The Five Acts of Diego Leon Read online

  A few newsstands around Morelia began selling magazines solely devoted to the “moving picture business,” as they called it. These featured pages and pages full of glossy black-and-white pictures of movie stars like Charlie Chaplin, Mary Pickford, Louise Brooks, and Ramón Novarro, who was also from Mexico. The articles told of lavish poolside parties, of veritable nobodies hopping off trains from all over the world and finding themselves instant movie stars. He kept these magazines under his bed—pulling them out at night, when the house was quiet and free of all the wedding nonsense—and stared at the pictures inside that showed wide avenues flanked with palm trees, rolling verdant hills, and the sunshine which, he learned, always shone every day, year after year. Hollywood was paradise, and Diego wanted to go, to get lost in the masses of people who were flocking there to become stars, to toast their skin under a warm sun that was constant and rejuvenating, to stroll under the shaded branches of orange and grapefruit trees, to go to the fancy restaurants and dance clubs the movie stars went to. Most of all, he dreamed of becoming a famous film actor himself. He stared, night after night, at the picture of Ramón Novarro and told himself that he too could become like him, that young boy from Mexico. A nobody who became a somebody there. In paradise.

  With the wedding only a few weeks away now, Diego found himself spending more time inside the theater. He lied to his grandparents, told them he was going to the church to pray in the evenings after dinner. Instead he went to watch more filmstrips, some of them over and over again. He saw chases, a dance by a woman in a veil and an elaborate headdress. There were pirates on large ships, an old hunchbacked man playing with a group of orphans. He saw Paris and ancient Egypt and Babylon, Greece and Italian villas. The thrill, the pursuits by bandits, the police officers and bank robbers, it all made him think of other things, further away, far from Morelia, Mexico, his grandparents, Paloma.

  There were nights when he would watch Doroteo, slumped in a chair, a drink in his hand, his eyes tired and wasted by years and years of notarizing, of documenting the lives of others, not his own. He imagined himself old, in that very chair, nodding off, just like his grandfather was. Paloma would be by his side, hair graying, eyes empty and void of love or passion or all other things that made life worth anything. He wanted to be brave like his mother, who risked everything to be with the man she loved, to seek out, to live the life she truly wanted. But he wasn’t that person. He couldn’t do that now or ever. There was the wedding. There was a suit he still needed to buy.

  He hadn’t seen Javier at all, not since their fight after the meeting. Paloma’s maid of honor, her cousin Irma Salas, had enrolled at the university and told Diego that Javier was in some of her classes. He got into the habit of asking Irma from time to time if she had seen him, how he was doing, what he looked like. Through her, he learned that Javier and Esteban were still very close, that they were always together, that they spent the majority of their free time between classes handing out leaflets and organizing meetings.

  “That place is such a breeding ground for liberals and atheists,” Paloma told her cousin one day. “I don’t know why you continue to attend.”

  “I’m looking for a husband,” Irma said. “That’s all.”

  “Well,” Paloma said, gripping Diego’s arm. “There are plenty of other, far more respectable places to find one. Just ask me.”

  Diego couldn’t bear the thought of Javier missing the wedding, which was only two weeks away. He put his coat on, adjusted his hat, and took several deep breaths before walking over to his house and knocking on the door. One of the maids answered.

  “Doña Carolina and Don Manuel aren’t here,” she said, letting him in. “But Javier’s in his bedroom. He has company.”

  “Thank you,” he said, glancing up the stairs.

