Alex flipped through all the possibilities in his mind. Jago silently let him, until he reached the door, unable to ignore one final question. “Lorca?”
“What of him?”
“You speak as if you knew the man. Dali and Buñuel, too, for that matter.”
“I know the poet better than anyone. But I think you’ve a story far more your own to tell thanBlood Wedding, yes?”
As Alex put on his shoes, he found himself unable to dispute either statement.
***
Perhaps it was the effects of the massage, the levitation, learning Jago’s true vocation, his tiredness, or the sudden abundance of streetlights that had disoriented him, but Alex had no idea where he was. Not one street into which they turned seemed familiar, and by the time—ten minutes, twenty, or an hour, Alex couldn’t say—they reached their destination, a dark entryway lit only by a small, glowing red sign that readLaOtra Cava, he was no longer certain how to get home.
“Jago?”
Instead of answering, Jago knocked four times on a door made of the shiniest black wood Alex had ever seen. When no response came, he knocked again, four sharp raps, then one with such force, Alex half expected him to break a hole in the door. A panel slid noisily aside. From behind it, came steady, heavy breath, thick with wheezing, as if every breath was pure labour.
“Karpvus vak, tel Vach?” the voice rasped without further explanation.
“Vien. Toch. Vach matg. Krrrrr.”
The breathing continued, a solitary sound in the otherwise still night. It unnerved Alex, to whom Madrid and silence seemed the most unnatural bedfellows. A loud clang startled him before the door slid aside, revealing not a speaker, but a long corridor as dark as the door. A dim red light marked the corner around which they should turn. There was no sign of the gravel-voiced speaker anywhere.
“What was that language?” Alex asked, curiosity holding back anxiety as he peered down the hall.
Jago squeezed his hand. “I honestly don’t know.”
Emboldened when Jago didn’t let go, Alex allowed him to take them across the threshold together. For some reason, he’d expected their shoes to clip loudly on the dark wooden floor, but he could barely hear them at all. What he could hear instead now, was music. Soft music beholden to no discernible rules but its own, like jazz or some Eastern genre he didn’t understand. Of course, people said the same thing about flamenco, and probably about whatever Alaska and her band were doing. In another setting, it might have repelled him, made him question his choice to be here so late at night with a man he barely knew. A witch he barely knew. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ The confession comforted him more than it probably should.
They emerged in a tiny theatre, which for reasons he couldn’t explain, had been exactly what Alex had expected. As they took their seats in the second last row, Alex stared agog the disaster strewn across the stage. It was as if the theatre itself had flooded. Sections of boards floated an inch above the black watersurface, islands of normality nonetheless ripped apart. Boxes added dimension to the milieu. Scraps of burlap sack hung from the ceiling like the boughs of swamp-dwelling trees. In lieu of a curtain, another creek of dark water separated the audience from the grim diorama.
They weren’t alone in the theatre. He saw the back of an old woman’s head with hair tied in a grey bun. Two younger men sat a few rows down, and near the front, a couple with a small child at their side. What family brought a child of nine or ten to the theatre in the wee hours of the morning?
“How do you know this place? What is it?”
When Jago showed no sign of having heard him, he let his other questions go. Why was the theatre full of water? Was it a flooding accident, or an extremely sophisticated set? Why was a show starting so late? Why had nobody asked them for admission or tickets? What had become of the man who’d granted them entry in such cryptic tongue? One futile question followed the next. Jago’s only answer was to place a solitary hand on Alex’s thigh.
The house lights dimmed.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” purred a distinguished voice in English. “We welcome, for your consideration and delectation, Jacqueline.”
Alex had already placed a hand over Jago’s. It tightened as a barefoot woman in a flowing white dress followed the dry patches to centre stage. The long black hair that hung in front of her eyes made her look like a ghost from a Japanese horror film. Admittedly, Alex had only seen two, but that image had stayed with him, just as it had clearly influenced the director of whatever opus had just begun.
A song accompanied the woman’s steps, the indiscernible words mere additions to the effect being created as she kneeled at the water, reached her fingers into it and dragged them across, sending a ripple that seemed to heighten the music throughout the theatre. Alex shivered. She did it again, with smooth, gentle confidence. There was no aggression, not that it was easy to see any emotion as her hair continued to obscure her face. The song’s beautiful gibberish grew lounder as she began reaching deeper into the water. It dampened the sleeves of her dress, but didn’t deter her as she reached deeper, deeper still, allowing the waters to reach almost to her shoulders. She dipped her hair in them, soaking her tresses before whipping hem around like a weapon, sprinkling the set and the sparse crowd. Alex stole a glance at Jago’s expression. It was anxious, almost fearful, even as he bit his lip, obviously enthralled.
For the briefest second, Alex thought he could make out the woman’s face, but it was gone behind a curtain of damp hair before he could be sure. Then, the entire head was gone, dunked beneath the waters with a loud, solidke-plonk.
They tensed their mutual grip with anticipation, waiting for her to surface. The water must have been deep for the actor to submerge her head entirely. How long could she hold her breath? The music had taken on a dull, stifled quality, its rhythm breaking with irregular syncopation, as if it too, were struggling to breathe underwater. Seconds later, she began beating her hands and feet against the stage as if trying to push herself free.
“Jago?” Alex’s voice was barely a whisper. He doubted Jago had heard it at all.
They both jumped in their seats as she pulled her head abruptly from the water, dragging with it the shape of a man who’d pressed his fingers around her neck. Beyond his dampblonde hair and broad, athletic shoulders, Alex could at last make out the woman’s face.
“Joanna!” he cried out.
Jago clapped his hand over Alex’s mouth. He watched helplessly as the actors struggled, and Joanna rolled over on her back, only to be pulled towards the water again.
“Stop!” Jago hissed in his ear. “You must stop!”
