The Five Acts of Diego Leon

by Alex Espinoza

  “Yes, but I’m not at liberty to discuss them.”

  “Real secret, huh?” Bruce said. Then he brought the microphone up to his mouth and said, “You heard it here first, folks. We can’t wait.”

  Then Bruce turned and nodded at the man, who now switched the console off.

  “Thanks,” said Bruce. “Enjoy the premiere.”

  They walked along, and when Diego was sure they were no longer within earshot, he asked Alicia why she lied.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “Back there. All that about your upcoming plans. You’re not doing any pictures, are you?”

  “No,” she said. “But it’s good to say things like that. It builds mystique, I understand.”

  “Mystique, huh?”

  “Yes,” she said. “My new favorite English word.” She scanned the area as they made their way toward the front of the entrance. “Speaking of, how were my pronunciations?”

  “Fine,” he said. “Your accent is much more subdued.”

  It was hard for him to discern who anyone was because they were all dressed so fancy, so lavish. Standing at the entrance of that massive building, its bright red and gold exterior, the Chinese dragons and circular gongs, he was beyond overwhelmed. The searchlights darted across the sky in dizzying patterns, there was chatter everywhere, and the walls were covered with posters featuring Fay Carmichael, Margaret Dillon, and Jacques Fantin in different scenes from the movie. Inside the theater lobby, Carole Lombard talked with Stu Berk and Tod Duren. Irving Thalberg of MGM was having what appeared to be a very heated conversation with Dalton Perry. He saw Claudette Colbert, Greta Garbo, and John Barrymore, who tipped his hat to Diego and raised his glass.

  Alicia, he realized, was cunningly radiant, and all eyes turned to her as they circled the room. She wore a white gown with a bold floral design. The front of the neckline was cut very low, exposing a good deal of her upper chest. Even though it was warm enough that night, she carried with her a shawl. Her hair was swept up in a bun and she was all graceful neck and shoulders.

  “Don’t get starry-eyed, dear,” he said as they walked about the large lobby, filled with studio people in tuxedos and fancy dresses.

  “Who’s getting starry-eyed?” she asked. “I’ve done premieres before.”

  “But not a Hollywood premiere.”

  “You have a point. But I think you’re more nervous than I am.”

  “Oh nonsense,” he muttered under his breath as they roamed around. “Act like you belong,” he said as the crowd broke for them.

  “Oh, but I do belong,” she said.

  The lobby was an impressive sight, with chandeliers hanging from the gilded ceilings, an ornate railing with inlays of Chinese writings and symbols, and scrolls made of imitation rice paper with drawings of temples and fountains. There were large gold dragon heads, and two lions flanked the main entrance to the theater, with its red carpeting and thick gold curtains. Everyone was there—Fay Carmichael and Margaret Dillon, Perry and Salazar—and he was surprised to see Jacques Fantin standing at the foot of the steps leading up to the second floor balcony.

  “Relax,” Diego said, “Have fun. Enjoy.”

  At this, Alicia smiled. When she saw Dalton Perry chatting with Margaret Dillon, she stopped, her gaze fixed on them.

  “Would you like to meet her?” he asked.

  “I don’t think—”

  “You have to be ready,” he said. “Come on.”

  He introduced her to both of them, Alicia remaining quiet, nodding attentively, listening to Dalton talk about a new dog he’d purchased, a greyhound.

  “I adore greyhounds,” Margaret said, smiling at both of them, nodding at Alicia.

  Diego jabbed her side, trying to provoke Alicia to speak. He cleared his throat.

  “My father used to breed and raise greyhounds,” she said.

  They all looked at her and began asking about her family, her upbringing.

  Confident that Alicia could handle herself, he snuck away. He headed toward Jacques.

  “Why, hello,” Jacques said. “You’re looking rather smashing, I must say.”

  “You don’t look so bad yourself, either.”

  “Well,” he said, smiling. “I do clean up mighty nice now, don’t I?”

  “I’m surprised to see you here,” he said.

  “I know there are a lot of people who probably feel the same way, my friend.”

