The Five Acts of Diego Leon

by Alex Espinoza

  “Yes.”

  “What part?” the lady said.

  “Waiter,” he told her.

  “Okay then,” said the lady. “Take a seat with that crowd over there.” She clapped her hands loudly then pointed to a handful of men clustered in one corner of the stuffy room. Soon, a skinny man with a sallow complexion and a scarf tied around his neck came out from behind a set of curtains.

  “Very well,” he said. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. We will march you in shoulder to shoulder so that the casting director can take a look at you.” He lined them up and led them through the curtains and into a large room with mirrored walls and hardwood floors that gleamed and creaked as they walked across. “Shoulder to shoulder,” the thin man shouted, and they lined up against the wall. The casting director stood behind a large table, writing something down. The thin man walked over to him and whispered in his ear.

  “Let’s get going then,” the man said as he rose. He scrutinized each of them, sometimes muttering to himself, other times shouting loudly. “This one here,” he said, turning to the thin man who walked a few paces behind him. “He’s much too portly.”

  “Yes,” said the thin man. “Portly.”

  The casting director made his way down slowly, stopping from time to time to sigh and shake his head. “These are all wrong,” he said. “They look much too naïve, much too … too startled.”

  He continued nonetheless, moving down the line, slowly, until he came to Diego. “Too tall,” he said.

  “Too tall,” repeated the thin man.

  “These are all wrong,” said the director again. “All terribly wrong.”

  “But there’s gotta be one, two—”

  “Very well,” said the director. “We’ll test twelve. The first twelve.”

  “Twelve?” the thin man asked.

  “Twelve!” the casting director shouted. He walked over to the end of the line and counted, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.”

  “Yes, well then,” said the thin man. “The rest of you are all free to go.” He waved his arms.

  The assistant had stopped at Diego. He was number thirteen. He had been that close. Number thirteen.

  At the next open call, the spots had already been filled by the time he arrived. At another, he was required to dance for a big number set in a fancy ballroom. Diego knew this was his opportunity—he knew he was a great dancer. He was nervous though and tripped a few times before the head of casting stopped the music and said, “Sorry, kid. It’s not working.”

  “Let me give it another shot,” Diego pleaded. “I need a partner,” he said, lying, stalling. “I dance better with a partner.”

  The director sighed. “Lucille?” he said to a woman. “What do you think of this one here?”

  Lucille walked over. She put her hands on her hip, leaned in so close that Diego caught the faint scent of coffee on her breath.

  The director scratched his head. “Could you be his dance partner? I’m not asking you to kiss him.”

  “Sure,” she said, removing her sweater and placing her forms down on the table. “I’d love to dance.”

  Diego rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, took Lucille, and led her in a waltz, humming in her ear. If he charmed her enough, maybe there was a chance. She giggled, threw her head back, and closed her eyes. He felt the wind rushing through his hair, felt it whistling in his ears, as he moved elegantly across the floor. This, he thought, would surely convince them. When the music stopped, he let go of Lucille, who fixed her hair, and said, “Oh my goodness. What a divine dancer you are.”

  “Why, thank you,” Diego said, smiling.

  “But you’re still wrong for the part,” the casting director said.

  “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “Just what the man said,” Lucille told him.

  “But why? Surely I meet your requirements,” he said, not fully knowing what they were.

  The director sighed, folded his arms. “Just look at you.” He stepped forward, grabbed Diego gently by the shoulders, and walked him over to the mirrored wall. He stared at his reflection—his hair, his olive skin, his dark eyes. Diego stood straight, pushed his shoulders back, and took a deep breath.

  “What’s wrong with me?” he asked. “I tell you, what’s wrong?”

  “Son,” the man finally said, letting go of his shoulder. “You’re much too ethnic looking. This part is for an American soldier. American,” he repeated. “Not Italian or Gypsy.” He scratched his head again. “I’m sorry, kid. You’re great. Handsome in that exotic way. A wonderful dancer. But you’re not what we’re looking for. Not right now. You don’t have it. Not for us.”

