He was a powerful Chinese emperor in The Silk Road and spent hours in front of a mirror while the makeup artists applied adhesive strips on the corners of his eyes to pull them back so that he looked “Oriental.” He was an Arab sheik in Desert Nights, a poor immigrant who comes to America to strike it big only to be met with failure in Ashes to Ashes. In between the films, there were shorts and serials, radio commercials and interviews, dates with new Frontier starlets, fundraisers and trips. The year 1934 was one of endless scripts and screen tests, of costume fittings and makeup sessions, of fake wigs and prosthetic noses and moles and scars and wounds, of epic battles and fancy balls, of births and deaths, of tragedy and celebration. It was dizzying, grueling, demanding in ways he never imagined. But it was what he wanted, what he had always wanted, he reminded himself. On the day he met R. J. Levitt at the Frontier Pictures New Year’s Eve Ball of 1934, he remembered the first time he set foot on the studio lot with Charlie. When he shook R. J.’s hand, and when R. J. placed his arm, so firm, so loyal, so loving, around Diego’s shoulder, and when he thanked Diego for his “years of dedication and service to this fine studio,” Diego wanted nothing more than to hug the man, to profess his loyalty, to tell him just how much he and Frontier meant to him. But he remained assured and steady.
“This is your home,” R. J. said kindly. “Understand, son? This is your home.”
“Yes,” Diego said. “Thank you, sir.”
“Call me R. J.” He smiled, his eyes beaming from behind his spectacles. “Not sir or Mr. Levitt,” he said, chuckling. “Think of me not as your boss or the head of this big place. Think of me as a father figure. And may 1935 prove to be an even bigger success for you, son.”
Diego belonged. For the first time in his life. He belonged. He had a place in the world.
With the help of a studio set designer, he made important decisions about furniture and artwork for his home: he bought a dining table and chairs, hand-carved and ornate with plush seat cushions; paintings in beautiful frames by artists whose names were exotic and fun to pronounce, which he hung on the walls; thick curtains and tapestries; new dishes and silverware and lamps; books, mainly for show, the set designer stressed, on religion and philosophy, heavy tomes written by men with intelligent and moving thoughts. The house was quiet, and the trees surrounding the property offered an abundance of shade. A gardener from the studio planted aromatic flowers near the kitchen and bedroom windows, pointing their names out—sage, heather, and lavender. The breeze that blew in from both sides of the house always carried a sweet and perfumed scent, relaxed him while he sat in a cushioned lounge in his library, sipping wine, his eyes glancing from one end of the room to the other.
This was home, Diego repeated to himself on mornings when he awoke, staring up at the beamed ceiling of his bedroom, in that hour’s weak light. If his mother and father could see, he wondered if they would be proud of him there, in that new house with walls still damp and sticky from the fresh coats of paint someone else had chosen, lying on a bed with clean linens someone else had laundered. This place, and everything housed within it, was immaculate, untouched. The pages of his books weren’t soft and tattered from use, the spines not wrinkled, but smooth and rigid and erect. No seat cushions were worn in, no thinning and wasted fabrics. No chips or cracks in his plates and drinking glasses. Nothing was mismatched. Every set of two things still had its pair and his towels had no frayed edges, no loose and errant threads. He wanted more than anything in that brief moment to keep it all new, undisturbed, unblemished. Everything in its place. Nothing strayed or lost or forgotten.
In the three years following their work on La novia de sangre, Alicia had thrown herself fully into pursuing stardom with zest, moxie, and a great deal of nerve. Alicia had invested in acting and dance lessons. She had studied voice and music and worked with an expert elocutionist to help her eliminate her accent. There were diet regimens. A stylist had moved her hairline back a few inches because wide foreheads were more “American-looking,” and she had dyed her hair platinum blond, which Diego had to admit looked odd and clashed with her skin color. Alicia attended parties and premieres, schmoozing with directors and producers and other stars.
