from top of mind. “Because of Lorca? A tribute, I guess? We’re both from Andalusia…”
“So? I’m from his home town. Try harder.”
“He captures something. The stupid prejudices and violence of rural minds. Provincial minds.”
“You’ve read a lot of his poems, I suppose? His other plays?”
“Of course.”
“Then why would you think he despises Andalusia as you do?”
The accusation, if Alex could call it that, stung hard. Yet there was no cruelty or cynicism in Jago’s face. He’d been sincere, even sympathetic.
“I don’t despise it.”
“No? Lorca celebrated the romance and beauty of his homeland, but you?” Jago shook his head grimly. “Why do you so despise it?”
Alex felt cornered. He didn’t know why he was justifying himself in the first place, and yet the question, now it was out, bothered the hell out of him. “Because it despised me first.”
“And there’s another old story. So, you run away to Madrid? Another young, outcast maricón in a city awash with them?” Jago mimed a yawn.
“What do you want me to say? It’s like you said.Blood Weddingis Lorca at the apex of his powers. I want to see if we can make it dance. Is that so strange? Or maybe I’m just doing a story people know so they come see it—come seeus. And what do you care? Are you a director or a choreographer or something?”
“No.”
“Exactly. You know what? I’m going home. Thank you again for everything. For the wine. It was great meeting you and having you at rehearsal, but we’re fi—”
“None of them see you though, do they?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The people you’re trying to be. The people you would be if you only trusted yourself, but of course you don’t. So you cling to an old story from the very place you despise, the very place they ridicule you for, if not to your face—”
“Oh, come on, enough!”
“—and you hope they’ll notice you for it? Respect you for it?” Jago shook his head, his sympathy at last seeming more thana little patronising as he drew close enough for Alex to feel the heat from his body. “Your Joanna understands the play’s emotions. Its rage and violence. Do you understand yours?”
Alex wasn’t sure why he allowed Jago so close to him their noses were touching. Or why he hadn’t taken his eyes off Jago’s stare since his last outburst. “One more time. Why do you care?”
“Because those who have the ability deserve every chance to be great. To share that ability with others. So, as good as it is, as much as I love it, if this old story isn’t lighting that fire in you?” Jago’s lips brushed his before he withdrew with a deep bow. “You have my blessing to change it.”
“Your blessing?” Alex laughed.
“Do I flatter myself?”
“Maybe. Hell, Joanna thinks you look like Lorca, but…”
“A little sexier, I hope?” Jago grinned, admiring the theatre’s façade one more time before turning back and giving a mocking flex of his biceps that made Alex laugh.
“I’m sure he would approve. He’d probably sleep with you.”
