He pauses. Tortilla con espinacas, queso y jamín, muchos gracias – y usted? Olives and bread arrive. Waiters flit, formal, at the beck of the clientele, blue suits, waistcoats and ties, mistresses chamois-dipped and pearl-earringed, Chanel bags and gold watches. Children uniformed, socks pulled up to knees, skid marks and scars. Hair in pigtails or ruffled under caps. Tortilla for one. Tortilla for all.
‘When the theatre was completed in 1929,’ Sánchez rumbles, Argentine accent like shrapnel, meaning business, ‘at the base of the gardens of Montjuïc it had fountains to either side and a mounted wall mosaic, and a series of backdrops painted by Picasso. The first ballet to be performed on the opening night of the exposition is the touring Russian Giselle. For the next seven years the Theatre of Barcelona’s 1929 International Exposition is the best in the world, its glittering lights the finest architectural feat on the Plaça de Margarida Xirgu, before time runs foul and in the midst of something darker, Montjuïc forgets its gardens and becomes once again a fortress, and the theatre fades into nothing before being caught in a fire in 1939 and burnt halfway to the ground.’
A bottle of white wine appears at the table, two glasses.
‘I came to Barcelona for the theatre back in 1975. A home away from home. I had some other business at the time – but theatre! Theatre was the passion. Today I am proud to say I am its oldest patron and greatest producer. Now.’ He folds his hands under his chin like a table, leans into me. ‘I don’t like journalists. Never have. But, equally, I don’t like what happened. Under my watch. As it were. Whole business makes me sick. So. We eat. I talk. You listen. That night is all I’ll give you.’
And then?
‘You write this, you write this well, and then you fuck off right back where you came from.’
* * *
That night, in the reconstructed glory of the Theatre of National Liberation of Liberation, Tito Sánchez takes his seat in his private box, his mouth full-lipped, like a woman’s, delicate and sweet. His face round with bright eyes of a rich umber colour. He sports a loose blue dinner jacket, tight against a violet shirt collared with enamel buttons and a barely discernible floral paisley. Grey jeans reveal his rower’s thighs, on his left wrist a chrome watch face, plastered to a mottled snakeskin strap. He pours himself a glass of champagne from the carafe on the table to his side and watches the press filing into the audience. There’s that smug critic with her long-faced husband and the crooked reviewer from Girona (always good for information). The photographers march into rows. Cameras over shoulders, draped around necks. Àngel Villafranca catches Tito’s eye from the balcony with a salute. The director will join Tito for the show – they’ve already made the arrangements – but for now Villafranca grazes in the crowd. Customary handshakes and greetings for a few. The lights dim. The orchestra begins to play. A hand on Tito’s back. Villafranca slides into the chair beside him. Villafranca is in his late sixties. He has thin, steel-rimmed spectacles and a strong nose. His cheeks are long and hollow. His face bearded. There is very little fat on his body, and his white hair is thick on his forehead. The director is no longer calm, now shaking with nerves.
‘It’s a relief you’re here,’ Villafranca breathes, ‘to keep me company.’ Tito can smell the faint hint of sweat merging with perfume. ‘Look at those harpies,’ Villafranca whispers, gesturing down at the women in the crowd. ‘They’re here for my blood, Tito.’
‘They won’t have it.’ Tito offers the man a glass of champagne. Drink.
A chord runs through the audience and with a breath they are still.
On stage she wears a black velvet ball gown in the style of a nineteenth-century society lady, hair piled in coils on her head, pearls hanging from her ears. A garland of pansies in her hair rests playfully on curls wafting round her ears and the nape of her neck, pressing gently against her temples. Tito has never seen her so dark before, and the effect is striking. He is drawn into her form, her small hands and feet, her luminous solemn face struggling to hide its light behind a stern smile, her bodice tight around her chest, the swooping neckline of her dress revealing her bronze shoulders and breast.
‘Lovely choice.’ Tito leans into Villafranca’s ear. ‘Gorgeous design, very Russian.’
And then Natalia opens her mouth. She sings!