  He thought about leaving, but he couldn’t. He just had to see Javier. They needed to put things right. Diego climbed the steps one at a time, his hand squeezing the banister, the wood cool against his warm, damp skin. The hallway was dark except for the shafts of dim white light seeping out from the bottoms of the doors. He came to Javier’s room and stood there. He raised his hand, balled up in a fist, and was about to rap it when the door creaked slightly open, enough so that he could see inside, could see Javier with his shirt off, his arms wrapped around Esteban’s torso. They were locked in a tight embrace, their eyes closed, their lips pressed together, kissing. All Diego could do was look away. The dark wooden floorboard creaked when he stepped back, and Javier saw him standing there. Diego’s breath was caught in his throat. Before Javier had a chance to do anything—fumble for his shirt, walk over, slam the door shut—Diego turned away and ran down the steps and out of the house as quickly as he could. Those two perverted heathens deserved one another, he thought when he arrived back home. Such a vile and putrid act. Two men with each other. What a disgrace. He wasn’t like that. He had Paloma. They would have children. Lots of them. They would be raised Catholic. God-fearing. There would be a place for them in heaven.

  A week before the wedding, he stood there looking at his suit and hat, perfectly pressed and tailored to fit him. He thought about Paloma. Such a kind and loyal fiancée.

  “Sometimes I think we should just run off,” she said. “Have a quiet ceremony. Just us two.”

  Dear, sweet Paloma, he told himself now, his hand touching the new fabric, the thick tweed trousers, the silk tie, the top hat. He didn’t feel the same way at all. He wanted nothing more than to escape. It was the wedding announcement, the name “Diego Sánchez” printed in the newspaper, which made it real for Diego. If he married her, there would be no turning back. For it was now legitimized in print, as official as the documents he notarized day after day. Diego Sánchez. Son of a wealthy Frenchman. Diego Sánchez would marry Paloma Pacheco, daughter of one of the richest and most powerful men in the state.

  How had this happened?, he thought as he regarded his wedding suit and hat. Who had he become?

  He kept the valise under his bed, and two days before the wedding he touched the handle, felt the worn leather buckles and snaps. The night before they were to be wed, he packed. He rummaged through his clothing, tossing woolen socks and undershirts, trousers and a belt in the valise before securing his toiletries in the front compartment. He placed a crucifix between the pages of one of the Hollywood magazines he had collected. He reached for them now, first making sure the crucifix and chain were safe, before arranging them at the bottom of the valise and snapping it shut. His hand shook as he held the pen. It took several tries, several deep breaths, before he could focus long enough to tell them what he was doing and why.

  It sounded so illogical, so unclear, when he read it back, before sealing it in an envelope and placing it in the pocket of his jacket. He asked to be forgiven, told them he was grateful for everything they had done. He told them not to worry, that he would wire them once he arrived in Mexico City. I must do this, he wrote, underlining each word. I simply must. I won’t be gone forever. Only for a little while.

  The sun had not yet risen when he dressed and placed the letter on the table in the foyer before sneaking out of the house, valise held tightly in his hand, his passport, money, and the address of Carolina’s friends in his front pocket. He opened the door, inching it slowly, the hinges squeaking only slightly, and placed the valise on the front stoop, turning around one last time, the shadows of the furniture menacing. He saw the wooden secretary, remembered the photograph of his mother, the one his grandmother had shown him when he first arrived that day so many years ago. Diego left the door open as he crept back inside, stepping carefully down the darkened hallway toward the secretary, pulled the drawer down, reached in, and took the photograph. Once out of the house, he breathed a deep sigh, unbuckled the snaps on the valise as fast as he could, and placed the photo inside. He stepped out into the street and kept walking. He refused to turn back.

  Carolina had been surprised to see Diego a few days before. “What brings you here?” she
asked, leading him into the parlor.

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

  She poured him some brandy, which he took and drank in one, big gulp. “Easy,” she said. “You must be nervous.”

  “Yes,” he said, placing his glass down. “I’m going to be married in about three days.” Diego chuckled.

  “Of course,” she said. “So, what brings you here today? I would have imagined your grandmother was keeping you very busy with the preparations.”

  “Yes, well.” He laughed. “A while back, you said you knew some people. In Mexico City. That they were opening up a theater company.”

  “Yes. Why?” She leaned in close. “Have you changed your mind?”

  “No.” The lie came so easy, and it was as if it were one he had rehearsed in his mind, again and again. “I’m taking Paloma there. I thought I might visit them. See if they could recommend some operas for us to see.”

