The Five Acts of Diego Leon Read online

  “Oh, for the love of God!” he shouted, “Torah. We can’t have a rabbi without a Torah. Fiona,” he screamed, “Gary, Trudy! Someone, get out here now and get this rabbi a Torah!”

  A figure appeared and handed him a book. “How’s that beard?” asked a beautiful young woman. As she approached, he could see that she had bright blond hair and green eyes. “I normally do prosthetics and wigs and hair but I had my hands tied with other things, and Cecil was kind enough to help. It’s not too uncomfortable, is it?” She combed it with a soft brush.

  “It itches terribly, to be honest,” he said.

  “You’ll have to grin and bear it, toots. We’re about to roll.” She handed him his Torah then smiled, turned and walked away.

  “Thank you, miss,” he said.

  “Fiona,” she responded.

  “Fiona,” he repeated.

  The technicians heaved the cameras back and forth. There were shouts and voices everywhere, and all the other actors and actresses were getting back into position, standing behind the carts, or sitting on benches pretending to sleep, or walking by with bags full of fake parcels wrapped in brown butcher paper.

  They had to shoot the scene again and again. He lost count of how many times the director ordered it redone from multiple angles, because Diego’s expression wasn’t quite convincing or because there was a shadow on his face from the lights. When it was all finished seven hours later, he was exhausted from standing, the beard itched more than ever, and the cheap fabric of the cassock was making him perspire. They had worked straight through lunch, and he was faint and thirsty from being under the hot lights, but he was also excited. He had completed his first performance, and he felt triumphant. Walking off set, he spotted Fiona and thanked her.

  She gave him a curious look. “For what?”

  “It was my first time on set,” he said. “I felt better knowing there was a kind soul out there on my side.”

  She set her makeup bottles and jars down and walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You were fine.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest,” she said. “Sit.” Fiona leaned in and began pulling the fake beard off, inch by inch. When she had completely removed it, she took a jar of cream, scooped some out, rubbed it between her palms and fingers and massaged this into his skin. It smelled of peppermint and tingled as it dried. “You’re a swell guy,” she said, looking at him. “And a real looker, too.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  Fiona gathered her things up. “It’s nice. Finding another human being in this business. Someone who isn’t full of himself or damaged somehow.”

  He smiled.

  “Well, I thought that, for your very first job, you did splendidly,” Fiona said.

  He followed her out. The sun was still shining, but the domed roofs of the large soundstages shielded them. They walked along, Diego’s legs stiff from standing.

  “You ever been to the Pig ’n Whistle?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Good. Because you’re taking me there. This weekend.”

  “Sounds great,” he said. It could help to have an ally like her at Frontier, he thought.

  She jotted her address down and told him she would be ready by five that Saturday. She then looked at him, and said, “Oh, geez, you better go to the wardrobe trailer and change.”

  Diego went into the trailer, removed the costume, and handed it to Cecil. The set was empty and still now; the floodlights were turned off, the fan blades no longer rotating, the cameras tucked to one side and covered by large canvas tarps. Diego stopped, lit a cigarette, and stood there looking at the spot where he’d spent a good portion of the day. He was proud of himself, proud of the fine work he’d done. He thought about Charlie, his friend. What had Diego done? But it was just a part, he thought. One small, irrelevant part. Nothing would come of it anyway, he thought. No harm was done.

  5.

  November 1928

  HIS PAYMENT WAS ENOUGH TO COVER THE RENT, PLUS A LITTLE extra, so he used some of his earnings to purchase a pair of plus four trousers, argyle socks, a new shirt, and a tweed checkered flat cap to wear on his date with Fiona. That night he bathed and dressed and adjusted his tie in the mirror. He placed the flat cap on his head, turned, and walked out the door, whistling all the way down the steps.

  “Say,” Rose said, seeing Diego as he entered the lobby. “Don’t you look spiffy. You taking me out for a night on the town?”

  Diego shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “Two-timing on me?” Rose asked. “What’s her name?”

  “Fiona.”

  “Fiona, huh? Bring her here. I’ll scratch her eyes out. Good-for-nothing hussy.” He laughed as she continued twirling, swaying her hips back and forth.

  “You’ll always be my one and only, Rose.” Diego kissed her softly on the cheek; her thin skin smelled of lemon. “Always you, Rose.”

  She laughed. “Liar. But I’ll take a lie like that over any old truth.”

  Ruby came out from the back room with a pile of receipts in her hand. She shook her head and scratched her forehead. Her hair was a mess, and there were large bags under her eyes.

  “Rose, honey,” she said, her voice exhausted, “stop fooling around now. We got a ton to do.”

  “Is everything okay?” Diego asked.

  “No,” she said. “No it ain’t. But thanks for asking.”

  “The first of the month,” Rose whispered. “Always gets her tense. Goes around collecting rent—”

  “I paid.” Diego interrupted. “Early. Placed my check in your box there.”

  “I know,” Ruby said, handing him a receipt. “But it looks like we’ll be having a couple of evictions.” She thumbed through a ledger and shook her head.

  Rose whistled and snapped her fingers. “They’ll be out by tonight.”