  He said he didn’t want to give those in charge the pleasure of not seeing him there for one last time. After all, Fantin explained, he worked harder on the film than he had on any other during his time at Frontier.

  “Well,” Diego said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “And who is the little señorita with you tonight?” he asked.

  “Alicia Prado. Did the Mary role in the Spanish.”

  “Ah,” he said. “I see. Well, she’s a looker, I’d say. And she’s working the room quite well, isn’t she?”

  Diego saw how Alicia moved from group to group now, talking with people, smiling and gesturing emphatically.

  “Somebody’s hoping to launch their American film career tonight, it appears to me,” said Fantin. “Poor kid. She’s trying too hard. She’s not subtle.”

  “I disagree,” he said. “She seems to be holding her own quite well.”

  Then there came a murmur from the crowd, and they watched as William Cage himself, accompanied by a brunette woman in a gold dress, came in. He went straight to where Perry and Salazar stood, talking with a man whom Diego knew to be one of the studio’s film producers.

  “Oh,” said Fantin. “Look who just arrived. It’s Billy the Kid himself. This should be real interesting. Tell me,” Jacques said, leaning in. “Did he ever try the funny business with you?”

  Diego cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “You know? Tried getting you in bed?”

  “No,” Diego said, adjusting his tuxedo jacket. “Absolutely not.”

  “I’m surprised. He’s slept with every young attractive actor at Frontier at least once. Oh, everyone knows about him. When he tried to have a go with me and I respectfully refused, I saw my career at the studio hit the bottom. No leading parts. No big hits. Typical, isn’t it?” Fantin said. “This industry’s full of skirt chasers, closeted queers, all of them over-sexed and crazy with power. Why can’t anyone be normal?”

  Diego lit a cigarette. “Sometimes I just don’t understand this place,” he said.

  He watched Bill standing in the center of the lobby, the beautiful woman clutching his arm. Was she in love with him, he wondered? What did they do when they were together? Diego tried not to imagine it. He couldn’t help it, though, and he realized what was happening: he was jealous of her. His hands trembled. He felt himself perspiring. Diego wanted nothing more than to be the one on his arm, by his side, Bill’s partner, his lover.

  It was the greatest night of his life, and he was standing there on the balcony of the theater’s lobby. Below, he watched them move about in beautiful dresses and sharp tuxedos. The biggest stars in the movie industry had come out to the premiere of a movie he was starring in, his American film debut. He should have felt proud, accomplished. Yet he was anything but that, and so much was still so far away.

  ACT V

  1.

  April 1933–May 1935

  Would-be hopefuls with stars in their eyes have been flocking to Tinseltown for as long as anyone can remember. It seems these budding thespians are as natural a part of the landscape as the palm and citrus trees that line the streets and avenues of our fair city. One such person arrived, like so many others, in Hollywood in 1927, at the tender age of nineteen with only a few dollars in his pocket and the hope of someday seeing his name flashing on a marquee or on a billboard along Sunset Boulevard. Frontier Pictures’ Diego Cortez dreamed of the day when the stardom he’s currently experiencing would come but never thought it would take so much time and perseverance as it has.


  Known best for his roles in such films as The Bride of Blood, Far from Home, and Two to Tango, the actor, humble and gracious, admitted to us from his Hollywood bungalow that the road to fame was paved with some tough choices, especially when he contemplated walking away from his career to return to Mexico to care for his aging grandparents. “That was difficult,” he confessed, a slight quiver in his voice, as we sat in his bright and airy living room. “But these are the choices we’re given. The journey’s been a long one, but I’m glad to be here, glad to have the support of so many adoring fans over time.”

