The Five Acts of Diego Leon

by Alex Espinoza

  “Two years ago, I received a wire from him.” Her voice changed; it was cold, hard. “From your father telling us that your mother had died.” She shook her head. His grandmother sighed then placed the telegram along with the letter back in the drawer and closed it. “There’s a part of me that still won’t admit it, that still wants to believe she’s alive even if it means she’s living up there. In the hills. With those savages. You said he sent you here?” she asked, composing herself once more. She sat very regal in her chair, hands once more folded and in her lap.

  “Yes,” Diego said.

  “And what does he expect us to do with you?” She reached for a lace fan, unfurled it with a snap, then folded it again. “What are we to do with you?” She reclined, tapping the tip of the fan against the back of her hand.

  “Let’s see you,” the old man said to Diego, walking inside the living room from the entryway. “We need to take a look.” He wore thick spectacles, and a gray mustache with pointed tips. He hardly had any hair left, and the patches of bald skin on his head appeared smooth and unblemished. They talked about him as if he were invisible.

  “You say he showed up this afternoon?” The old man leaned in closer, adjusted his spectacles.

  “Yes,” the old woman said. “I have no idea how. He had the letter with the address.”

  “He can read?” the old man asked, stunned.

  “I don’t have a clue.” His grandmother walked across the room. Heavy clear bottles crowded the top of the credenza, and she poured some of the amber-colored liquid into a glass and handed this to her husband. “There’s nowhere left for him to go,” Doña Julia said. “He sent him here.”

  The old man shook his head. “What unnecessary suffering. All of this could have been avoided if only—”

  His grandmother interrupted. “What should we do with him?”

  The old man took a long drink. “We’ll do our best to take care of him, to educate him and refine him. What other choice do we have? He’s still our blood.”

  “Thank God he inherited our light skin,” his grandmother said.

  “Yes. There’s that. You checked for lice?”

  “I had one of the maids do it. I was stunned when she told me he was clean.”

  “Have them run a hot bath. Then take his clothes and burn them. Give him his mother’s room.”

  “Very well,” said his grandmother. She tugged on her long necklace. “Go upstairs,” she said to Diego. “Your room is at the end of the hall. The maid will bathe you, then you’ll eat afterward.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.”

  “Doña Julia,” she corrected him.

  “Doña Julia.”

  “You can call me ‘Grandfather,’ ” the old man said.

  “Yes, sir,” Diego responded before turning around and leaving the room. He walked slowly and stopped at the foot of the wooden stairs, listening to them.

  “Why indulge this?” his grandmother said. “Why let him call you ‘Grandfather,’ Doroteo?”

  “He’s still our grandson,” the old man responded. “Despite everything, he’s the son of our only daughter. We can culture him, teach him to be a good and moral citizen.”

  “Peasants have no morality,” his grandmother told him. “Still, I suppose you’re right. He is blood.”

  They were quiet for a short time before his grandfather spoke again. “God is testing us. Looking to see if we can be charitable. Can we, Julia? Can we show clemency?”

  She sighed. “I guess we can. But I don’t have to like it. Or him.”

  Diego crept up the steps and into the dark mouth of the long hallway.

  “You’ll be schooled,” his grandfather said to him the next morning in the courtyard.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You can call me Grandfather. How old did you say you were again?”

  “Eleven. I’ll be twelve in January.”

  He didn’t look up from his newspaper when he addressed Diego. He sipped coffee and smoked a cigarette. “You’ll attend Mass each Sunday with us.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.”

  Doroteo folded the newspaper and looked up at Diego. “Come here,” he said. “Sit.” He rose now and pointed to an empty chair across from his. “You should eat.” He rang a bell, and a servant appeared. “Give the boy some oatmeal. Bread. A glass of milk,” Doroteo said to the woman, who nodded and went back inside.

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” Diego said, keeping his head down.

  “Sit up straight,” the old man said. “And look a person in the face when you address them, child.”

  “Yes, Grandfather.” He sat up, pushing his shoulders back, and raised his head.

  “After you eat, I want you to return to your room. Someone will be in to take measurements. I’ll have them go out and purchase some new clothing.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” Diego responded. The servant returned with a bowl of warm oatmeal, two pieces of sweet bread, and a glass of hibiscus water.

  “Very well,” the old man rose now, whistling as he strolled back into the house.

  That Sunday, they took him to Mass. His grandmother wore a black dress with white gloves and a lace mantilla over her head. His grandfather donned a striped suit and a top hat and held a cane. Diego wore a new shirt, the collar tight and itchy and stiff, and a pair of thick wool trousers with buttons and suspenders. His black shoes were uncomfortable, and his grandmother had instructed one of the maids to wash and comb his hair and to scrub his hands and beneath his nails. His fingertips hurt now, as he fought the urge to run them through his hair. They arrived at the church and took seats in one of the front pews. Diego tried hard to contain his excitement; the church was massive. There were swooping arches and columns and pilasters with gilded edges. Ornate iron candelabras swung from the high ceilings, supported by thick chains bolted to wooden beams. There were huge stained glass windows, statues of saints resting atop tall pediments, a baptismal font made entirely of silver, and an organ with many brass pipes and a choir that stood nearby, singing. Diego felt small and insignificant sitting there, among such grandeur and opulence. And there were so many people crammed inside the pews that seemed to go on and on, row after row. This was nothing like the church in San Antonio—small, intimate, each individual voice distinguishable when the congregants prayed or sang. There were two lines for Communion, and it took a long time before Diego reached the front. The priest hardly looked at him and muttered the words “Body of Christ” so quickly that Diego didn’t have time to answer him before moving on. When the priest ended the Mass, and everyone rose from their pews and made their way out, the crowd was vast, deep, hundreds of feet shuffling forward. Diego felt disoriented, dizzy, overwhelmed, and he was relieved once they were outside and he felt he could breathe again.