The back of Tito’s throat is dry. His tongue swells in his mouth. Hers is not a mortal voice. It is divine iridescence. He has heard it before – in rehearsal – but tonight, for the assembled masses, for the journalists and hacks, the critics and their papers, she is unearthly, she is God! Stained glass on the ceiling of the universe. His heart races but at once is still and he feels the warm air leap against his skin as he bathes in the music of her voice, each aria a ripple against his chest. Wild birds do not have so sweet a call! The harshness of it, the pain, like a nightingale calling to the night, she dips and swoops on the air, up, up, up her voice soars, and then she calls like a woman lost, like a swallow searching for a lover, and his heart breaks – Oh for the pain of this woman, this girl, this child . . . A bath of consciousness lifts his limbs up as if the atmosphere itself were urging him to leap out from his box – but gently, smoothly – the music of her voice an intoxicating promise of flight. Picking up the eddies and streams of his hair. Washing up his ankles. Snaking up his knees. Tickling the back of his thighs. Tito Sánchez is in the midst of summer as she sings the song of Agua Dulce – the last song she ever sung in her life – and . . . My God! It was as if gold dripped from her tongue, rubies, carbuncles, and you could see the soul of her imagination take shape on the air like an ethereal beast – a force of nature! Mountains swoop down below as the earth plunges away from Tito’s feet in great crashing waves, rushing and screaming to the far horizon. Caverns and gullies, cliffs sliced out of stone, great pits and undulating green. The surface of the land swirls and dips, arching its back, cutting through his vision. Tito is giddy with vertigo as the breath of her voice catches in the back of his throat. Sun explodes through his eyes, radiating out so that the azure sky turns white and he is blinded by the wilderness of Natalia Hernández. You are coming home, his body tells him, mad with excitement. Churning and leaping through his chest, heart pounding to escape. And, yet, the air is still: uniquely, profoundly, beautifully serene. When had she changed? He wonders – When had she become this? Or was the wilderness always there, beneath the surface and he had never noticed? Never understood?
The audience moves with Tito. Inhales and gasps in unison, as the director wills the world to love her. A sacrifice to the fortune of his own fame. To be part of the realization of greatness – looking out over the faces in the crowd, the open mouths. Tito frowns. The scene changes. A man comes striding across the stage in a suit. A knot forms in Tito’s stomach: Oriol wraps his arm around her. Surely the way she looks at him is an act? A performance? Her mouth brushes against his as they dance. His hand on her throat, his hand on her hair, he turns the nightingale round in her black dress, she pirouettes, he lifts her, she falls, fingers on her throat . . . the tenderness . . . Jealousy boils in Tito’s stomach, as jealous as every man and woman in the theatre, to see those fingers touch the neck of the nightingale of Barcelona! Tito pushes these thoughts aside. He transcends into the movement of the piece. The theatre.
‘What do you think?’ Angel leans in to Tito’s ear, as the curtains fall for intermission.
‘You have a masterpiece.’ Tito can barely speak. ‘A work of genius.’
After the show, the last show she would ever give, Tito and the critics congregate in the theatre bar. Clara from La Vanguardia approaches. She smells of rosé. Tito’s nostrils flare.
‘Good God, Sr Sánchez!’ she brays. ‘Barcelona needs a man of your means in these hard times! When I saw your name on the list of producers I just about died. Thank the Lord for private investors! Are you happy with the final product?’ She falls into the seat beside him. ‘Villafranca is a wily old dog. She’ll be a star. No doubt about it.’
Tito nods,
scanning the room.
‘We’re putting her on the front page tomorrow.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ Tito is not interested.
‘Not that she even needs my help – she’s done enough for herself. I mean the talent – it’s unbelievable,’ Clara continues.
‘Natalia Hernández is an extraordinary young woman . . . I always felt it would only be a matter of time.’
‘Oh! Beware! Sr Sánchez, you look like a lovesick schoolboy,’ she laughs loudly across the table. ‘Have you spoken with Oriol lately?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘People talk. I’m dying to know!’
Tito nearly chokes on a salted almond. She’s a bitch, Tito thinks.
‘Oh, look!’ Clara coos. ‘The men of the hour! Àngel! Oriol!’ Clara gets up, the folds of her dress falling to the floor around her. She plants two kisses on each cheek. ‘How does it feel to be the stars of the night?’
