The Five Acts of Diego Leon (9 page)

After some time, Javier stopped in front of La Pulquería Santo Remedio. The bar was the only thing on the narrow street that was lit, a square of golden amber among the rows and rows of black, squat, menacing buildings and broken sidewalks. Diego heard coughs and shouts and low music playing from a gramophone as they stepped inside.

“A pulquería?” Diego asked. “Have you been here before?”

“No,” Javier said, “But let’s give it a try. What’s the worst that could happen, huh?”

Inside, the pulquería was no bigger than his bedroom. A long wooden bar occupied much of the space, and men in rumpled jackets and dirty shoes—some in leather huaraches, the skin around their heels cracked and chalky white—slumped on wooden crates, taking sips from the cups they called tornillos because the ridges resembled those on screws. Others sipped from large tan bowls made from dried-out gourds of a calabash. These were the jícaras, called urhani in P’urhépecha, Diego remembered. Rowed neatly on wooden shelves behind the bar were large clay pots with the fermented drink. They were all the same, red clay in color with a wide handle and pointed spout. Spaced throughout the jugs there were several urns shaped like grimacing monkeys. The bartender, a skinny man with no hair, stared at them. He pointed to his face; there was an empty hole where an eye should have been.

“I may not be able to see as well as I used to ever since that scorpion bit my eye and it fell out,” he told them. “But I know you two can’t be in here.”

“Sir, please,” Javier said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, his hands steady. “Surely we can work something out.”

One of the drunken patrons looked up, squinted, and said, “Let them stay. Let them stay.” He raised his tornillo to both boys and went back to resting his head on the surface of the bar.

“Ah,” said the bartender as he reached out and snatched the wad of bills Javier held out. He turned, grabbed two tornillos, and filled them with pulque. “But don’t sit here,” he said, pointing at the bar with dark, chubby fingers. He waved in a direction toward the back of the room. “Go over there.”

Diego and Javier grabbed their tornillos but didn’t move.

“What are you looking at?” he said. “Go. You need to sit back there. In case the police come. If they find two young men like you in here there will be trouble. I can’t afford any more fucking trouble.”

They turned and sat on the crates in a dark corner. From there, they could see only the backs of the patrons, hunched, leaning forward, each hovering over his tornillo. A stray dog with matted fur wandered in from the street and strolled up to each man at the bar as if it were looking for someone it knew until the bartender yelled, “Get out of here, you bitch!” and hurled a brick at it. It yelped and ran off. “Every night that mutt comes in here. Always at the same time.”

Diego and Javier watched it all, afraid to move or flinch.

“What are you looking at?” the bartender yelled at Javier and Diego, who remained seated on their crates, their tornillos still in their hands, the pulque untouched. “Drink up and get out of here.”

They hesitated, afraid to drink.

“Now!” the bartender shouted. “I don’t need to be babysitting you two all night.”

Javier was first. He took one long gulp and swallowed, then slammed the tornillo on the ground. Then Diego closed his eyes, took a breath, and swallowed. It was sour, and the taste made his eyes water for a moment. He remained like that, with his head tilted back, looking up toward the bar’s ceiling, the rusted corrugated roof riddled with bullet holes. The night sky was a series of black dots among the dirty sheets of silver. He breathed again, felt the liquid slide down his throat and settle in his stomach. Pulque could induce visions if you consume enough of it, Elva once said, and this was why the indio priests and seers drank it. As the sour taste slowly began to vanish, Diego craved more. Maybe if he drank enough, he thought, he would see what life waited for him ten, twenty, fifty years from then. Would he be married? Would he have children?

“Go on, get out of here,” the bartender shouted. “Leave the cups there and go.”

They both stood and were about to leave when, from the front of the bar, they heard shouts and curses. A struggle was breaking out between two men. The bartender and a handful of the less inebriated customers rushed over, trying to get between them.

“Stop it!” someone shouted.

Diego saw two men fall to the ground, rolling around and punching one another.

“Separate them!” the bartender shouted. “Now!”

Javier and Diego stood near the bar, and they couldn’t see who had thrown the tornillo. It hurtled across the room toward the shelves, behind the bar, breaking three of the clay jugs, sending pulque pouring out, soaking their jackets and trousers. As the fight got bigger, some of the drunker patrons managed to lift themselves from their seats and stumble out. Another fight broke out between three men, and suddenly there was blood on the floor, and the bartender had stopped shouting now and was kneeling on the floor next to a man with a wound in his side.

Diego and Javier stumbled over the tangle of men and bodies, the wide puddles of blood and pulque. Then Javier reached out to grab one of the broken jugs with some pulque inside just as the bartender began to rise up from the ground.

“Hey! Filthy fucking thief!” he yelled before slipping and falling back down. His shouts and curses followed them as Diego and Javier ran down the street, their bodies dripping pulque.

Once they were a safe distance away, Diego and Javier sat on a park bench and took turns dipping their hands inside the broken jar, sipping up as much of the pulque as they could, the sticky liquid trickling down their chins and between their fingers.

“Were you scared?” Javier asked Diego.

“Yes,” Diego admitted. “Weren’t you?”

“A little.” He tossed his head back and laughed. “But I knew nothing was going to happen to either of us.”

When they were finished, they tossed the clay pot in a bush.

By the time they reached Javier’s house, Diego felt quite drunk, dizzy and giddy. Javier swaggered some as he led him to a window at the side of their house.