  How could he admit to Carolina that he’d been wrong? That he didn’t want to be Diego Sánchez anymore. That the thought of living this life filled him with a dread that plagued him day and night? That new feelings had begun to stir inside of him? That something, a great desire, now tugged at his flesh and bones, the feeling growing stronger and stronger. Something was calling to him, pulling him away. He had tried everything he could to ignore it, but he found he simply couldn’t. He had no other choice but to give in to it.

  “One moment,” Carolina said, walking out of the room. She returned shortly with an envelope. She wrote the address down on a slip of paper and handed this to him. “I’ll wire them. Tell them you’re on your way.”

  “Very well,” he said. “Please don’t tell anyone I was here either.”

  “But—” she began to say then stopped. She stepped forward and hugged him, stretching tall, so that her arms wrapped around his shoulders. Carolina looked into his eyes, tears gathering, and he could tell now that she knew everything. “Be careful,” she whispered. “Write to me when you get there. I won’t say a word.”

  He kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll never be able to repay you. For this. For everything.”

  The address was folded in his pocket. He would tell them he was Carolina’s student and do his best so that they would offer him a spot in their troupe. He would become someone else. He would become himself again, a León.

  Diego arrived just before the all-aboard, so there was no room in the overhead racks for his valise. A porter took it and stored his belongings with those of the second-class passengers.

  “My apologies,” the man said. “I hate to have to do this. Those people don’t own anything but the clothes on their backs, so there’s always room in the overhead compartments there.”

  “It’s fine,” Diego said, tipping him. He loosened his bow tie, removed his gloves, and sat. Riding across from him was an American journalist. He carried with him a leather satchel, a notepad and pencils, and one book he had been reading for much of the first leg of the voyage. Its title—written across the cover in English—was The Traveler’s Guide to Mexico, 1927. The man, though American, spoke fluent Spanish, and Diego heard him tell another passenger how he was on assignment, reporting on the escalating violence between the church and the state.

  “Interesting stuff,” he said. “Awfully violent.”

  “You don’t know the half of it, mister,” said the passenger.

  The reporter just laughed. Behind a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez, he had large blue eyes and a full head of bright blond hair cut short, almost down to his scalp. “Hello,” the man said when he caught Diego looking. He had a wide chin and ruddy cheeks.

  “Hello,” said Diego.

  “Reynolds,” he said. “Walter Reynolds.” He extended his hand across the carpeted aisle separating them. “Pleasure.”

  “Diego,” he responded. “Diego León.” He smiled. It felt good to say his own name.

  Through the wooden planks of the floor, Diego felt the train groaning to life, the engines pumping steam, the gears shifting and grinding. Soon the great giant wheels lunged forward, pulling them away from the station. At that moment, he knew his grandparents would be waking, would find his note. He imagined them standing in the foyer, shaking their heads and sighing. He imagined Paloma clutching the letter to her bosom and weeping, Irma sitting beside her, consoling her. There was a pang in his chest and it mixed with the moaning train, the hissing and banging of its multitude of gears and whirring machinery. Sacrifices. That’s what he was doing, what Carolina once told him that all great artists faced. Sacrifices.

  “My fire was extinguished before it ever had a chance to burn bright because I didn’t sacrifice enough,” she once said. “You need to remember. You need to be willing to follow the impulse no matter how outlandish it may seem, no matter what you think your life will be.”

  The train gathered steam, gained momentum, and they moved forward, and he felt the skin of the land peel away from his own, revealing a fine layer of new flesh just beneath the surface, unblemished.

  He slept most of the day and into the evening. He woke to the sound of the air whistling through the windows of the cars. The sun was beginning to rise, and he looked at his pocket watch: it was nearly six in the morning. They had been traveling for almost twenty-four hours. Diego rose and stepped into the aisle and walked through the dining car, past the sleeping berths, and into the second-class cars. It was true what the porter said; the poorer peasants and indios seemed to travel with everything they owned on their backs, perpetually uprooted and dispossessed. Some had brought along their farm animals, and they darted back and forth along the aisles and rows. Their chickens huddled together for warmth in cages with floors lined with hay. A goat chewed on strips of paper. A potbelled pig, tied to the back of a bench, snorted and sniffed the air as Diego passed. Kúchi. He laughed, remembering the P’urhépecha word for pig.

