The Five Acts of Diego Leon

by Alex Espinoza

  “Yes,” he said. “I’ll do it. Of course I will.”

  The next day, Perry introduced Diego to the English cast. Fay Carmichael, in the role of Mary, and Margaret Dillon, Countess Carmilla, both had large personalities but managed to keep those in line. They got along quite well, laughing and joking with one another. Margaret Dillon was tall and statuesque, with fine features and a smooth complexion. She was definitely giving a very different take on the character than Veronica Flores, who had won the part in the Spanish version. Dillon was too overpowering in the role, Diego thought, and her personality acted to blunt the mystique and allure the countess needed to possess. Flores, though smaller and more energetic, could easily slip into the character’s skin, transforming herself into the evil vixen in an uncanny way. Fay Carmichael was right for the part of Mary, for the actress had a very stern, very focused, and versatile way about her. She inherently possessed the bold and assertive attitude Mary had, especially once Doctor Von Karnston is introduced and she aids him in the investigation regarding her husband’s illness and the strange puncture wounds on his chest. In the role of Lucretius Von Karnston, the eccentric doctor and professor of the occult and the dark arts, Jacques Fantin, a Frenchman and one of the studio’s cadres of actors discovered by Cage, had been cast. Fantin’s star had fizzled out at some point during its initial birth, and he was reduced to acting in less known, weaker films such as Alarm and The Liberty Boy. It was rumored that Frontier Pictures had no intention of renewing his contract after The Bride of Blood was completed. Such a promising career had turned into a rather disappointing one as, over and over, Fantin was either horribly miscast or criticized by studio executives when his films failed to bring in any profit. As Diego watched the scene play itself out on the set, he didn’t notice when Jacques sauntered in and stood just a few feet away from him.

  Perry looked over, nodded at both of them, and when Jacques noticed that Diego waved at the director, he glanced at him and asked who he was.

  “I’m working on the Spanish version of the film,” Diego responded.

  “Ah,” Jacques said. “You’re the one who’s going to burn the candle at both ends then, huh?”

  “Yes,” he started to say when Perry yelled “Cut!” and summoned both Fay and Margaret over. They and a group of various technicians and stagehands gathered around Jacques and Diego.

  “Everyone,” Perry said, holding a clipboard in his hand, “You all know that Diego will be taking over Jerome’s role as of today. He’s performing the part of Peter in the Spanish production. I consulted with Mister Cage, who agreed that, in light of recent problems with the picture, this would be the most logical and speediest solution.”

  “This is like something straight out of a movie itself,” said Fay, putting a hand on her hip. “The actor drops out mysteriously and the hopeful apprentice waiting patiently gets his chance.” She laughed and shook her head. “Seriously, some bozo should write this down, turn it into a script or something.” Fay leaned in, gave Diego a pat on the shoulder and said, “Welcome aboard, kid,” then turned and walked to her trailer.

  “But does he speak English?” asked Margaret.

  “Yes of course,” said Diego. “I speak both.”

  “Well, there’s that,” said Margaret. “Fine. Welcome.”

  “She likes to think she’s a real bitch,” said Jacques. “Likes playing the whole diva role. But, in all honesty, she’s a pussycat.”

  “They’re an interesting bunch,” Diego said to Perry, who was on his way out.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” said Perry.

  7.