He knew it had been a struggle for Alicia following filming of La novia de sangre. She had worked steadily, taking parts in English-language movies, but the films were low-budget productions with bad scripts and third-rate actors, the sort of stuff nobody ever saw, the sort of stuff Diego did when he first arrived. The big break never came no matter how much she poured into it and her career languished there, stuck in that perpetual rut. She was a creature laid waste after only a brief time in the business.
“Call me Alice,” she told Diego when she ran into him at a fundraising benefit one day. “Not Alicia.”
“Okay,” he said. “Call me Cortez.”
She laughed and gripped his arm. “Isn’t it so much fun? We both have new identities.”
In early 1935, Alicia Prado had given up on any hope of making it big in Hollywood. She decided to pack up her bags and leave. On hearing this, Diego drove out to the house she had been renting. He found Blanca sitting in the living room, folding clothes and placing them in a large trunk. He had never talked to her much throughout the years. She had always remained Alicia’s chaperone, a chubby woman with dark skin and intense black hair, perpetually in the background, like a shadow or a smudge, always present but lacking any real form. He looked at her there now, her hands moving quickly, and he remembered Elva, her own brittle hands, the quiet way in which she had looked after him, raised him. Was she even still alive, he wondered? Would she recognize him? He removed his hat, cleared his throat, and Blanca looked up, startled.
“Señor León,” she said and bowed her head slightly. “Cortez,” she corrected herself. “Miss Prado’s upstairs.”
He handed her his hat and climbed the carpeted stairs. He never knew who owned the house, but it felt very cold and uninviting. The furniture was horribly mismatched, the wooden pieces chipped and simple, the glass windowpanes dusty and filthy, and the sunlight streaming in from the outside appeared sickly and weak as he walked down the short corridor. The door was slightly ajar, and he could see through the crack that Alicia sat on her bed, a stack of photographs beside her. She looked at them carefully, and she clutched a handkerchief. He could see that she was crying as she took each photo, regarded it, and then placed it gently in a cloth box on her lap. Diego knocked before entering, and there was a pause as she composed herself and rose before answering.
“Come in,” she said.
He opened the door slowly, and entered. She stood at the foot of the bed, arms folded, eyes puffy but not full of tears. “Hope I didn’t inconvenience you.”
“Never.” She hugged him.
They had bumped into one another at a party a few weeks before. Alicia was there with a young man whom she introduced as Paul, the son of a studio producer. When Paul skulked away, Alicia told him she had already purchased two tickets—one for her and one for Blanca—on a steamship headed for Valparaiso, Chile. From there, they would board a train to Buenos Aires.
“So you’re really doing this?” he asked her now, looking around the bare room. Everything was packed away in a large valise in the corner. The bed had been stripped of its sheets, and the armoire and dressers were covered in large tarps.
“I am,” she said, sighing. Alicia took the remaining pictures she had been thumbing through and placed them in the photo box then closed it. “I was feeling a bit nostalgic, looking at all these pictures.” She led him out of the bedroom and into a small library at the end of a hall. “Come here,” she said, walking toward a chaise near a window with cracked glass. “Sit next to me, my friend.”
He removed his jacket, and sat. He lit a cigarette.
She reached for the pack and said, “May I have one?”
“Of course.” He handed her one and lit it.
“My father frowns on women who smoke. Says it’s not lady
like. But I don’t care. Soon enough I’ll be back home. Soon enough he and my mother will be running my life again. I don’t want to leave.”
“What’ll you do? Once you’re back?” They sat in that yellowing and sick light, in that drafty house with its stained walls and fractured glass windowpanes. He felt her hopelessness, her defeat.
“Continue working.” Alicia puffed vigorously on her cigarette. “Hollywood isn’t the center of the movie industry, you know? There are directors, producers, writers, and studios in Argentina, too.” Alicia put her cigarette out. “It’s fine. Really. I don’t feel defeated. Nostalgic, yes, but not defeated.” She took his hand and pressed it between both of hers. “You must remain true to yourself, dear friend. All those things that make you who you are. You mustn’t forget it. Promise me you won’t.”