  It was the same thing at the next open audition. And the next one. He was exhausted, angry, and impatient. He remained quiet on the trolley ride back, fiddling with the loose change in the pockets of his trousers, the last of the money he had. A man in a suit and black spats covering his shoes looked at him a few times and rolled his eyes. After a while, he rose and took a spot toward the rear of the car.

  Diego tried to get his mind off things. He focused on the moving trolley, the clumsy jolting forward as they inched up Santa Monica. At the next stop, Diego rose and got off. Out on the sidewalk, he lit a cigarette and sat down on a stone bench. While he smoked, he watched an ice vendor haul heavy dripping blocks back and forth, between his truck and a cluster of small bungalows farther down the street. A woman in curlers and a housecoat steadied a baby on her hip and chatted loudly with him as he worked. He could just turn around and forget about it, he thought. Go back to Mexico and stay there. This time for good. He felt broken, defeated, foolish.

  Across the street there was a small church with a cross that was made of lightbulbs that blinked over the front door. He thought about going in, praying to God to give him a sign, to help him figure out what he should do. Then, little by little, people began filing in. He watched them now, the faithful, the believers. He felt envious. At least they belonged to something. But there was nothing, no place for him.

  4.

  October 1928

  IT WAS THE TIME WHEN THE MONARCH BUTTERFLIES, WHICH migrate down from Canada and the United States, returned to Mexico to spend the winters under the lush and temperate canopies of tall trees in the hills and valleys of Michoacán. It was also the time of the year when the dead returned to the earth from the afterlife. The city of Morelia would no doubt be making preparations for the Day of the Dead festivals, Diego thought. The bakers would be making pan de muerto, tracing into the loaves of warm bread designs meant to resemble crosses or doves or human bones. Vendors would set up makeshift stands along the streets to sell sugar skulls, their faces and foreheads decorated with brightly colored intricate scrolls. Campesinos would come from the hills, carrying bundles of red and yellow marigolds that they called cempazúchil on their backs. Elva once told him the P’urhépecha referred to them as the “flowers of the dead” because their color helped guide the spirits of the deceased back to the altars their families erected for them, adorned with food and alcohol and candles. It was Elva who taught him not to fear death, not to fear the spirits that returned each year.

  It seemed only fitting that the news reached him then, during that time of migration and return, that time when the air is heavy with spirits and echoes. He was in the courtyard of the Ruby Rose, sketching clouds in the sky with a thick charcoal pencil—remembering their name in P’urhépecha, janikua—when a Western Union messenger approached and handed Diego the telegram.

  It was from his grandmother. He signed for it, and the messenger bid him good day before turning to leave. No doubt it would be another plea for him to return. But, no it wasn’t. His father, she wrote, was dead. Her message was brief. He glanced at it, catching only a few words and phrases as he felt the blood rush to his face. An old woman had appeared at the door with a man who identified himself as Luis Vara. Gabriel León, she wrote, his father, was dead. He had shot himself with
a gun.

  The “old woman.” Had it been Elva? Was she still alive? He whispered her name a few times as he held the telegram. Elva, he said. Elva. Tsánda. Janikua. Anhatapu. He conjured up an image of her, a scent, or a sound, something to remind him of her, of her presence in his life. He tried remembering his father’s face, but all he remembered was his scar, the one he came with after fleeing the revolution. Diego rose now, and the notepad and pencil fell from his lap and onto the floor of the courtyard. He had to go. He had to find a church.

  Ruby, who was manning the front desk, told him to go to Saint Luke’s. “You all right, son?”

  “Yes,” he responded. “Thank you, Ruby.”

  The walk to the church felt long, his footsteps heavy, agonizing. He tried imagining his father’s last hour, the look of terror he must have worn on his face in that final moment, the sharp metal point of the gun pressed to his head. What must have gone through his mind? Why did he end his life? Maybe it was a lie, a ploy by his grandparents to get him to return. Had the old woman indeed been Elva? But she didn’t know where his grandparents lived in Morelia. Maybe Luis Vara did, after all he was his father’s close friend.