  July–October 1932

  HE WAS EXHAUSTED. IN BETWEEN PRODUCTIONS, ONCE THE ENGLISH crew vacated the soundstage and before the Spanish crew came in, he remained there on the set and rested his head for a moment. Diego was tired, so tired, and everything fell silent, and all movement ceased. And he was no longer on a soundstage in Hollywood but at an inn tucked away in the remote town of Corovia in the Carpathian Mountains of Romania. And he plunged into that great chasm now, that crack in time, a moment that was neither day nor night but somewhere in between, a gray space, formless, ambiguous. He no longer walked among them, among the living. Diego felt himself separate from his body, his spirit hovering like black mist over his flesh, apart from and not a part of this life. He dreamed of terrifying specters with pale skin and sharp teeth, of hellish beasts with bristly hair and damp snouts and eyes as red as burning embers. He saw crosses and cemeteries—decrepit and decaying—dotting a dark and icy landscape of gnarled trees and derelict buildings, the sharp and thorny peaks of mountains, plains and valleys laid waste by the trampling of thousands of feet, of battles and bombs and guns and pestilence and plague, where nothing grew, no animals grazed. It smelled everywhere. And there was nobody. All the people had left the land, tired of the evil that thwarted good intentions, that made living impossible, unbearable. Inside the churches, plaster statues of the saints cried tears of blood. And Christ, nailed there to his cross, lifted his head, opened his mouth, and cried out in agony, his screams the screams of thousands, his cry not human at all, but more like an animal’s, a sound so awful it separated the flesh from bone, shook the core, made the hair fall out, laid waste to the body, the soul, the anima.

  The sets became real now, no longer props made of wood or foam. He saw the eerie twilight, the dusty, cobwebbed castles and churches, perpetually drafty, the extras in black and somber clothing, the old women with glassy, tear-filled eyes, holding candles, the beads of rosaries laced between arthritic fingers as the funeral procession wound down the narrow and cobblestoned streets of Corovia, the simple coffin hoisted on the shoulders of burly men with somber faces. It was all real, and it filled him with anger, with a rage so strong he could think of only to bring harm, to maim and kill and destroy all the evil, vile, and corrupt of the world, those who prey on the weak and poor, who feed off their blood, who draw strength from their misery, who ruin their lives for generations and generations.

  In his dream, he watched as they lowered the casket into the ground. They gathered fistfuls of dirt and threw it down where it mixed with the moist earth the men scooped up with large shovels. The women stood huddled under an oak tree and prayed in hushed and sibilant voices. Children with pale faces and wide eyes ran between the crooked and splintered crosses jutting out from the ground marking the graves of their ancestors. The fake crows sat perched on the iron fence lining the perimeter of the cemetery, and soon they came to life, picking their feathers, squawking incessantly, waiting to feast on the rotting flesh of a field mouse or a beetle. Diego watched the backdrop of steel gray clouds, painted on the taut canvas by an artist in splattered overalls, roll by. He felt the cold wind blowing in from the blades of whirring fans against his skin. He felt the presence of a great, ancient evil watching him, waiting for the right moment to claim him, to devour them all.

  They prayed.

  They nailed crosses to their doors. They sprinkled holy water in the dark corners of their houses, where it was said sin festered. They kept their children away from the windows, for the evil roaming the streets could see them and snatch them away.

  They prayed.

  Yet still she came. Bathed in black. White skin. Sharp teeth. A thirst for blood, human blood. That which kept her alive, preserved. She drew strength from their fear, preyed off this, and the more they cried out, the more they screamed, the more she craved them. And she would come to claim dominion over the land, over the corrupt and immoral souls of the people. He felt his resistance waning and the temptation was too strong, the lust too enticing, the power too erotic, the taste of flesh too hard to resist.

  He prayed. Who was he becoming?

  Diego prayed.

  He woke to the voice of an old man speaking to him in Spanish.

  “¡Levantense, joven! Levantense,” said the voice. “Que ya llegan.”

  Diego woke now. The old man’s hand on his shoulder, a smile on his face.


  “I fell asleep,” he told him in Spanish. “I had an awful dream.”

  The old man looked around, regarding the eerie sets—the old cemetery, the dark church, the dark castle, the wooden coffins and crucifixes piercing the ground—and nodded.

  “I can see why,” he said.

  He slept very little, only a few hours here and there, as they pushed on. Perry was a fine director, though, and never shied away from pulling Diego aside to coach him, provoking him to dig deep inside his own self to bring out emotions he never knew he had to complicate Peter.

  “Characters need depth,” he would say. “You must remember what is at stake for this man and why it is so important for him to fight for his life.”