‘Glorious!’ Oriol shouts, carrying a bottle of wine in his hand. ‘Drink up, friends, drink up!’ Clara claps her hands.
‘Without you, my darling, we would be nothing! Ash on the wind.’ Villafranca’s voice is sonorous, sweet like thick molasses. He takes a seat beside Tito and whispers in his ear: ‘Apologies in advance, old friend. We can abandon shortly.’ Tito smiles. No need. Not yet.
‘Clara Solana, promise me you’ll write well!’ Oriol glows. ‘Success smells so much sweeter when you’re here to celebrate it with us.’ He whips Clara into his arms and begins to cavort around the table. His curls more charming than ever. They return breathless, Clara collapsing into giggles beside Tito. She reaches for the wine again.
‘Now . . . Oriol Duran . . .’ She toys with an empty glass, looking at the actor. ‘I want the dirt.’
Oriol raises an eyebrow. Tito’s nerves tighten.
‘Anything for you, darling.’
‘Off the record, of course.’ Clara’s eyes narrow; she leans her body across the table.
‘She’s gorgeous, Oriol. Far too young for you, of course, you old goat, but we all know beauty when we see it.’
‘Shall I order more drinks?’ Oriol asks the table. ‘Vodka, Tito? Rum? What shall we have?’
‘A little bird told me you’ve started seeing each other,’ Clara interrupts.
Tito takes a long draught of his drink. Oriol’s heart beats faster.
‘Only on stage.’ Oriol smiles. ‘I leave the rest to your imagination.’
Villafranca catches Tito’s eye. He shakes his head. Nothing I’ve seen.
‘Where is she?’ Tito asks.
‘Oriol Duran, I do not believe you,’ Clara continues. She flaps a napkin in his face. ‘You’re hiding her. Come on! Dime! You’re Method! We want to know!’ She waves to the table. ‘We all want to know.’
‘Clara,’ Villafranca says politely. He puts a hand gently on hers, leans in and says something in her ear. She quietens. Oriol gets up from the table. Tito follows him to the bar.
‘What’s going on?’ Tito asks, trying to hide his discontent.
‘Nothing.’ Oriol looks him directly in the eye.
‘Natalia and I have been friends for a long time.’
‘You shouldn’t listen to the gossips.’ Oriol nods at Clara across the room, deep in conversation with Villafranca. The actor drops his charm, looks sullen. ‘Her, particularly. She spins gold out of straw just for entertainment.’
‘You humour her.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Natalia tells me you’ve been arguing?’
‘No, of course it’s not true.’ Oriol’s mouth forms a stubborn line. ‘Have a little faith.’
‘I just don’t want to see her getting hurt.’ Tito’s voice catches. Then snaps. He moves his chest towards Oriol’s shoulder, leans in to the man’s ear. ‘You know me, Oriol.’ He feels the pulse rise in Oriol’s breath – watches the veins tighten in his throat.
Oriol nods.
‘Good.’ Tito smiles. He pulls away. ‘As you were.’
* * *
Tito slices into the tortilla elegantly, napkin tucked into his shirt collar; he asks for a second one from the waiter with a snap of his fingers. You can’t be too clean. He smiles at me.
* * *
That night Tito paces in the lobby beyond the theatre bar. Natalia has disappeared. She is not in the leather-covered private booths of the bar. She is not sitting with the others. She could have gone towards the powder room – or maybe she is on the balcony . . . No, she is not there. His feet pound the floor. He remembers the place she liked to hide at the theatre when she was younger, backstage behind the pulleys that held the curtain. He calls to an usher. ‘Have you seen Natalia?’
The usher nods, pointing to a stage door. When he steps into the darkness, up the stairs to the wings, Natalia is there. Sitting where he had first found her at seventeen, bare feet pulled up under her, her back to the metal pulley system. Resting against the ropes. She has changed out of her costume, wearing a loose blouse and dark jeans. Her feet are bare against the floor, but her hair is the same, and though she wiped the heavy stage make-up from her face, she has kept the garland of pansies and ringlets about her forehead. Her neck is long and fragrant. She leans her head into the darkness.
Tito says nothing as he sits down beside her.
‘It’s all changing,’ she whispers.
