The Five Acts of Diego Leon

by Alex Espinoza

  “Javier,” Diego said, approaching them. He glanced at Esteban, who let go of the fence and composed himself, adjusting his jacket, and straightening his posture. What had Diego interrupted? “Hello.”

  Javier turned to him and smiled. “Hermano. So glad to hear you’ll be joining us.”

  “We should go,” Esteban said.

  “Very well,” said Diego, following them.

  They led him through the city, then down a series of alleyways and empty lots until they were standing in front of a large brick building crowned with a single smokestack that jutted from its roof like a slim gray finger. No smoke billowed out, but a heavy layer of soot and ash covered its sides. A row of tall windows adorned the front of the building, and they were very dirty and some of the glass panes had been shattered, leaving black squares. Diego thought of his grandfather’s chessboard.

  Inside, the place was cavernous and drafty. Toward the back of the single vast room, there was no light, and the dark corners and splintered doors appeared menacing and sinister. Thick cobwebs clung to the columns and posts. There were chunks of wood, broken bottles, old rubber tires, and rusted sheets of tin with jagged edges and bent nails that stuck out from their sides like claws. Everything smelled of petroleum and dust. Gathered inside were mostly boys his age. Every now and again, he would spot girls in black berets, mingling, their hair in pigtails.

  Diego followed Javier and Esteban as they made their way in, saying hello to some of the boys and girls. They referred to each other as “brother” or “sister” and saluted Javier and Esteban as they moved toward a long wooden table stacked with posters and leaflets, the ink still drying. The group gathered and sat atop empty wooden whiskey barrels or old crates. The chatter died down and they all looked up now, toward the front, where Javier and Esteban stood behind the table.

  “Hello, Brothers and Sisters,” Esteban shouted.

  “Hello, Brother Esteban,” some shouted back.

  “Hello, Comrade,” a few said.

  “We are gathered here,” Esteban began, “in solidarity against the injustices and atrocities brought about by the Roman Catholic Church. Our countrymen have suffered long enough under this oppressive regime that has, systematically, subjugated and destroyed many. From our brothers and sisters in the fields and valleys, to our brothers and sisters in the mines and smelting plants, to our brothers and sisters in the factories and textile mills, to our brothers and sisters in the shipyards and rail yards, we stand here today as comrades united against tyranny and injustice inflicted upon the working man by those forces and institutions in power.”

  Then Javier spoke. “The Catholic Church?” he shouted.

  “Down!” they shouted back.

  “The bourgeoisie?” he shouted.

  “Down!”

  “Organized religion?”

  “Down!” They threw their fists in the air.

  “Corrupt politicians?”

  “Down!” they shouted louder.

  Esteban spoke again now, making grand and elaborate proclamations against entities of power, against foreign companies which, he claimed, were slowly seizing control of the country’s petroleum reserves, its businesses, its precious minerals, everything. He made references to Karl Marx, Oswald Spengler, Leon Trotsky, and Vladimir Lenin. He talked about José Vasconcelos, about how they—the young idealists who had grown sick and tired of the greed, the corruption, and manipulation—embodied his theory of la raza cósmica, a cosmic race that would incite an uprising, bring about a new order, a new social structure whose core principles would be egalitarian, would remove social class, and would give back to the poor what had been rightfully theirs. Esteban, that shy and awkward boy, the one they said had intercourse with men and fellow classmates, spoke proudly, his voice filling every square inch of that massive room. Javier stood there, almost transfixed, it seemed, his eyes wide, unblinking, muttering, “Yes, yes,” now and again. But Diego felt confused by it all, couldn’t identify with their insipid ideals. He wanted nothing more than to leave them there, such a pretentious and juvenile bunch, filled with an agenda that had clearly been spoon-fed to them by their radical parents.

  Before the meeting ended, Diego had to endure “accounts and news” from various members. Comrade Gómez-Alaniz reported that a local priest was heard criticizing the government. A rally would be planned, Esteban replied, pointing to the leaflets and posters on the table. Someone said they would notify the authorities. Comrade Mejia said a group of nuns in one of the nearby remote villages had barricaded themselves inside a schoolroom and held several children hostage. The nuns were caught and arrested. Everyone cheered and clapped. Javier told of a group of local businessmen who were planning on donating large sums of money and supplies to a handful of priests scattered around the area in order to aid them in what they called “the cause.”

  “We need a list of names of those places of business,” Esteban told him. “We need to rally and protest these businesses in league with the church.” When it was done, when each comrade had spoken, Esteban turned to Diego. “I would like to take this opportunity to welcome a new member,” he said. “Comrade Sánchez.”

  “Welcome, Comrade,” some shouted.

  “Welcome, Brother Sánchez,” others said, rising and patting him on the shoulder.

  He smiled and played along, saying, “Thank you. Thank you. It’s an honor.”

  As the meeting broke up, Esteban stayed behind while Diego followed Javier outside.

  Javier lit a cigarette. “You should get home.”

  “Since when do you smoke?” Diego asked.