  He pushed and nudged Diego along, scolded him kindly when he wasn’t performing a scene just right, when the delivery of lines sounded “wooden,” he’d say, or “overly fraught.” There was a balance that needed striking, he would often comment, between true emotion and fabricated melodrama. The line between the character and the actor was thin, he said, very thin. Use moments in your own life—heartache, happiness, confusion—to augment and refine the role. Dalt was full of energy, almost maniacal, and would often take his tie and hat off, fling them across the studio, untuck his shirt and run around, exhausting himself, when a scene was performed without a hitch.

  “It must be great,” said an actress on the set one day when she stood in line near Diego at the craft service tables. The young woman was broad-shouldered with an angular face and sharp cheekbones. She was dressed as a barmaid, and Diego knew she had a small part in the film. Her scenes mainly involved serving drinks to some of the other characters and occasionally delivering a few lines of dialogue.

  “Great?” he asked. “What?”

  “Working that closely with a man like Dalton Perry,” said the woman. “I’d kill to be in your shoes.”

  “Well, maybe someday you will be able to,” he said. Diego stuck his hand out. “I’m—”

  “Oh, I know who you are,” she said, shaking his hand. “It’s an honor, Mister León. I’m Gayle. Gayle Turney.”

  A month after the final scenes were shot, the editing of both The Bride of Blood and La novia de sangre were finally finished, the films ready to be premiered, both in October of 1932. The premiere of La novia de sangre was first, and it was held at the California Theatre on South Main Street in downtown Los Angeles, one of a handful solely devoted to running Spanish-language films. The initial screening was well attended, with a modest number of publicity reporters and photographers present, standing behind the ropes flanking the red carpet and shouting questions.

  “Mr. León, what was it like working on this Spanish film?”

  “Mr. León, tell us if you plan on making more movies in your native tongue.”

  “Diego, who did you like better? The English-speaking crew or the Spanish?”

  He answered each question as Perry and Cage had taught him to, standing before the flashing bulbs of photographers and waving. It was a rare opportunity to work on the Spanish film. Everyone on the set was kind and professional. Mr. Salazar was a fine director. There are currently no plans to star in another Spanish-language film. Working with both crews was an equal joy.

  “What do you make of the mass deportations the LAPD is conducting throughout the Mexican neighborhoods in the city?” asked one reporter from La Opinión.

  “Politics don’t concern me much,” he said, an air of indifference in his voice, and let his thoughts trail off. He continued to smile, continued to wave, as the reporter waited, his microphone a few inches from Diego’s mouth. When in doubt, he had been told to just smile, nod, and wave, then move on. And that’s what he did, leaving the reporter behind, a confused look on his face.

  “Repatriation, they’re calling it,” Salazar said once they were past the reporters and inside the lobby of the theater. “It’s illegal. It’s immoral.”

  “You’re damn right,” said a man standing near Salazar. “Everyone is suspicious. Mexicans with leftist affiliations are being rounded up and sent back. No questions asked, some of them even born here,” the man said, stomping his foot on the ground, his shoe leaving an impression in the plush carpeting.

  He didn’t know why, but Diego leaned in, spoke up, and the small circle of studio executives and the ladies with them turned to look at him when he said, “The newspapers say they spread disease, that they’re infected. I read there was a typhoid outbreak in one of the sections where a bunch of them live in shacks with no running water, no toilets.”

  Salazar shook his head. “Lies,” he said. “All lies carefully planted by the LAPD to justify their cause. Here, the media, the police, the politicians are skilled in the art of deceit and fabrication. Never forget that.”

  He was grateful when Alicia and the rest of the cast showed up. She kissed him on the cheek and squeezed his arm. The lights dimmed and they strolled into the theater and took their seats. There, in the darkness, with the film reel beginning, and the opening credits flashing up, he forgot about it all, felt a wild thing stir inside his chest, a pang, a flutter, the first real taste of success.

