He didn’t want to think about Fiona. He felt his attraction for her weakening just as hers toward him seemed to strengthen. Lately, all she talked about was Georgie’s wedding, the beautiful dress, and Nick’s plans for them once they were wed.
“They’ll honeymoon in Venice,” she’d told him one night when they were out, her voice tinged with romance, with passion. “A villa with a balcony in the countryside. They’ll be moving to New Haven. Nick will go to school. Yale. Study law. Afterward, he’ll take a job in a firm run by his father’s close friend in Manhattan. They’ll buy a house in the suburbs, and Nick will take the train into the city. They’ll have children and raise their family.”
It was all planned out, she had said, waving her hand across the table where they sat sipping coffee. Their entire life. Right down to the number of children they would have. The kind of car they would drive. The age at which Nick would retire. The countries they would visit as they traveled the world. He would take up golf. She would become a pillar of the community, host bake sales and afternoon tea parties.
“Doesn’t that sound nice?” she asked. “Don’t you want that too someday? I know I do. I crave security. There’s only so much makeup I can put on before I lose it.”
He said nothing. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke. He thought about his grandparents again, about Paloma. “Everyone has always had plans for me, for my life,” he said. He stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray and ground it in with force. “But nobody ever asks what I want. What I see.”
“But I just did, sweetheart,” Fiona said, pleading with her hands. “I just did.”
“I want to act,” he said. “I want to be a star. It’s what I’ve always craved. I love acting, performing, more than anything in the world.”
“But what if it never happens? You’ve got to have another plan. Something lined up in case.”
“It’ll happen,” he said. “I’ll make it happen.”
He repeated those words now as the trolley made its way down the boulevard. People exited the car and others boarded. The men wore cheap suits and ties, the women wore plain dresses and outdated hats. It was unseasonably hot that February day. Nobody sweated, and each time Diego breathed it pained his chest, and he imagined that dirty and parched air sticking to the linings of his lungs like cactus thorns. He swallowed several times, but this only made him cough, made his eyes water. Diego stared out the window, at the dust-coated palm trees that lined the street, the brittle fronds blowing in the warm air like the dry fingers of old people. A father and his daughter boarded the train next. They sat in the bench across from him. The girl wore a bonnet and a tan jacket, and black Mary Jane shoes with white socks. She was eating an ice cream cone. The father nodded at Diego and tipped his hat.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Evening,” Diego responded, tipping his own hat.
“Grace,” he said to his daughter. “Be careful not to get any of that on your dress.”
The ice cream was melting and white swirls dripped down along the side of the cone. She licked it faster and faster. Her pink tongue moved with a precision, with a greed that was uncomfortable. Grace ate and watched Diego, her bright blue eyes big and glassy and unblinking. He was relieved when they rose and prepared to exit the next stop.
“Say ’bye, Gracie Mae,” the father said to his daughter as he pointed to Diego.
She raised her hand and waved. The ice cream dripped down, leaving small white puddles on the floor of the trolley. He tried not to step on them as he exited the train once it reached his stop, but the car bucked forward, and the sole of his shoe came to rest over one of the drops. As he made his way down the sidewalk, the ice cream hardened and created an annoying sticking sound with each step that he took. The sound grew louder and louder, more aggravating, as he went along.
That night he learned that, since Bill was a good friend of Nick’s father, he would be at the wedding and the reception.
“Simon Wexler’s gotten me out of some pretty sticky situations,” Bill told him as they lay in front of the fireplace, his arms wrapped tightly around Diego’s shoulders. “We go way back. I’m happy for Nicky. I was beginning to think the guy would never settle down.”
Diego said, “Do you ever think about that? Settling down?”
Bill was quiet for a long while. “Yes,” he said. “But as long as I could set up the rules. As long as I could keep my affairs from my wife and family.”
“Family?” Diego asked. “You think about family?”
Bill chuckled. “Of course I do. Don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
Bill squeezed his shoulders. “I bet you’re going to look absolutely dashing in your tuxedo.” He kissed Diego on the cheek and mouth and whispered, “It’ll take all my will not to rip your clothes off and have you right there. In front of all those people.”
They made love that night, and as Bill slept, Diego lay awake thinking about the question of family. About marriage. About the future and Fiona. The upcoming wedding made him nervous. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it never came.
The Hollywood United Methodist Church had been completed just two years earlier in 1930. Its smooth stone facade gleamed new and pristine that day as Diego sped up Highland Avenue. A row of cars lined the front of the curb when he pulled around with Nick in the red roadster Simon had purchased for his son as a wedding gift. As was dictated by Fiona, Diego’s duty was to take Nick out for one last night on the town as a single man before he was to exchange vows with Georgie. He had taken Nick to several nightclubs around the city, just the two of them, the previous evening but the party was cut short when Nick overindulged and passed out by eleven. Diego, for one, had been relieved. He wasn’t looking forward to a night out with just Nick. They had very little in common, and their conversations usually consisted of breezy talks about the horse races or football games. Nick was severely hungover and groaned in the passenger seat.
“Where did you learn how to drive?” he asked as he stumbled out of the car.