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t tell you exactly when I started. I just did. I do a lot of things you don’t know about.”

  Diego smirked. “Like associate with this lot? With Esteban? I remember the rumors about him in school. That he was a faggot?” Diego raised his voice, and a few of the boys inside heard him.

  “Would you shut up?” Javier said, pushing Diego. “He’s good. He’s a good person. He’s my friend.”

  Diego pushed Javier back harder, and he stumbled and fell. “A good friend? I bet. What sort of mischief are you getting into with your good friend, Javier? Are you two—”

  “Shut up,” he said now, rising, brushing the dirt from his trousers and jacket. “I know what this is about. You’re jealous that I have new friends at the university and you don’t. All you have is your boring life and your precious fiancée Paloma who you probably don’t even like. They’re forcing you to marry her, and you’re too much of a coward to question them.”

  “I’m leaving,” Diego said, turning and starting to walk away.

  “Go back home then,” Javier shouted. “To your grandparents. To your pampered life, and your meaningless job. That’s all you’ll ever know,”

  Diego broke into a run, Javier’s voice following him all the way back.

  Two days later, when he knew Javier would be out, he went to see Carolina. She answered the door, a surprised look on her face. It was late morning, and she still wore her robe.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “Hello. I wanted to talk. Is now a bad time?”

  “Not at all,” she told him. “Come in.” Carolina went into the kitchen then returned, leading him out to the patio. A few minutes later, a maid came out carrying a pot of boiling coffee, slices of fruit, and warm rolls of sweet bread.

  She poured them some coffee. “I love mornings like this. Sitting out here. So peaceful.” She reached out and squeezed his hand.

  He didn’t realize how much he had missed their time together. He sat there admiring her. Carolina was beautiful in that bright morning light. Her face was free of lipstick and rouge. Her forehead was wide and strong, her eyebrows arched and perfectly symmetrical, as if they had been painted on her face by a delicate and patient hand.

  “What would you like to talk about?” she asked. Carolina knew him well, probably better than anyone else, except maybe for Elva; he still wondered about
her from time to time.

  He sighed. “What, um, what do you think about all this commotion? What’s brewing between the church and the government?”

  She sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Well.” She cocked her head to one side. “I suppose that, if you take away a person’s faith, a person’s need to believe in something else, no matter how intangible, what follows is inner turmoil and chaos. Fanaticism.”

  “Whose side are you on?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Does it matter? I think this whole mess, just like the revolution, is more than just sides,” she said. “Lines will be drawn. There’ll be battles and fights and death. It’ll end badly. Then, years from now, it’ll start all over again. The people know nothing about sides. They’re just caught in the middle. The church has too much power, has influenced things in this country far too long. On the other hand, like I said, it’s dangerous to take away a person’s faith, what they believe in.”

  “I see it the way the church does,” he finally said. “My grandparents, they—”

  “Oh, but,” she interrupted, “the church is just another form of control, another way of keeping you, us, under its thumb with its rules and moral codes.”

  “It’s what I believe,” he said, sighing. “It’s what helped me become who I am now.”

  “And who are you now?” She rose and walked over to a wire cage lined with straw. It was where Carolina had kept a white rabbit with red eyes like rubies and a nose that constantly wiggled. The cage was empty, though. It had remained so since the day four years before when a cat snuck in and ate the rabbit.

  “I’ve grown. Changed,” Diego said.

  She regarded the empty cage. “It’s ending now, isn’t it? Our time together? You’ll marry Paloma soon. Start a family. You won’t have time for me, and all of this will end.”

  “It ended a long time ago,” he said, remembering the conversation with his grandfather years before.

  “I know,” she said. “I just didn’t want to accept it.” She turned to face him now. “Does any part of you miss it?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “The performing. The singing and dancing. All those things I taught you.”

  “At times. I think about it now and again. But what am I supposed to do? Throw everything I have away just to go chase an impractical dream?”

  “You’re absolutely certain that this is the course you want your life to take?” she asked him. “That you want to marry this girl and inherit your grandfather’s legacy?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “You’re positive?”

  “Yes,” he said once more. “Why do you sound so incredulous?”

  Carolina reached out, placed both hands on his shoulders and told him she thought he was making a grave mistake. “You’re good. Not great,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. “But you can be. I believe it’s your destiny.”

  “I haven’t performed in several years now. Haven’t sung a single note. Have hardly danced.”

  “You never lose it. It’s always in you.”

  “But my grandfather,” he said.

  “What about him?” she asked, throwing her hands up in the air. “Why follow his advice? So that your life will be like his? Sitting there in that empty house surrounded by all those old relics? You have a chance. Don’t waste it.”

  “I don’t want to,” he said, and Diego could feel himself growing angry. “All I have is here.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s not. You have a talent, one I believe is meant to be shared. You should at least give performing a try. Otherwise you may be passing up a great opportunity.”

  “What do you propose I do? Start meeting with you in secret? Practicing more speeches and taking more voice and dance lessons?”