  “Kúchi,” he said out loud. “Kúchi. Kúchi.” He raised his voice, but no one stirred.

  The people hunkered down on the benches made of splintered wood that was nicked and scratched and dull. They crumpled coats or folded their arms underneath their heads for pillows. Many of them now slept—men with their heads thrown back, mouths open, as if waiting for something to fall in, a husband and wife curled up on the rough wooden bench, holding hands, a young girl in pigtails and frayed leather sandals alone, clutched a stuffed bag beside her. A few rows away, a baby whimpered softly, and his mother roused herself. She unbuttoned her dress, searching, until she revealed the pointed and purple tip of her nipple. The baby suckled it, and the nipple was so dark it glowed from the yellow light falling in perfect squares across the wooden planks of the train’s floor.

  He returned to his car when he felt the train brake and slow down. Reynolds had risen too and was stretching and yawning.

  “How long are we stopping?” he asked the conductor.

  “Maybe twenty minutes,” the man said.

  “What time is it?” Reynolds asked.

  “Just past six in the morning. You can go outside. Get some fresh air.”

  Diego went for the door and stepped outside, and he turned and saw Reynolds behind him. The sun was rising in the east, and the gray mountains and the hills and valleys slowly came into focus. The dawn’s first light faded the last remaining stars, and he stood on the empty platform station watching them vanish little by little. Reynolds leaned up against a support beam and reached into his pocket and rolled a cigarette. Inside the train, people rose, and they watched the silhouettes of arms stretching, hands grabbing at the darkness.

  “Would you like one?” Reynolds asked Diego. “Mr. León, is it?”

  “Yes,” Diego turned now.

  “A cigarette? Would you like one?” he asked again.

  “That’s very kind of you,” he said.

  Reynolds rolled him one, and Diego stepped forward and took it. Reynolds lit the tip, and the embers turned b
right red and glowed and throbbed. The smoke felt warm. Diego imagined the soothing gray swirls whipping around his tongue and in between the slim gaps of his teeth. Reynolds took long puffs and swallowed them and held them in before releasing. An open field lay across from the station, and the new weak light cast a sliver hue over the land. There were the crooked shadows of cacti, the outlines of rocks and stones lying on their sides, lonely and far away. They held their cigarettes between their fingers and stood there without saying a word. Diego looked down at his, still lit, the constant thread of smoke curling out from the tip, hovering around his fingers like mist. He took one last puff, held it in without swallowing, and then blew it out.

  “Where are you headed?” Reynolds asked. “Me, I’m bound for Veracruz. Taking a boat to New York City before going back home to Chicago.”

  “I’m going to Mexico City,” Diego said.

  “Visiting family?” Reynolds asked.

  “No,” Diego said. “I’m an actor. My teacher got me a job with a theater troupe.”

  “Oh, that’s nice,” the man said. “Have you ever traveled to the United States, son?”

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  “Now there’s a great place to visit. Yes, sir. The great cities of America. New York. Chicago. Los Angeles to the west. Why, that’s one place I’d like to see, like to someday end up. Los Angeles.” He whistled and shook his head. Reynolds said what he really wanted to do was write for the pictures. Diego remembered his magazines, packed away beneath his clothing and his mother’s pictures, the gold crucifix pressed between the glossy pages. “Writing for the pictures?” Diego asked, confused. “Why, I’ve seen plenty of moving pictures. There are no words. It’s not like the theater.”

  The movie directors and producers still needed writers, Reynolds said. For the stories. He told Diego about the perpetual sunlight, the warm air that invigorated and rejuvenated the body and the mind. He talked about fruit trees and the ocean, about it being an ideal place to “start over,” and to “begin a new life.”