  “Rose,” said Ruby, slamming her hands on the desk. “Get the locks.”

  Just then Charlie came shuffling down the stairs, a suitcase in his hand. His coat was wrinkled and dusty, and his trousers were dotted with several black stains. “I’m going, ladies. I’m going.” He placed his suitcase down.

  “Charlie,” said Ruby. “I’m real sorry. But I ain’t running on charity alone.”

  “It’s fine. I understand,” he said. “You been good to me. Real patient.”

  Rose walked over to Charlie and kissed him on the cheek. “What’ll you do now, honey?”

  Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. Maybe go back home.” He took a deep breath, picked up his bag and moved toward the front door.

  “I’m real sorry, Charlie,” Diego said, reaching out to shake his hand.

  He only looked at him, staring intently into Diego’s eyes. “Of course you are. Of course you’re sorry, pal. I am too.”

  Charlie walked out without taking Diego’s hand.

  He tried forgetting about Charlie and the eviction. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself, as he walked down the street in his new glad rags, whistling to himself. He tipped his hat to a woman walking a poodle and two young girls in coats with matted fur collars. Something was different about the people he passed on his way to the trolley platform. They were all looking at him, Diego realized, not through him. They were all noticing him. Getting the part had put a bounce in his step. He walked, his shoulders back and his head up. He was chipper as he continued on to Fiona’s building. Fiona was an exquisite sight in a shimmering green dress that accentuated the curves of her body.

  “You look marvelous,” she said, taking his arm.

  “Thank you,” he said. “You do, too. Let’s go then. Shall we?”

  She wore a wrap around her shoulders, which she had sprayed with a lilac perfume, so every time she adjusted it, he caught the scent. They walked down Hollywood Boulevard, toward the dazzling and flashing lights of the new Grauman’s Chinese Theatre with its searchlights shooting bright blue beams into the hazy night sky.

  �
��Grauman’s Chinese Theatre’s nice,” said Fiona, “but I prefer the Egyptian Theatre.”

  “And why’s that?” he asked.

  “It’s old,” she said. “Anything old—structures, cars, people—have an inherent quality that I admire. A sageness.”

  They walked past the Chinese Theatre and strolled around inside the main courtyard of the Egyptian Theatre, immediately off the street. Inside, there were wide and impressive columns, intricate murals with hieroglyphics, and large gilded vases with lush plants. Near the main portico, toward the back of the courtyard, there stood a statue, about twelve feet high, of an Egyptian deity. The figure wore a gown and held a flail in the crook of its arm. Though the body was that of a human’s, the figure’s head was that of a dog’s.

  “What an odd fellow,” Fiona said. “I don’t know anything about Egyptian culture.”

  “That’s Anubis,” Diego said, approaching the figure, staring long and hard at its snout and pointed ears.

  “Why, who’s that?” Fiona asked.

  “The Egyptians believed he was the guardian of the underworld. The god of death and rebirths.”

  “Well, that’s something else,” said Fiona. “How do you know so much?”

  He laughed. “I was a good student.”

  Through a side entrance off the main courtyard of the Egyptian Theatre was the Pig ’n Whistle restaurant, whose logo featured a dancing pig playing a small flute. Inside, they walked past a man holding an organ. The main dining room was lined with booths that were cozy and private, everything done in ornate dark woods, polished smooth and gleaming. There were stained glass windows, and the chairs were hand-carved. There was an exciting rush in the air, and the atmosphere was festive and lively with children running around the tables and the organ grinder piping out lighthearted tunes.

  Fiona and Diego had a delicious meal, talking all through it, gossiping about the actors and actresses around the studio, filling each other in on what they’d read in the trade magazines, and speculating about the next big Frontier movie.

  “A thing that never ceases to amaze me about Hollywood,” Fiona said as she sipped her after-dinner coffee, “is that we can be in ancient Egypt one minute then tumble into this whimsical restaurant with organ grinders and dancing pigs the next.”

  “It’s disorienting,” he said, wiping his mouth.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It takes some getting used to is all.” He sat back in his chair. “But I like it. You know what else I like?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Being with you tonight,” Diego said.

  “I’d be crushed if you hadn’t. Why would you not want to join me for a night on the town? What other things have you got going on, dare I ask?” She placed her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and leaned in closer. Her shoulders were bare and dotted with moles and freckles.

  “Oh, nothing,” he said. “It’s just that, well, I’m still not very good at going out, being sociable. Since I came here, my evenings mainly have involved sitting alone in my apartment with a good book and a pack of cigarettes.” He thought about Charlie and Javier back in Mexico. The friends he had lost.

  “That’s a real shame if you ask me.”

  “So,” he asked, wanting nothing more than to change the subject. “I haven’t asked what brought you here. To the great and wild and possible west.”