  And what times they have been for this young man, whose star is only getting brighter and brighter. “I started out so far away from here and am lucky and grateful to have finally arrived.” With a family history ripe with loss and death, it’s little more than a miracle that he is with us today. Diego was the direct descendant of a mighty king, the last ruler of the great Tarascan people who inhabited much of western Mexico before the Spaniards arrived. Born into an affluent family in the cosmopolitan city of Morelia, in the lush and fertile state of Michoacán, Diego, an only child, was a precocious baby and showed early signs of having an adventurous spirit when his negligent nanny turned away and he crawled off and got himself lost in a cornfield while on an outing with the family. In his first year, the family’s simple life was turned upside down when an influenza outbreak that swept though the city claimed the life of his father, a successful businessman. His grieving mother raised the young Diego with the help of her parents, who doted on the boy. Diego grew into a handsome and charming young man. He was bright and quick, curious and charismatic, was loyal to his mother and obedient and polite and very devoted to God and his church. But, alas, tragedy struck again when an infection claimed the life of his beautiful mother. As he grew, his grandfather, a shrewd businessman, groomed Diego to work in his office, notarizing forms and documents.

  “It was my grandfather’s hope that I take over the business,” he told me. “But that life was not for me. I had a calling. A desire to be something else.”

  Diego came in contact with his first silent movie when a picture house opened around the corner from his grandfather’s business. From that moment on, the young man developed a love and fascination with Hollywood movies and all things American. Early one morning, while the grandparents slept, Diego, clutching only a duffel bag and with a few pesos to his name, snuck away and caught a train bound for the United States. His final destination: Hollywood. His early years in Los Angeles were a struggle; he held down a number of jobs that included street newspaper vendor, a farmhand, and a ditchdigger. Underneath the rugged exterior, there is a genial sensitivity about the man, a curiosity akin to that of a young boy, ever quizzical and full of a pervasive nostalgia that is at once wistful as it is endearing. But there is also a chivalry within him, much like those possessed by the courageous and valiant matadors down in Old Mexico, a strict adherence to and devotion for his church, his God, and his family. Single, good-looking, a talented singer and dancer, Diego loves to entertain anyone from Zippo the Clown to Margaret Dillon and Frontier top man William Cage. Diego Cortez is truly a “man’s man,” a close friend any guy would hope for. Years of manual work have yielded a trim and muscular physique for the six foot one, one hundred and seventy-five pound actor. With a healthy mane of dark chestnut hair that shines ever so brightly in the sun, a smile that beams confidence and wit, broad shoulders and a sturdy chest held up by muscular legs and arms, Diego is, without a doubt, every man’s ideal companion and every lady’s comely dream.

  “It’s the fans that keep me going, Marty,” he confessed when asked what inspires him.

  Diego Cortez is here to stay, according to his fans near and far. And we couldn’t agree more!

  After the Bride of Blood premiere, it was clear Diego had been noticed. Mr. Levitt himself urged Cage to do everything to get Diego into more of Frontier’s major projects after his private viewing of The Bride of Blood. “This Latin kid’s going to be big.” In 1933, Diego became known as “Frontier Pictures’ answer to Valentino.” Bill suggested they change his last name from León to Cortez. More regal, he said. Makes one think of a manly man, like the great conquistador Hernan Cortez. It’s adventurous, he insisted. Noble. R. J. liked Diego Cortez, and so did a handful of studio secretaries Bill went around asking, so it stuck. Diego hated it, but he had no choice.

  There came new clothes and a new look to go with the new persona. A team of press agents was put in charge of reinventing him. A fictitious biography was written and fed to the media, who, in turn, ran with it and printed this whenever they wrote about “Frontier’s Latin Valentino.” In this version of himself, he wasn’t born into poverty. Diego Cortez had never lived through the hardships of the revolution, had never seen hunger, the cold, had never known the fear of despair and loss. He had been born into privilege, and this, the press agents said, was important to stress.

  “Why?” he had asked. “Don’t people like a rags-to-riches story?”

  The agent, slow-talking, methodical, said that, under normal circumstances, this would be true. “But what we want to do is emphasize a cultured and sophisticated upbringing. We want to paint you as an educated, learned Mexican.” He moved his pale, thin fingers across the wide boardroom table where they met.

  “So many people in the press see the word ‘Mexican’ and think certain unfavorable things,” said a female press agent sitting nearby. “We don’t want them associating you with that.”

  And so it was. Diego held the Snapshots article written by the effeminate young reporter who had spent several weeks with him, smoking cigarettes with Diego, dining with him, staying the night several times and sleeping in the guest bedroom. The Snapshots article would be the first of many to feature his new biography. He would just have to accept that this was who he was now. He had gone from being one person to another almost overnight.