Diego ran around and straightened Nick’s bow tie and fixed his hair. “Never mind that, Nick,” he said. “Pull yourself together. You’re about to get married.”
An old man in a ridiculously large top hat and monocle strolled over. With a shaky hand, he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a metal flask. “Hair of the dog that bit ya, Nicky.”
Nick took it and drank. “Thank you, Mister Riley.” He handed it back.
“No, son,” said Mister Riley. “You keep it. I’ve a feeling you’ll be needing more of that.” He winked and climbed the steps and into the church.
Nick finished the rest of the booze and tossed the flask inside the roadster. “Let’s go then,” he said. “Let’s get me married.”
The wedding ceremony was slow to start. The attendees, all mainly family members and friends of Nick, sat with patient but annoyed looks on their faces as the minister and the organ player fussed about doing who knew what. The alcohol had relaxed Nick and he smiled repeatedly and patted Diego on the back.
“Before long it’ll be you and Fi up here, old buddy,” he said to him.
Diego nodded just as the wedding march began and the last few guests trickled in. He saw Cage walking down the aisle with a tall and very striking woman.
“Bill’s latest discovery,” Nick whispered in Diego’s ear. “What I wouldn’t give to be that guy. A different girl on his arm each time.”
Now the wedding procession began. Fiona made her way down the aisle with small and graceful steps. She was exquisite, her blond hair swept up in a bun, bare shoulders exposed, and her face flawless. She reminded Diego of a statue, a form carved of a single slab of marble, each curve of her body, each angle, clearly defined, smooth and untouched.
“You’re one lucky guy,” Nick leaned in and said to Diego.
Georgie made her way down next, the long train of her dress trailing behind as her father, an overweight man with a balding head who w
alked with big, cumbersome steps, held her by the arm. The exchanging of rings and vows was slow and predictable, and Diego felt Fiona’s eyes on him. Several times he glanced over to find her smiling knowingly at him, a glimmer in her eye. He wished only to glance back, to see Cage in the audience, to yank the woman from his side away and take her place. He was so lost in thought, he didn’t even hear the priest present to the crowd Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Wexler, didn’t remember his and Fiona’s march down the aisle, a few steps behind the newly married couple. Next thing he knew they were all outside, in the glaring white light, standing along the sidewalk, throwing rice at the couple.
“So wonderful,” Fiona said, dabbing the tears from her face with a handkerchief. “So … so romantic.”
Through the dinner, the awkward speeches, the cutting of the cake, the bride and groom’s first dance, Diego drank. Cocktail after cocktail.
“Slow it down, will you or you’ll pass out,” Fiona whispered to him at one point.
He couldn’t help it. He was seething. Bill sat there with the woman, his arm around her shoulder. She tossed her hair about and batted her eyelashes excessively as she engaged the people sitting at their table in conversation. Bill took her out to dance a couple of times, and Diego saw him whisper in her ear from time to time, even kiss her neck, and caress her cheek. Toward the end of the evening, when Nick and Georgie had snuck away inside the house and the few remaining guests milled about, Diego walked over to the bar and asked the server for one more. He drank the whiskey and was smoking cigarettes when he saw Bill approach.
“I’ve been watching you all night,” he said. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
Diego chuckled. “What do you care? You better go before your little harlot wonders where you’ve traipsed off. Does she know about your proclivities? The ones you keep so secret?”
“Please,” Cage said. “Don’t make a spectacle. She’s my date. That’s all. Nothing more.”
Diego laughed and stumbled forward. Bill caught him. He grabbed him by the arms and led him away. He walked him down a gravel path behind the tables, and they found a bench and he sat him down.
“I’m sorry,” Diego muttered. “I’m so sorry. I just. I feel so confused.”
“It’s all right,” Bill said as he sat beside him. He reached into his pocket, pulled a handkerchief out and used it to dab Diego’s face. “There’s no reason to apologize. No reason to be jealous. She’s just my date. From time to time I have to be seen with women like her. That’s all.”
Diego rested his hand on Bill’s thigh and placed his head on his shoulder.
“Careful,” Bill whispered, glancing around.
“Why?” Diego asked. “I thought you said—”
“You know why.”
Diego stood now, swaying, his head swirling. “I’m going to find that girl of yours and tell her.”
“Tell her what?” Bill rose, trying to get him to sit back down.
“About—” And as he walked away, Bill reached out, took Diego in his arms, and hugged him.
“Stop it. Come now,” Bill pleaded. “Get ahold of yourself.”
Diego collapsed, gripping his shoulders, sobbing. “I’ll tell them. Please let me tell them,” he said. “I can’t stand it. I want to tell them who we really are.”
“What’s happening?” Fiona stood near the hedges, holding Georgie’s bouquet, the flowers still fresh and fragrant. “What’s going on?” She looked at him then at Bill. “Mister Cage?”
“Your friend here’s had a little too much,” he said. Bill removed Diego’s arms from around his neck.
“I’ll tell her,” Diego said. “I’ll tell them all.”
“Tell them all what?” Fiona asked.
Diego collapsed on the bench.
“I should run along,” Bill said. “Toni must be wondering what happened to me.” He said good-bye to Fiona, turned, and left without saying a word to Diego.