  Several people stopped to say hello to his grandmother and grandfather as they stood on the steps near the main entrance.

  “You say he’s your grandson?” a young woman with hair the color of corn silk asked his grandmother.

  “Yes,” Doña Julia said. “He’s been away. Living … abroad.”

  The woman was so exquisite, her face smooth and flawless, lips bright red, her eyes so wide, like an animal’s, he thought. She wore an elegant pleated dress made of soft fabric with large gold buttons that shimmered and danced each time she took a breath. The top flap of her purse was open and, as she talked to his grandparents, gesturing excitedly with her hands, a lace glove tumbled out and fell on the ground near her feet. When he reached out to grab it, she jumped, startled.

  “Give it back,” his grandmother snapped at Diego, taking the glove and handing it to the woman. “My apologies,” she said.

  “The boy,” his grandfather said, clearing his throat. “Like my wife said, he’s been living abroad. Europe. His ways are …” and he waved his hand.

  The young woman smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Well. Curious little fellow, isn’t he?”

  “What’s wrong with you?” his grandmother asked as
they walked away. “You had no business taking her things. She’s a very important person, the daughter of a powerful politician. If I ever catch you doing that again, I’ll—”

  “Don’t be so hard on the boy,” his grandfather interjected. “It’s not his fault. The people he was raised among, they’re backward. We’ll straighten him out. Now, let’s try to enjoy ourselves.”

  They strolled though a park and plaza where vendors sold toys and pinwheels and kites made of bright paper. There were figurines of glass and clay, so many small and beautiful objects that glimmered and shined. His grandfather purchased a leather belt and a vaquero hat, and he gave Diego money and told him to buy something, whatever he wanted. He used the coins on a wooden whistle and two pieces of squash candy. He was chewing on the last piece and standing with his grandfather, who was reading an announcement nailed to a post, and watched when Julia stopped to talk to a man and a woman. A parasol was hooked over the woman’s arm, and the man wore a waistcoat with a frock jacket over it, and a white cravat tied around his neck. A few minutes later, a boy about Diego’s age with light brown hair joined them. His grandmother said something and pointed across the street. They waved at Diego and his grandfather, but the old man was too busy reading the announcement to notice.

  The first three months there, his grandmother left Diego alone during the mornings. Every day his grandfather closed his office and returned to the house for a long lunch. On the first day he was told he would be eating with them instead of taking his meal in the kitchen with the servants, Diego learned of Javier Alcazar and his mother, Carolina. It was Doña Julia who spoke of the family first.

  “I saw Carolina Alcazar again this morning.” She looked over at his grandfather.

  The old man sat at the head of the table, taking spoonfuls of his soup. “And how is she?”

  “Fine,” his grandmother said. She finished her soup, and one of the maids, a young woman with a long ponytail, walked over, removed the bowl, and placed it on a tray. His grandmother dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin and looked over at Diego. “We saw them last week in the plaza, remember? They waved at you. Javier’s about your age. You two should meet. He would be a good influence on you.” She stared at him from across the table, in a way that made him feel uneasy.

  Diego held his spoon, his hand trembling slightly. “Yes, Doña Julia,” he responded, lowering his head.

  His grandfather pounded on the table, rattling the dishes and cups, startling the maid. “Head up, son. Head up,” he said, his voice elevated. “A refined gentleman always speaks with confidence.”

  “I’m sorry, Grandfather.” He adjusted himself, straightened his bow tie, and looked them both directly in the eyes. His grandmother shifted her gaze back to the table.

  “Take these away!” she ordered. The maid came over and quickly began removing the dishes.

  His grandfather said to Diego, “Carolina’s husband is a very wealthy man named Manuel Alcazar. He was in love with your mother at one time. They almost married but—”

  “She ran off with that peasant,” his grandmother interrupted. She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. “Doroteo, don’t start.”

  The old man ignored her and continued: “Carolina was once an opera performer. She has a beautiful voice. She gives lessons from her home to some of the children of the more affluent families.”

  Diego cleared his throat before he spoke. He tried not to look at his grandmother. “What kinds of lessons?”

  “Singing. Dancing. That sort of thing.” The old man lit a cigarette and squinted at Diego through the smoke. “Does this interest you?”

  “Yes,” he said smiling confidently. “Very much.” He felt his heart beating faster. “Back home I danced in some of the festivals.”

  “Good.” His grandfather smiled and nodded very sagely. “Would you like to take lessons from her?”