  “My mother.” She removed her elbows from the table and sat back in her chair. “She started getting awful pains in her joints. Her doctor said it was her bones. It would get really bad during the winter. You haven’t felt cold until you’ve spent a winter in Montana, let me tell you. Warm weather and sunshine was the solution, her doctor told us. So we packed up. Me and my folks and my two sisters. After I finished up high school I sort of fell into the show business thing. My friend Georgie got me in. I was doing real low-level stuff at first, mainly working in costuming, sorting out the inventory, repairing damaged corsets and outfits, stuff like that. I had always liked doing makeup, used to practice on my sisters when we were younger. I started helping the assistants, learning the tricks, and before I knew it, I was being asked to do it more and more. I’ve been at it for several years now. I like it enough, I guess. Though Hollywood’s a tough place if you’re a young girl like me.” She gave him a long and pleasing look and asked, “What about you?”

  “It’s a boring story.”

  “That’s all right. Let’s have it.”

  He told her only bits and pieces, the important parts. How he left Mexico after having lived with his grandparents. How life here had been a series of challenges so far, how he’s been riddled with doubt and guilt about having left his grandparents alone, about whether there was even such a future for a person like him in films.

  “I think there is,” she said. “We can do whatever we set our minds to do. I think my future’s bright, and so is yours. We are the makers of our own destinies. It was a very courageous thing you did, coming here like that, with nothing. You should be very proud.”

  When they raised their glasses of water and toasted, Diego felt at home for the very first time.

  ACT IV

  1.

  October 1929–December 1930

  BLACK THURSDAY. HE WAS REMEMBERING HIS FATHER THAT twenty-fourth day in October of 1929. It was early morning, and he was at Joe’s, standing in the kitchen washing piles of dirty dishes, and thinking of his father, him dying alone, forgotten, penniless, when the first reports came in over the small radio the cooks kept on the shelf above the grill.

  “It’s the end of days,” Jean said, reaching over to turn the volume up. They were alone in the diner. It was completely empty, and there was no one on the street at that hour.

  “Come again?” Diego asked, his hands submerged in hot water.

  “The stock market,” Jean said, clenching her fists, “just crashed. A whole lot of people are in a whole heap of trouble. And things are about to get ugly.”

  The initial news was bad and, in the days that followed, things only worsened. Newspapers around the country reported that businessmen and financiers were leaping out of office windows because the money was now all gone. Factories went bust. Banks foreclosed on farms. Pantries across America went empty. The people of the great nation were suddenly out of work, destitute, vulnerable, confused, dying of hunger.

  Diego had abandoned one ruined country for another. The winter of 1930, the bread and soup lines grew longer and longer day after day. More people were out of work, more men with startled looks on their faces could be seen darting across the street, the sidewalks, wandering through the parks and alleyways of the city searching for work or, worse, scavenging through trash cans for pieces of moldy bread or bruised fruits and vegetables. “You should be thanking your lucky stars you at least got this,” Jean said one day.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he responded.

  “What?” she said, her hands on her hips. “You expecting to make it in pictures? Like all those other ones who are coming now by the hundreds since this crash?”

  “I will,” he said. “Soon.”

  “Then why don’t you just leave?”

  She was right. Why didn’t he? The job paid very little anyway. He untied his apron, balled it up, and tossed it on the ground. “I’m quitting, Jean.”

  “Hey,” she said, bending down to pick up the apron. “I was only teasing.”

  “I know,” he said. “Still. I’m wasting my time here.”

  She shook her head and smiled. “Yeah. You’re right.” Jean walked over, gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Good luck, kid. I’m gonna miss you.”

  At least he had a contract now after building for himself a solid reputation as a dependable extra, thanks to his experience playing the part that should have gone to Charlie. Fiona, who had an in with many of the lesser-known directors at Frontier, began to spread the word throughout the studio about him, the tall Latin actor with versatility who was dependable. And though the pa
rts weren’t anything major—a face in a crowd scene, a dancer at a costume party, a bank robber—the work kept him hopeful that he might, just might, make it. At least he was in the movies now, he reminded himself. By 1929, Diego was a contracted player for Frontier Pictures, the oldest movie studio in Hollywood. Yes, the hours were endless, tedious, the money only enough to keep him going, but it was what he’d come to do. He thought about this now as he left Joe’s after quitting, passing the men on the corners begging for spare change, the bread lines, the people combing the back alleys of restaurants and grocery stores or selling apples from wooden pushcarts. Everywhere he turned, it was as though the whole country was on the verge of collapsing in on itself. But he had work. He had a signed piece of paper from the studio. He had Fiona, whom he’d been spending more time with. He had his own life.

  The studios, like all other enterprises, had started to cut back. Fewer big epics. Rein in spending. Reduce, reduce, reduce. Diego read in the trade circulars and news columns how the studios were cutting their losses, firing people, eliminating entire departments. He was nervous a lot, worried he would be told he was being canned and that would be it. The end of his film career. Finished just as it was starting.

  “If there’s one thing a studio needs,” Fiona told him, “is people like you and me. Extras and makeup and costume folks. We’re safe. We don’t cost much. It’s the bigwigs who should be quaking in their boots, if you ask me.”

  “You’re right,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll do my job and feel secure.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  The “talkies” appeared at the Frontier lot gradually, in the form of large microphones, sound coils, and bizarre-looking contraptions. Over time, the wooden consoles that the “sound technicians,” as they were called, wheeled from studio to studio appeared more and more frequently. The trade magazines wrote about sound, about the death of films and the picture industry.