“Hey,” Fiona said, sitting down now, holding him up. “What’s going on here? Tell me, please. What’s happening?”
He took a deep breath and stood now. He cleared his head and focused. “Nothing,” he told her.
The moon was full that night, the blue light eerie and incandescent. It bathed her face in a sickly pallor. She sat there, beautiful, lonely, her bare shoulders slender and elegant. No strand of her hair was unraveled, her makeup was still perfect, her dress just as smooth and pristine as it had been at the wedding ceremony. He repeated these words to Fiona again and again. There was nothing going on. Nothing. But he could see, even in that weak moonlight, the look of worry and doubt that he had cast upon her knowing face.
5.
April 1932
FOR TWO MONTHS AFTER THE WEDDING, HE TRIED CALLING Fiona but was met with only silence. He didn’t run into her around the studio, and when he asked any of the other makeup girls, they would shrug their shoulders and say they hadn’t seen or heard from her. Georgie was gone, so he couldn’t ask her.
“Where’s your little gal?” Rose asked one day while he passed the front desk. “On you like glue then she’s gone. What gives?”
“I think she’s mad at me,” he said, but he knew it was more than that. He remembered his behavior at the wedding and shuddered.
“Send her flowers,” said Rose. “Chocolate. Give her some tickle.” She winked. “That always cheers a girl up.”
He sent her a box of chocolates and a bouquet of roses with a note that read: “My dearest Fi, I miss you.” Near the end of April, Rose handed him a note.
“Guess it worked,” she said and giggled.
It read:
We need to talk.
Fi
She showed up and was calm and polite when he answered the door. He led her in, and when he tried to kiss her, Fiona gave him a slight push and shook her head. She looked flushed and sat down, explaining that she was feeling ill.
“I’ve been a tad queasy and have had slight headaches,” she said.
“Anything to drink?” he asked. “I could run down to the drugstore for some Bromo-Seltzer. I’m fresh out but could always use more.” He pointed to the empty blue glass bottle on the table.
“No, thank you,” she said. Fiona sat, removed her hat, and placed her hands in her lap.
“Look,” he said. “I haven’t been entirely honest about my feelings and—”
“I talked to Mister Cage the other day,” she interrupted.
“Oh?” He tried containing the nervous tone in his voice. “Why?”
“I’m leaving Frontier. He didn’t tell you?”
He paused, took a deep breath. “Why would he tell me, of all people?”
She remained quiet.
He cleared his throat. “What will you do?”
“I’m going to Sunrise Pictures. They’ve offered me a position as head of makeup. A step up.”
Fiona would work on a series of high-budget films Sunrise would be shooting over the next few years. The first was to be called Columbus, about the famous explorer who found the New World. Much of the filming would be done overseas, in Italy and Spain. She would have to agree to be gone for at least six months. She said it was a great chance, and that she would be getting paid almost twice as much as she was making now.
“You didn’t know?” she asked again. “He never mentioned any of this to you?”
“No,” he insisted. “Why in the world would he have?”
“I just thought that the two of you were—you know?—close. You’re his protégé. All that. Then at the wedding I found you two—”
He interjected. “I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying.”
She looked up at him now, and there was a deep sympathy in her eyes, a pain, an anguish he had never known before. “I think you knew.”
“So you’re taking it?” he asked.
“Of course. I’d be a fool not to,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s good money. A chance to spread my wings.”
“Fi,” he sa
id. “What about us?” He reached out and took her hand.
“Don’t,” she said, removing his hand. “It was fun. But there’s nothing between us. I should’ve realized that a long time ago. A guy like you has other interests.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your career. Your ambitions. Your hopes. They aren’t mine. And you still have to figure out who you are. I can’t help you with that. I thought I could.”
“But—”
“Good-bye. I’ll see you around.”
She walked out the door, and he didn’t try to stop her.
Her departure left him reeling. Diego hadn’t known just how much he needed Fiona—her company, her love for him. And now that she was gone, he came to realize that she was the only person who knew who Diego really was. He longed for home, for Mexico, even his grandparents. But he found now that his memories came in weak, sporadic fragments: wide green fields, the smell of loamy earth in the countryside, the sound of cornstalks rustling in the breeze. He thought about his mother and father, wondered about Javier, Carolina. His teacher, the only mother he had ever known. Their faces were obscured when he tried conjuring them up, as if he were seeing them through gauze. In his dreams, when he tried to reach out, to touch them, they would evaporate or turn to ash, which would frighten him, and he’d wake up panting, sweating, terrified, alone in his bed.
Bill kept busy around the clock, dealing with a series of pressing issues around the studio—threats of strike, financial strife, disagreements with R. J., temperamental actors—and canceled several outings and dates with Diego. When he did finally call and invite him out, it was business. They met at a crowded restaurant off Wilshire Boulevard, and he found Bill sitting at a booth with a stack of papers before him. He looked tired and disheveled.
“We’ve got a picture for you,” he said. He pushed the forms aside and rubbed his eyes. He took a sip from his drink then continued: “A real unique opportunity to help launch you.” He slid a script across the table.
The Five Acts of Diego Leon Page 22