  “Doroteo, don’t,” said his grandmother.

  “This could help him,” he explained. “Boost his confidence. Refine him. He’ll learn about the opera. Learn oration.”

  “I think this boy’s incapable of such—”

  His grandfather interjected. “Julia, I’ll do what I please with him.” He turned to Diego. “We’ll talk to Carolina.”

  “Thank you, Grandfather,” Diego said. “Thank you.”

  The old woman’s face was flushed, but Diego didn’t care. Doroteo had made his decision. Around the house, his word was final, absolute.

  Javier and Carolina came to visit that September, a week before Diego was to start school at the primaria not far from the house, the same one his mother had attended as a girl. His grandmother was in the kitchen, lecturing one of the cooks about the meal she had prepared the night before, and Diego sat at the mahogany piano, pressing his fingers against the black and white keys, pretending he was giving a concert, singing one of the songs Elva had taught him. He didn’t hear them walk in; he turned and found them standing in the entryway. The mother wore a long tweed skirt and a shawl over her shoulders. Her hair was pinned back and adorned with flowers. Javier wore a pair of pressed black trousers, a blue jacket with gold buttons, and dark shoes.

  “You’re Diego, correct?” asked the woman. “The one who is living here now?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Diego rose, walked across the room, and extended his arm. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

  Carolina removed her glove, took his hand, and shook it. “My, what good manners you have, young man.” She then turned to Javier, unbuttoned his jacket and said, “Why don’t you two go outside for a while? Get to know one another.”

  Javier looked at Diego and smiled.

  Diego said, “I can show you my grandmother … I mean … Doña Julia’s birds.”

  Diego led him through the glass doors into the back courtyard where his grandmother kept the wicker birdcages. Inside, parakeets hopped from one end to the other, their plumage fluffy and vibrant, their small eyes darting back and forth. Javier walked over to one of the cages and regarded the birds.

  “Are their feathers soft?” he asked.

  Diego shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m not allowed to touch them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Doña Julia says she doesn’t want me upsetting them.”

  Javier laughed. “Why do you call her that?”

  “She doesn’t want me calling her grandmother.”

  Javier walked over to one of the stone benches and sat. He looked up at Diego and said, his voice lowered, “Some of the kids at school say your grandmother’s a witch who eats children.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” Diego asked, sitting next to him on the bench. “Do you think she’ll eat me?”

  Javier laughed again, his grin wide. “Probably,” he whispered. “You better beware.”

  They chased each other around the courtyard and hid behind the clay pots and wooden posts of the trellis. Diego was just so happy and relieved to have someone else to play with that he forgot about his grandmother and Carolina inside the house. It felt like they had been outside for only a few minutes when Carolina came out and called Javier over. “I lost track of time. We’ve been here over an hour. We need to go.”

  “Can I stay?” Javier pleaded, stomping one foot on the ground.

  “No.” Carolina handed Javier his jacket. “But Diego’s starting school next week with you. You two are going to be in the same class. You’ll have plenty of time together.”

  Javier leaned in close and said to Diego, “Be careful. Your grandmother. Lock your bedroom door at night.”

  “I will,” Diego told him.

  “I’ll see you at school,” he said. “Try to survive until then.”

  “We’ll start your lessons soon,” Carolina said. “I have a great feeling about you, Diego.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, señora.”

  “Carolina,” she said, crouching down, looking at him directly in the eyes. She smelled of lavender.
Her hair caught the sunlight. She was beautiful. Then she kissed him on the forehead and was gone. Diego couldn’t wait to start his lessons.

  He had never seen so many children gathered together in one place. They carried satchels filled with books and colored pencils. They scribbled on the concrete with thick pieces of chalk that dusted their fingers. They played on wooden seesaws and pushed one another on swings. Diego’s stomach turned and his hands trembled as he watched them through the slats of the iron fence circling the school grounds. He was obligated to wear a uniform—black trousers and shoes, a shirt and bow tie, and a sweater with the school’s crest on the front—and he tugged at the collar of his shirt nervously.

  “Don’t be afraid,” his grandmother told Diego, bending down to adjust his bow tie. He was taken aback by the tone of her voice, by her gesture; she was almost genuine, almost affectionate. She led him through the gate to his teacher, a pudgy lady with a nest of curly brown hair. She smiled at the teacher, and Diego realized that it was the first time he had ever seen her do so.

  “After your classes end, you’ll go with Javier to his house. Carolina will start you on your lessons today,” she said. Then she turned around and waved.

  His teacher gave Diego a strange look when he instead looked to her.

  “It’s fine,” the teacher told him.

  He waved good-bye.

  He followed the teacher across the school courtyard, which all the classrooms faced. She led him down a tiled hallway, up a flight of steps, pointing with a bony finger to a playroom full of wooden blocks, the floor scattered with puzzle pieces, balls, and felt puppets. There was a library with many books, and a salon with tables and chairs where they ate and assembled. There was more of everything here—more teachers, more rooms, more children. It overwhelmed him. Diego was glad then when at last they walked into the classroom where Javier sat in a circle with a group of other boys. Behind them there was a map of Mexico and large charts with numbers and letters.