  By the time he reached Saint Luke’s, he felt exhausted, confused. He sat in one of the pews near the front. This church was different from the churches in Mexico. There were no lit candles, and the statues stood in alcoves and niches carved into the concrete walls, not high up on pedestals. It was completely empty. He was startled by the sound of fluttering wings. High up in the rafters and trusses of the church were two pigeons that had drifted inside through the open doors. They hopped around, their short necks bobbing forward and backward, their claws bright pink. He sat back in the pew, the polished hardwood smooth against the fabric of his trousers. The pigeons had settled now, and the faint sound of cooing drifted down from the rafters, the harmony mixing with the gong of the church bells and the rush of cars farther in the distance. He closed his eyes, breathing in and out, and imagined himself back there, in Mexico.

  What he understood was that he was now alone. Diego could feel it. He needed no further proof. He knew that he was the last of the Leóns, the last of his kind.

  Early morning, he dressed for work. His grandmother’s telegram lay on the table near the window, the edges frayed and tattered. His stomach turned upon seeing it. He grabbed his coat and hat and left for Joe’s. Downstairs, he stopped at the front desk and put his cigarette out in an ashtray. A few feet away, sitting atop the counter was a new Bakelite telephone. One of the twins came out from behind the curtained door. He knew it was Rose when, upon seeing Diego there, she smiled, her bright white teeth shining full in the light.

  “My sister says you seemed rattled the other day,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. “You all right, honey?”

  “I’m fine.” He sighed. “How are you?”

  She squeezed his hand and petted his palm. “I’m all right,” she said, taking a deep breath. She covered her mouth with a handkerchief and coughed. “Damned cold.”

  “It’s not serious?” he asked, lighting another cigarette. He offered her one, and she nearly snatched it from his hand. Diego lit it for her and reached for the ashtray.

  She wore a pair of long silk gloves that were bright orange and waved her hand. “A pesky old cough. And I get a little winded climbing up and down those blasted stairs. ’Course, Ruby worries. Just like our ma, she is.”

  “That’s nice of her,” Diego said.

  “She’s a real doll,” said Rose. “I know she spends all her time going about this place like a real sourpuss. But it’s all an act.”

  “Still,” Diego told her. “I want you taking good care of yourself.”

  “Oh, you,” she said. “Look at me. I’m blushing. Like a little girl.” Rose finished her cigarette and walked into the back just as a teakettle whistled. “Doctor gave me an herbal infusion. Told me to drink it each morning. ’Course, it’s better with a little brandy.” The phone began to ring, and she shouted at Diego to answer it.

  Diego placed his cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the telephone. “Yes?”

  “Central Casting calling for a Mister Charlie Applebaum,” said a lady’s voice.

  “Yes?” he repeated.

  “Mister Applebaum, please.”

  “Yes?” he said again.

  “Charlie Applebaum?” There was a pause.

  He remained quiet.

  “You there? Charlie Applebaum?” asked the lady again.

  He took a deep breath, concentrating on the sound of Charlie’s voice. “Yes. It’s me. Charlie. How ya doing, doll?” Diego began to perspire. He took another deep breath. Rose was still in the back. He could hear her whistling, shuffling about as she prepared her tea.

  “Report to Frontier Pictures,” said the lady.

  “Swell,” he said. “That’s just swell.”

  “Studio twelve.”

  “Swell,” he repeated.

  “Today at eleven a.m. They need a Jew. Can you make it?”

  He reached for a slip of paper and a wooden pencil and marked the information down. “Great,” he said. “I’ll be there.” He hung up without saying good-bye. Diego placed the phone back down, the slip of paper clenched in his fist. Rose came out holding two hot cups of tea in each hand.

  “Anything important?” she asked.

  “Sorry, doll, but I have to run.” He took his pocket watch out and glanced at the time. Ten-fifteen. He could make it.

  “What a pity,” said Rose. “I have brandy.”

  The lady at Studio 12 held a stack of wrinkled forms in her hand, scratched her scalp with the tip of a pencil, and arched her thin eyebrow.

  “You are not Charlie Applebaum.”