  She shook her head. “No. There’s only so much I can do for you. There comes a time when every pupil must leave his teacher.”

  She told Diego that she’d recently talked with some friends of hers from her art school where she had trained as a vocalist. Ana and Juan Brenton married soon after school and lived in Europe for many years, but they had recently returned to Mexico City with the intention of opening up a small theater house. They were gathering a troupe of actors and performers, and Carolina was convinced they would love him.

  “If you want I’ll write them about you,” she said. “I just know they’ll want to work with you. Or you could at least audition.”

  “But I can’t,” he said. “My grandfather. I made a promise.”

  “I think you should ignore your grandfather,” she said. “You could be making a terrible mistake.”

  He watched how her face changed when she said this. Carolina looked around, regarded the patio, the large house looming before her, filled with exquisite pieces of furniture, with pictures, with memories of her and Manuel and Javier.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” she began to say, her voice quivering, “what would have happened had I not—”

  “No,” he interjected. “I can’t. I’ll stay here. I’ll work by my grandfather’s side. It’s what I must do. I’m sorry.”

  With that, he put his coat on and left. He couldn’t listen to her fantasies a moment longer.

  5.

  January 1927

  THE MARCH DATE THEY SET THE YEAR BEFORE HAD FELT SO FAR away then. Now, it was less than eight weeks before the wedding. His grandmother and Lupe and Paloma handled all the planning. Diego was relieved. He didn’t want to think about it more than he had to. It all filled him with an anxiety he couldn’t quell no matter how many cups of cognac he drank. Since the summer, the house had been full of activity, with Lupe and Paloma spending hours planning the menu and deciding on the flowers. His grandmother became another woman. She was more animated, smiling regularly and giving Diego the odd kiss on the cheek or hug. She complimented him sometimes, even when there was no one else around.

  As the date approached, Diego began to feel as though he were standing in a room crowded with people, and the walls of the room were closing in. Wedding rings were purchased, a conference with the priest who was to wed them scheduled, the guest list finalized and the invitations sent out. His grandmother hired more servants and cooks to help with the task of planning the meal and the reception. She floated from one part of the house to the other, scolding the maids when they failed to fold the table linens right or yelling at the cooks when she tasted something she didn’t like. One day in February, he sat in the parlor, watching all the commotion, feeling the entire world spinning beneath his feet, careening out of his control. Doroteo walked into the room and sat near him, regarding Diego.

  “Are you ill, son? You look terrible.”

  He took a deep breath before speaking. “I guess I’m just a little nervous.”

  His grandfather laughed. “That’s natural. You should have seen me on the day I married your grandmother. I was a frightful mess.” Doroteo reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “It’ll pass. Paloma’s a sweet girl. You two will be very happy. Trust me. I know what is best for you.”

  Work did nothing to keep his mind off the wedding. Instead, he found himself altogether uninterested in the endless task of notarizing and cataloguing. The old documents no longer felt important. They were flimsy, transparent, unreliable. Everything in his life felt this way now. On the days when his grandfather left him alone in the office, Diego closed up early, wandering aimlessly through the streets of Morelia. He bought cigarettes from a street vendor one afternoon and began smoking, drifting from one plaza to the other, watching people, hoping for something to happen. He thought about Javier, imagined him waving at him from across the plaza, walking over and sitting next to Diego. They would share cigarettes and talk and make plans again. Diego would take Carolina’s advice, and he and Javier would move to the capital together. Diego would join Ana and Juan Brenton’s theater troupe. He would become a famous performer, and Javier would be very proud and they’d be happy.

  Then the movie houses came to Mexico
, and one opened up around the corner from the office. It was in an old building that was dilapidated and falling down. But then there was a ticket booth and a marquee lit up by electric bulbs that flashed and moved in rapid succession. The lines soon began to wrap all the way around the corner and out into the sidewalk, a few feet from the office’s entrance. One day, instead of wandering around again, Diego took a place in the line, leaning against the cracked column where his father once stood. The line inched forward bit by bit until he was before the ticket booth. He paid the attendant inside and stepped into the lobby.

  He would never forget the silence, the way in which the theater cut off all sound and movement from the outside; the silhouettes of the people around him settling down in their chairs; the click and whir of the projector; the snapping and cracking and sputtering of the film as the celluloid strip worked its way through the rivulets and channels of the camera. Soon, a little man with a striped vest and a bowler hat walked onto the stage. He sat at a piano and began playing music from a stack of sheets placed before him.

  And, just like that, the moving picture began. It involved a pretty heiress, an evil baron, and a kidnapping. Diego would never forget the thrill of it all, a chase scene involving many horses, a majestic castle, and the pretty heiress by her father’s side, clutching his hand as the mustachioed old man took his last breath and died a dramatic and poignant death.

  Diego was riveted. He remained in his seat long after the film had ended. It was only once he was outside, once he was back at his desk in the notary office, that Diego realized that he hadn’t thought about the wedding the entire time he was sitting inside the theater house.