He placed his cigarette in the ashtray and rose now. “I know who I am, Alicia.”
“Do you?” She rose, walked over, and hugged him. “Take care of yourself.” She leaned in, kissed him on the cheek, and then walked out the door.
Downstairs, Blanca was gone. He found his hat, grabbed it, and left. He sat in his car, the engine idling softly. He put the car in gear, gripped the steering wheel and pulled away from the curb, letting the roar of the rushing wind erase her words.
In ten years, Alicia Prado would return once again to Hollywood, a very different woman than the one he had just left. In that time, she would meet and marry a man named Francesco Arnoldi, a respected Italian director and filmmaker. Alicia would become his muse, starring in a number of films he would direct, each of them hugely successful abroad. They would have a child, a boy named Franco. Alicia would return to Hollywood in 1945 a mother, happily married, an international star with a string of hit movies to her credit. Every studio would be clamoring to sign her, and she would eventually end up at American Pictures and enjoy the kind of success and longevity most actors and actresses would simply never know.
May of 1935 began with filming on Crazy for Miss Cavendish, in which he played a lovelorn Spanish teacher at an all-girls prep school in New England. Though he was glad to be back in the studio, working again, this did little to satisfy him, and he felt lonely and distracted without Alicia. On the car drive home from the studio, he passed endless blocks of homes, shaded under the verdant green leaves of eucalyptus and ash trees. He drove slowly, peering into opened windows, hoping to catch sight of a family sitting down to dinner, together, their faces warm and glowing. Back at his house, he poured himself a strong drink and listened to the radio. There was a program on, a variety show featuring amateurs performing comedy skits and singing songs. It was all so maddening, so tedious, that he rose and turned the damn thing off. He drifted into the kitchen, opened the icebox for no other reason than to open it. In his office, he signed photographs of himself for fans then tore them up. He walked to the library, picked up the phone, and dialed Bill.
“Can I come by?” Diego asked.
“Now?” He sounded irritated. “I’m busy.”
“Just for a little bit,” Diego said. “I’m lonely. I really need some—”
“Okay,” he said, his voice softening. “Come over.”
Their meetings as of late consisted of brief sexual interludes that usually ended with the two of them dressing in a rush, Bill explaining that he had a lot of work to do, a whole lot, and Diego being hastily led to the door. Bill would give him a quick peck on the cheek and say he’d call him soon and they’d have dinner, just the two of them. “I promise you, my love. I promise.” But they never did. The phone would ring. Diego would drive over. They would have sex, and that would be the end.
He knew their relationship was evolving into one of convenience, one where Diego satisfied him and William Cage, in turn, protected Diego’s interests in and around the studio. It was because of Cage that he was being cast in film after film, receiving billing, not top billing, not yet, but billing nonetheless.
Diego sped down the winding road skirting the Hollywood Hills, toward Bel Air. He rolled the window down, caught the faint scent of blooming flowers, damp earth, and orange blossoms. He looked below, deep into the narrow ravines cutting through the canyon, the chasms netted with the green and waxy leaves of juniper, ash, and eucalyptus trees, and the occasional palm fronds—ratty, frayed, their edges wind-whipped and battered and singed by the hot Santa Ana winds that blew in each October. He gripped the steering wheel, his hands hot, damp. Because of Bill, he told himself.
He found Bill in his library that night, sitting in a wingback chair, a lit pipe in his mouth. He wore his smoking jacket and black loafers. His hair was glistening, wet with pomade, and neatly parted and combed. He was reading a script and hardly looked up to greet him as Diego walked in.
“Would you like a drink?” Bill asked him. He rose and poured one for himself.
“Sure,” Diego said.
He handed the glass to Diego and took a sip from his, regarding him. “Is everything all right?”
Diego shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah. It’s just that … I’ve missed you. We haven’t been … together much lately.”