  Alicia wasn’t going to return to Argentina. She wanted to try and make a go at acting in Hollywood. Who knows, Alicia said. There might be another opportunity waiting just around the corner. The one compromise Alicia had to contend with was that her chaperone, Blanca, would remain, at least until Alicia got settled in a more permanent place of her own.

  The English-language premiere, which would be held at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre just a few days after the Spanish one, was another event entirely. He wasn’t ready for it, and it was Alicia who reminded Diego to make sure to look as good as possible, to draw as much attention to himself as necessary.

  “What you wear is just as important as who is on your arm,” she said.

  “Do you want me to ask you to be my date?”

  “I’m already going,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  Perry made sure to invite everyone from the Spanish crew, but only Alicia had said yes to the invitation, and he was grateful that she was going. As for Jacques, Diego had not seen him since the last day of shooting, and his guess was that he wouldn’t be there because it had been made public by then that Frontier Pictures decided to go ahead and not renew his contract.

  “Though I’m already going, it would be silly of me to show up alone,” Alicia explained. “I will accompany you. How’s that?” They were inside his apartment, and she went into his bedroom and rummaged through his closet and began pulling things out. “But what will you wear?”

  “Oh, I’ll find something.”

  “You can’t wear what you did to the premiere of our production.”

  “Why not? It was a brand-new suit.”

  “It’ll be the end of you if a photographer who was there that one night is at this premiere and snaps a picture of you wearing the same getup. No, we need something impressive.”

  “Like what?”

  “A tuxedo,” she said, still rummaging through his closet.

  “But I haven’t got one,” he told her.

  “Yes, I can see that. So we’ll just have to get you one.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. Come on.” She reached out and took his hand. “There’s time to do the alterations before the premiere.”

  When they pulled up and stood in the long line of cars inching toward the front entrance to the Chinese Theatre, he couldn’t help but recall Fiona, the date they’d had at the Pig ’n Whistle next door. He looked through the glass, trying to peer past the mobs of spectators and cameramen and reporters assembled there, hoping to catch a glimpse of the restaurant’s sign, but couldn’t for there were already too many people.

  “Look at that!” Alicia said as they stopped. The driver got out and walked around the car, and they emerged and were standing on the red carpet leading all the way from the street curb to the entrance of the theater. Photographers took pictures, their cameras poised alon
g the edge of the carpet, standing on wooden tripods, and the flashbulbs popped and hissed when they passed, the filaments littering the concrete like thin copper webs. There were hundred of fans and admirers behind velvet ropes. They waved at him, yelled things he couldn’t hear or make out. Several reporters shouted, and it took him a while to realize that they were calling Diego by name. Alicia nudged him forward.

  “Here,” shouted a short man in a driver’s cap, holding a microphone. “Sir,” he told Diego. “Just a few questions.”

  “Certainly,” Diego said, Alicia’s grip on his arm firm.

  “Bruce Bodine for KKGE Radio,” the man said, holding the microphone. “We’re live,” he said, “broadcasting on all frequencies. The entire West Coast. With us now,” the reporter continued, “is one of Hollywood’s newest finds: Frontier’s Latin Romeo. Mister Diego León. Now, what would you like to tell our listeners?”

  He leaned in and spoke: “Hello, everyone out there. It’s a beautiful evening in Hollywood, under the stars, and among them. We wish you were all here enjoying the premiere of this fabulous movie with us.”

  “I understand you worked on both the English- and Spanish-language production,” the man said, holding the microphone out.

  “Yes,” he said. “I did. It kept me busy, but it was a joy, an utter joy.”

  “It must have been quite an experience. What was your favorite part?”

  “Working alongside people like my costar here,” he said, nudging Alicia forward.

  “And who is joining us?” Bruce Bodine asked, beckoning toward the red cord separating them from the mob of reporters.

  “Alicia Prado,” she said. “I starred with Diego in the Spanish version of the film. I was Mary.”

  “Can you tell the audience a little about the mood out here this evening?”

  “Electrifying,” Alicia said. “Like Diego said, we wish you could all be with us.”

  “Any more pictures planned for you, Miss Prado?” Bruce asked.