  “Are you sure this is for the best?” Diego asked Bill one evening as they lay on Bill’s bed. Diego held the magazine, his eyes focusing on his new last name. Cortez. “I still don’t think I like Diego Cortez.”

  “It’s good,” Bill insisted. “I like it. It rolls off the tongue. It’s very mysterious, exotic.” He leaned over, pushed Diego down on the bed, and pressed his body on top of his. He reached for the Snapshots magazine and tossed it across the room. He kissed his neck and stroked his chest. Diego could feel Bill’s hardness.

  “It just doesn’t feel right to me,” Diego said. “My fans like me. Why can’t I just be who I am? Why can’t I just be Diego León?” He remembered what his father told him many years before, about being the last of the Leóns, about carrying on the family name.

  “American audiences will mispronounce León. Plus there’s the matter with the little accent over the O. It’s too exotic-sounding.”

  “But my father—”

  “Enough,” Bill interjected. “You’re being childish. People change things all the fucking time in this business. It’s just a name.” He stopped and calmed down before speaking again. “Isn’t this what you hoped for? What you always wanted? Aren’t you happy?”

  “Yes,” Diego said, kissing Bill on the lips. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for all your help. And I’ve really enjoyed this. Us together,” he said.

  “Me too.”

  “That makes me happy,” Diego said just as Bill leaned in closer and took him in his arms. They kissed and caressed one another for some time before Bill penetrated him.

  “I’ll take good care of you. Just make sure to do exactly as I say,” Bill said.

  “I will. I promise.”

  Diego tried to focus but all he could think about was what Jacques Fantin told him at the premiere. He could feel Bill inside of him now, pushing deeper and deeper. He clenched his teeth and moaned.

  Bill soon ordered more changes for Diego.

  “What else?” he asked him.

  “You need a car. Stop riding the trolley to work like som
e common dope.” Bill reminded him that he was paying him enough money to afford such luxuries, so one Sunday afternoon, they went car shopping, and Diego purchased a two-toned 1934 Nash LaFayette Coupe with whitewalled tires and sleek running boards along either side. Inside, the interior was plush and soft, and when he drove up to the studio gates in it and showed it to Bill, Bill pointed to the car’s registration on the neck of the steering wheel. “That there says it’s registered to you. I don’t want to hear about you riding that public trolley. You’ve got your own car now. And move out of the Ruby Rose. It’s a real dive.”

  Diego spent the rest of the day driving around quiet neighborhoods, looking for the right place to live.

  “I knew it, saw it coming” was what Rose said when Diego told her and Ruby that he would be moving.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Really, I am. It’s just that, well, the studio thinks I should be somewhere else.”

  They were standing in the lobby. Ruby sighed and set a stack of receipts down. “Hey, look,” she said. “We’re glad for you. We don’t mean to make you feel bad. It’s just that, well, nobody can afford to live here anymore.”

  “We lower the rent,” Rose replied, “and they still don’t bite.”

  “Hard times.” Ruby shook her head.

  “Hard times indeed,” said Rose.

  Diego said, “Maybe I could talk to some people at the studio, see if anyone needs a—”

  “No.” Ruby raised her hand. “Please don’t, honey. We’ll be fine. Just fine. We’ll figure something out. My sister and I are happy for you. Truly happy.”

  “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll keep in touch.”

  They smiled and nodded in a way that told them all he never, ever would.

  Diego spent 1934 working on picture after picture. There was Far from Home with Eloise Kendall and Lester Frank, who showed up to the set every day without his lines rehearsed and reeking of booze. After Far from Home, there was Two to Tango, again with Eloise and where he had to learn tricky tango steps and wear tight outfits. After that there was The Lost Years, with Constance Gardner and Jacques Fantin, on loan from Empire Pictures, who had contracted him after Frontier let him go. Poetic justice, Jacques would say each time he showed up on the set. There was The Penny Wish, with Nivia Gaynor, a disastrous melodrama with a bad script and a horrible director. He played a college quarterback star in The Touchdown Kid, and would have to ice the bruises he received from being tackled again and again.