Page 6 of His Cruelest Moves

“You can see why it’s called the goat-clamping stance, Alex explained. “This gives you a kind of structure, keeping your center of gravity low and protecting your center.”

“OK,” Isard brightened. “I think I recognize it. Is that like as in Gangnam Style?”

Alex just frowned, rolled his eyes, and kept talking.

Isard bit his lip. Strike five? He adopted the stance the best he could, swearing to himself he would eventually make Alex properly proud of him.

Alex watched Isard trying to copy his movements, and pushed his tongue hard up into the roof of his mouth to avoid cracking a smile, or worse, laughing. It was chilly for both of them, so close to the mountains, even here in the bright sunshine, but for Alex the cold was stimulating, and he wanted to give his student a reason to keep moving. Thankfully, Isard had changed out of that clownish cowboy getup. The white tracksuit he was now wearing showed off his slim willowy figure, while that slight dusting of beard on his jaw gave his cheek an almost bluish hue. But it was the solemn concentration in his large dark eyes that almost melted Alex’s heart. Though he wasn’t about to let his mind wander along that path again—he was here for work not play.

But Isard was laser-focused, and surprisingly fast in learning the form. Siu nim tau involves increasingly complex variants of subtle repetitive hand movements. It requires a chess master’s brain allied with an ability to execute precise actions, then to set those moves in your body’s physical memory, so that they become instinctive. Contrary to his first impressions of the actor as nervy and uncoordinated, Isard had a physical poise and calm that made him a fast student.

It felt like they hadn’t been practicing for very long, though his student was by then executing the form to near perfection, when Isard’s phone buzzed, calling them to lunch. Looking at the time, Alex realized they had been working for well over two hours. They were both warm and sweating, perspiration staining their armpits, and beads of sweat forming on their foreheads.

“That was good,” Alex grudgingly admitted. “I don’t know if we’ll make you a fighter in three weeks, but you’ll sure as heck be faking it convincingly.”

“I never fake it,” Isard replied. “I make it my truth.”

Alex had no idea what he meant by that, some actorly thing, probably. It actually sounded like something his own master might have said.

“OK, so we get free lunch here?”

“Of course,” replied Isard, “and the catering on this production is excellent. Come on, I’ll show you where the dining tent is.”

As they sat down to lunch, each carrying a tray they had loaded up with food at the catering caravan, Isard leaned in to Alex:

“Um, Dolors told you, didn’t she… if we… end up chatting to Valentí or any of the production crew, I’m… they think that I’m actually already a black belt. So, maybe play down the learning part?”

“Yes, you told me, and don’t worry,” Alex said. “I’m a professional. I never discuss my students with anyone else. Client confidentiality.” He winked. “But I’m going to work you mercilessly for that lie.”

Isard found himself blushing again. He had to stop this. Why did this guy bring it out in him? He normally had it more together. “Is that like…?” he asked, “Is that like you’re not supposed to lie in the Wing Chun philosophy?”

“You’re not supposed to lie in life,” Alex said, scooping up a spoonful of the rich meat and potato estofado stew they’d served him for first course. “Damn, this is good, almost as good as Mom’s, but still good. But yeah, in Wing Chun too, the philosophy is all about honesty… being down to earth, straight-forward, and practical, no frills or falseness, but above all, honest.”

Isard stirred his soup. He’d asked for the sopa de galets, a sort of consommé with pasta shells floating in it, but it was thinner than he liked, definitely not as good as his mom made.

“It wasn’t really my lie though,” he defended, “but Dolors’….” Though when Alex gave him a look, he admitted: “Yeah, OK, I’m sort of caught up in it.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll make the best of it,” Alex said, and focused on his estofado.

A minute later, Dolors herself, bearing a steaming tray, plumped herself down beside them.

“Isn’t the food good here, boys?” she asked. “How are you getting on together?”

“Excellent,” and suddenly Alex was all smiles. “He’s a fast student.”

“I’m trying,” Isard said, hoping to reassure her. “I think we’ll be able to pull it off.”

“I know you will. I have complete faith in you boys. Now I’ve organized transport to take you down to Barcelona after Isard’s last sequence, which should be about eight or nine tonight. Then Isard’s due on set at seven tomorrow morning, in the Barcelona location, Collserola. After costume and make-up, he should have a couple of hours free. So, you can find a private spot and work together some more. Does that sound OK? Sorry, it’s so chaotically organized, but we have to work around Isard’s shooting schedule on this one, and just grab the time when we can.”

And then Valentí, the director, materialized beside them in his catlike style, holding a black coffee in one hand, from which he took small sips.

“Hello, Dolors, glad I’ve finally had a chance to catch up with you. Has Isard mentioned how pleased I am with his work?”

He smiled across at Isard, who blushed again, feeling like he was six years old, while the adults in the room were talking about him.

“He hasn’t!” Dolors exclaimed. “Typical of him. He’s too modest. I’m so proud of him. And this is Alex, his martial arts partner.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Valentí said, extending his hand. “Have you guys been working together long?”