“I’ve been busy,” he said. “You understand.”
Diego said nothing.
“Are you sore at me?” Bill asked. “What have I done?”
Diego took a long drink and felt the alcohol burn as it traveled down his throat. “I’ve just been lonely. It’s been a hectic week on the set. Dalton’s keeping us busy.”
“A quick turnaround for this film,” said Bill.
“For this film and for all the others I’ve done and will do.”
Productivity, Bill explained, was the goal. Like an assembly line, movies needed to be shot quickly, edited, and shipped out to the theaters. It was the only way to stay ahead of the game. They were running a business, Bill said, and Diego needed to remember that. Efficiency and profit were important, and it was necessary, he said now, for Diego to remember his part in all of it.
“Which is what?” Diego asked him.
“To act,” he said. “To play your roles as best as you can. To be as lucrative and as profitable for the studio as possible.”
“Is that all I am?”
Bill took a long drink and poured himself another. He threw his head back and laughed. “That’s all any of us are.”
“What do you mean?”
Bill walked to the library entrance. He closed and locked the doors. He took Diego by the hand and led him to the couch and they sat. When Diego tried to kiss him, Bill looked away. He gripped Diego by the back of his head and, with his left hand, untied the sash of his smoking jacket and pulled his pants down.
“Go on,” he said, his voice forceful and assured.
“Stop it, Bill,” he said. “You’re being disgusting.”
“Come on,” he said. “It’s what you came for, isn’t it? Would it help if I said please?”
Diego relented and kneeled before Bill. What else was there to do? Diego realized what he was: nothing more than a cog. Bill could take this all away so easily, if he wanted to. He closed his eyes and took him in.
When Bill finished, he rose quickly, adjusted himself, and smoothed back his hair. There came a knock on the door, and he walked over and unlatched it. Lawrence announced that Bill’s company had arrived.
“Mister Tod Duren is waiting for you in the foyer.”
“Thank you,” said Bill. He turned to Diego and smiled. “Lawrence, please escort Mister Cortez to the door and tell Tod I’ll be with him shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
Without saying a word to Bill, Diego turned and followed Lawrence out. Standing in the foyer was a young man in an argyle sweater and tweed trousers. He smiled, almost beamed, as Diego approached with Lawrence.
“Please wait for Mister Cage in the sitting room,” Lawrence told him. “He’ll join you shortly.”
The young man nodded slightly. He had clear blue eyes, handsome features, and broad shoulders. He was muscular and fit and exuded an air of
confidence. “Thank you, Lawrence,” Tod said. His voice was soft, clear, and he seemed to move with grace and fluidity as he walked toward the sitting room to wait for his host.
2.
August 1935
AS SUDDENLY AS DIEGO’S SUCCESS HAD COME, IT SEEMED IN peril. In August of 1935, they speculated that Frontier Pictures was sinking fast. Executives were on edge. You could feel the tension, the restlessness, the uncertainty running all throughout the studio.
Financial backers had pulled their money, and the studio was deep in the red and there was no way to save it. Diego followed the reports in the trade magazines carefully. There were rumors of a takeover by a group of European investors. German. French. No, British. One day there were reports that Levitt would be fired. Then William Cage would be the one to go. Or they would both be going and a new head of Frontier would take the helm.
“It doesn’t matter one bit,” he heard a handful of extras talking one afternoon on the set of Crazy for Miss Cavendish as they were wrapping up the movie, shooting some final scenes before post-production. They stood near Diego’s trailer. He listened from inside, smoking a cigarette and practicing his lines. “Whoever takes over’s gonna fire a whole lotta people.”
“You’re right,” said another, a woman in a houndstooth dress and jacket.
The women were posing as secretaries and schoolteachers or any of the multitudes of other nameless people in the background of the film. They wore tight dresses and skirts, their hair neatly coiffed, their faces freshly powdered. They were perfect and looked like mannequins or dolls, Diego thought.
The Five Acts of Diego Leon Page 27