Tito puts his arm around her shoulders. She is frail as a bird – there is no weight to her. Where did the force come from that filled her on stage? Her soul must be so vast. So huge . . . His heart expands. He pulls her close.
‘You stole the world tonight.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Natalia says. ‘It’s not real.’
Tito winces as he listens.
‘Come out and sit with us.’
‘I’d rather stay here.’
‘Natalia, there are people out there who want to celebrate you.’
No. She shakes her head. No. As he watches, Tito feels helpless. He fumbles in his pocket for a handkerchief – the girl’s been crying.
‘You mustn’t be upset, Natalia. Whatever happens. I mean, if anything goes wrong, if something doesn’t feel right . . .’
She puts a finger to his mouth.
Quiet. Someone has come into the theatre. Someone is watching them. Natalia shakes beneath Tito’s arm, pushes his hand away. He does not know. Who has she seen? The shadow passes. Oriol? No. Natalia shakes her head. Someone else. She kisses Tito on the cheek.
‘I can take care of myself,’ she says. ‘I always have.’
* * *
Tito presses me into the yellow cab door, flashes a handful of euros at the driver, smacks the hood and leans through the open window. ‘Keep her safe.’ The driver nods. Then to me: ‘Goodbye. Hope it goes well.’ Formal. Broken. The cab speeds south, towards the theatre, cutting along side roads, darting down the Eixample grid, the wide, open balconies, sunny for midday, zipping west towards Plaça d’Espanya, the fountains and the madness, then down, towards the sea. Classical music on the radio.
Had I asked Tito enough? No. I think again and again. You’re losing grip of them.
‘Where did they go next?’ A stupid question.
‘Natalia excused herself and went into the changing rooms. I wanted her to have an early night, to be fresh for the opening. Oriol and I spoke briefly. He wanted me to come for drinks – to celebrate. You know how actors are.’
‘Did you go?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t remember. I was too tired. I like to keep my distance from the actors’ social lives. To not drink with them. Debauchery of that kind is tasteless. Very tasteless. Besides, it was not the opening. Just the preview. The audience had responded well, the critics liked it; there was a standing ovation, even. We knew the press would be good – it was a great achievement. I lost a lot of money in returned tickets . . .’ His eyes pricked. ‘I was saving my celebration until I saw the performance’s effect on a real audience. I wa
s right. In the end I went to a funeral.’ Tito called a waiter over, and gestured at the table. Café con leche, he said. One. Our conversation was over.
Outside the Theatre of National Liberation people are laughing. Inside the rehearsal studios the dancers and the actors stretch. Sweatpants run around the stage. Lap after lap. He is joined by an equine nymph with striking musculature who chases after him; they run together, short bursts, sprint then stop, sprint then stop, breathe . . . I can feel them breathing. Dance shoes. Beaten leather on black boards . . . Smells saccharine and human. Tap, tap! Crack! Go to the boards! Arms stretch overhead. Muscle tears. A foot lands. Breathe. Wood gives, dust flies into the air. Empty seats hungry and admiring. As I watch the company warm up, the director Àngel Villafranca, stage right, talks to his Salomé. Her large ponytail pulled to the side, chalk scraped across cheek, sweat on brow. It is my first time observing Villafranca in person. Grey as a heron. Glasses aggressive on the bridge of his nose.
‘When you kiss him, I want to see desire, pure sexual desire . . . This is your conquest, you are destroying his manhood . . . in your body, twist – you are a snake.’ He gesticulates wildly in the air. ‘You are a moonbeam, you are a human manifestation of a violent goddess!’
At six o’clock the actors break. Oriol introduces me to the director. The director’s beard wiggles. For a long hard minute he stares at me. He does not say hello. ‘You like her, Oriol?’ he asks the actor rapidly in Catalan. ‘Do we trust her?’
Oriol grins. He nods.
‘Excellent. To business.’ Villafranca claps me on the shoulder. ‘The reading is positive. Oriol is my best judge of character. Now! Come along. Meet the world! Kike! Lydia! Javier! Meet the woman who has come to tell our story! Gather up, family! We are a family! Only when you understand this will you understand us properly. We can help you write this theatre into Natalia’s history!’
The Serpent Papers Page 28
