“Hey, not all of us were raised by athletes as some are raised by wolves.”
Jago laughed at that. “Flatterer. Good genes and sit-ups.”
“Sit-ups? I thought it was—”
“You do realise I’m feeling just a touch objectified right now?”
“Sor—Ow!” Alex started as Jago squeezed a point high on the inside of his leg.
“Sorry,” they said together, before laughing again.
“I just haven’t known many artsy folk who are so…” Alex searched for a word thatwouldn’tmake his host feel objectified. “You know, other than dancers.”
“Yes, well, your Joanna and I share some interests. But it’s as I told you. I am the person I am. Where possible, I’ve put time and energy into becoming the person I wish to be. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“You don’t have to tell me anything. Sorry, I don’t mean to… just drop it.”
“I will,afterI thank you for the compliment.” Jago shifted his weight, lowered Alex’s leg and picked up the other one, assuming the same position on the other side.
“What brought you to the movie the other night?” Alex asked, eager to switch the subject as easily as they’d switched legs.
“Didn’t I tell you? I’ve seen the director’s band, and his drag. I liked both. Why should I not see his movie?”
“It was pretty great, huh?”
“No.”
“Hmm?”
“It was good, but not great. He’ll make much greater, I promise you.”
“You seem very sure of that.” Alex winced with pain, prompting Jago to pause again.
“He is that rarest of people who despite all their fears of rejection, somehow catch lightning in a bottle. Lorca had that. Cervantes had it. Goya and Velazquez had it.” A sneer cross Jago’s face. “Buñuel and Dali had it, though what they’ve done with it since… Christ!”
“You’re not a Dali fan, I take it?”
“I was once. Of Buñuel too, but Bunuel is a pompous arse and a subtle bigot beneath all his noble bluster, while Salvad…” Jago trailed off, setting Alex’s leg down again and applying more of the ointment to Alex’s lower legs and feet before repositioning himself to work Alex’s shoulders. “It doesn’t matter. The world loves them now.”
“If you’re about to tell me that you and Dali are on a first-name basis, I’ll believe it.”
Jago suppressed a laugh, slipping his hands across the curves of Alex’s collarbone until he began working the muscle of hisouter chest. “Did you know they made a film about Lorca? The two of them, I mean, Buñuel and Dali.”
“You mean a documentary?”
“No. A short horror film. Experimental, I suppose you’d call it. It was not very flattering.”
“No? I thought they were friends.”
“You don’t name a workUn Chien Andalouin honour of a man you call a friend.”
Alex’s French was rusty, but it was close enough to the Spanish that he understood. “An Andalusian Dog?”
Jago nodded solemnly as he finished up his steady sweeps on Alex’s chest and turned his attention to his arms. “Can you imagine calling him a dog? A provincial poser, fresh off the farm? They denied it, of course; dismissed it as a silly joke, but the title has nothing to do with the film, so there’s little one can say to defend them. You’ve noticed it, I’m sure.”
“Noticed what?”
“The way some of them talk to you… or don’t. How nice it is that you, a farm boy, want to be creative while the hipper-than-thou continually ignore you or treat your work as something to suffer through or worse, ignore? The gatekeeping by these self-appointed taste-makers?” Jago made a retching sound. “Thankfully, they’re a minority. Most people want to see you succeed for no other reason than they like good shows. You just need some ofyourpeople to notice you. The others will follow. That’s why you should have said hello to him the other night.”