  Diego cleared his throat, and fiddled with the buttons of his jacket. Inside, Studio 12 was a mammoth structure so vast and high that he felt infinitesimally small. The tall ceiling was filled with lights and scaffolds that crisscrossed along the length and sides of the massive building. Cameras were positioned, men in overalls used ropes and pulleys to heave a massive stone wall upright. The set was a village square with a fountain in the middle of a courtyard. The fake buildings had heavy wooden doors and windows with brightly colored shutters. There were artificial shrubs and trees, and large fans with metal crescent-shaped blades created a breeze that ruffled the branches and stirred the fake weeds breaking through the cobblestone steps. Women in plain yellow dresses with aprons tied around their waists and men in suspenders and wool caps stood near wooden carts filled with foam loaves of bread or bouquets of artificial flowers.

  “ ’Course I am,” Diego said. He continued fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. His hands trembled.

  “You’re not. I know Charlie Applebaum, and you ain’t him, doll,” the lady said, her hands on her hips. “You better get outta here before I—”

  “Trudy!” a man with a loud voice interjected, startling the woman. He walked over. “Please tell me this is our Jew!”

  “But, sir—” Trudy started to say when the large man interrupted her again.

  “Thank God you’re here,” he said to Diego. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting all morning. We need a Jew.” He turned to Trudy. “I suggest you get him to the costume trailer immediately, Trudy. Time is money. Time is money.” He clapped his hands loudly, the sound echoing throughout the entire studio.

  “You heard the man,” Trudy said, pointing toward a small trailer at the far end of the studio.

  Diego stood there, looking at her, confused.

  “Go on,” she said. “Oh, for the love of God. Just go. Don’t cost me any added delays. The last thing I need more of today is that incorrigible man yelling at me.”

  The inside of the trailer was cramped. Dresses and suits hung from large racks along the wall. A wide table dominated much of the space, and thick bolts of fabric and swatches lined the floor. It was stuffy, and an electric fan whirred incessantly in a corner. A little impish man with messy hair walked
around the room with a measuring tape draped over his shoulder and a pincushion wrapped around his wrist by an elastic cord.

  “You!” he exclaimed. “Jewish rabbi, am I correct?”

  “Yes,” said Diego.

  “Very good. Very good.” The man looked around, rummaging through piles and piles of clothing and fabric. “Here we are,” said the man, pulling out a wrinkled black cassock with gold clasp buttons, an embroidered tallith with tied and knotted fringes, and a gold yarmulke. He looked at the costume then at Diego.

  “Is everything all right, sir?”

  “Cecil,” said the man.

  “Come again?”

  “Cecil,” said the man. “Please call me Cecil.” Cecil’s face wore an expression of concern. He sighed then shook his head. “Oh dear. They’ve done it again.”

  “Done what?” Diego asked.

  “Central Casting. Botched measurements.” He shook his head. “We’ll do what we can, I suppose.” Cecil shoved the costume at Diego and pushed him into a tiny dressing room with mirrors on all sides.

  The cassock was much too short, and when he stepped out, Cecil rolled his eyes. “I was afraid of this. I’m going to have to lengthen it.”

  Trudy burst into the dressing room and shouted, “Cecil, no time! Get the beard on him.”

  “Very well,” Cecil said. He sat him down in a canvas chair and smeared adhesive over his cheeks and across his chin. He placed the beard on carefully, and it itched and the adhesive smelled bad. He tried not to grimace when Cecil asked if it felt fine. He wasn’t about to let minor discomforts get in the way of this, his first ever part.

  Cecil stepped back and said, “You’re all done, tiger.”

  “Let’s go, Applebaum,” said Trudy. She led him to the door.

  The director told him to stand near the entrance to the synagogue. Once he was there, on the set, Diego couldn’t see because so many lights were pointed in his direction, each bright and intrusive. The people standing behind the cameras and coils and wires were just shadows, faceless, disembodied mouths that screamed out orders. In the cacophony, he listened only for the director’s voice, for his was the loudest, shouting into a bullhorn. More lights, he demanded. Less sun. More wind. No, that’s too much. Just as he was about to shout action, the director rose from his chair, gasped, and took his bullhorn.