“It’s late,” Javier said. “You should stay here. Quiet,” he whispered, as he opened the shutter and placed one leg in then the other.

Diego stumbled getting through the window, but Javier caught him and led him through the dark room to his bed. He lay down as Javier lit the oil lanterns. He watched the flames bathe the walls orange. Diego felt confused, hot, his skin moist with sweat. His head spinning in the soft glowing light, Diego watched Javier undress. Javier’s naked body—his thin arms and smooth legs, his back and chest untouched and free of scars or bruises—was beautiful. His skin radiated a kind of warmth. It stirred a new feeling, though he couldn’t be sure if it was the pulque or something else. When Javier turned around to face him, Diego looked away. He unrolled the sheets and the blankets so Javier could crawl in. Their bodies pressed close to one another in the small bed, everything was quiet and still; nothing moved except for Javier’s steady breathing. Diego couldn’t form the words to express what he was feeling. He prayed in the dark, wondering what was happening to him, until he fell into a deep and heavy sleep.

June 1923–December 1925

J
UNE MARKED THE END OF THEIR LAST YEAR IN SCHOOL, AND
it came with little fanfare. Diego was grateful. He felt no desire for celebration. Now that he had stopped his lessons with Carolina, he just wanted to live his life. Perhaps he would move out of his grandparents’ house, rent an apartment somewhere near downtown, close enough to the office so that he could walk there every morning. Javier decided to attend the university, where he planned on studying politics and philosophy. Though Diego felt a great deal of sadness at the thought of not seeing him every day, he knew they would still keep in touch.

The days immediately following the end of school were humid, the skies over the city filled with thundering clouds that burst open with rain. The wetness coated the air, his skin, the documents he notarized. The city during these months was unbearable—stuffy, crammed with noise and heat. Since Diego finished school, the old man had been leaving him by himself in the office. Diego came in each day at eight in the morning and didn’t leave until well after six in the evening. The days were long, monotonous, uneventful, and there were still more documents, still more forms and grants and declarations to catalogue and stamp and file. On one particularly humid day, he walked across the office and watched the rain pour down and gather in puddles outside. The city was empty and gray and quiet.

Diego returned to his desk and the forms waiting, unassuming,
indifferent, to be catalogued, notarized, and filed away. It was the same thing, day after day, he thought, and the stacks of papers never seemed to end. He looked at his grandfather’s desk, his empty chair, the armrests and seat worn away, the wood faded, the faint impressions of his thighs blending with the grain. His own chair would look like that one day. But what could he do about it? And was that such a bad thing? No, he told himself, it wasn’t. He cleared his throat and tried focusing on his work as the rain outside fell and the air around him dampened and grew heavier still.

Come autumn, he told himself. When the rains vanish, the steam evaporates. The air would cool down. Come autumn, Diego thought, things will be different. Something would happen. He could feel it. He truly could.

He was with Javier, and they were in Diego’s room. It was a hot summer afternoon, and Javier had taken his shirt off. He lay on the floor, his chest glistening with sweat. He was beautiful, but Diego resisted the urge to touch him; such impulses, he knew, were wrong. Over a year had passed since the night they had slept together. Diego could still feel the thick syrup coating his tongue. Ever since then, he craved being alone with Javier in a way he never had before. They had always been close, like twins, Carolina would say. “The two of you are always together. You sound alike, dress alike. You even look alike. I’m having a hard time distinguishing you from one another.”

Javier asked Diego, “Do you know what a faggot is?”

“Yes, I do,” he responded. “Men lying with other men. The Bible says it’s a sin, an abomination.”

“Fuck what the Bible says.” He rose and walked over to the window.

“Don’t let my grandmother hear you say that.”

“Who gives a fuck about the Bible?” he asked. “About church. Rules and regulations. It’s all such bullshit.”

Diego felt a surge of excitement. It gave him a thrill to sense Javier’s anger, his wild spirit. Javier had taken to cussing lately. More and more, he had taken to noticing some of the girls around school, confessing to Diego when they were together about the things
he dreamed of doing to them. They were seventeen now, nearing eighteen, and Doroteo had told Diego that changes were coming. You’ll start shaving, Doroteo said. And your attention will be drawn to certain things. Diego had wanted to ask his grandfather what those certain things were. Watching Javier there now, sensing the heat and energy radiating from his body, he knew, though.

“Sometimes I hate it here,” Javier said now. “Sometimes I wish I could run away.”

“Really?” Diego asked. “Where would you go?”

“Mexico City. Or north. The United States. Just us two.”

“That would be something,” Diego said, knowing it could never be. He had his grandfather’s business to attend to. Besides, Diego knew that what he was feeling for Javier wasn’t acceptable. Neither here nor anywhere else. He would be strong, though. He would resist.

In December of 1925, his grandparents told Diego that Emmanuel Pacheco—a wealthy banker—and his wife, Lupe, were coming to dinner that evening and that Paloma, their daughter, would be accompanying them. His grandmother had the cooks prepare an elaborate meal of tomato bisque, duck mole, and fresh baked mango pie. Doroteo opened two bottles of imported French wine he kept in the cellar, aging for “the right occasion,” he would say. Lying on his bed when Diego arrived home that afternoon was his best dark brown tweed suit, freshly laundered and pressed, the creases running down the leg sharp and precise. A white undershirt hung from a hook in his bureau and, on the floor at the foot of his bed, sat his shoes, freshly polished. The knock at his bedroom door startled Diego.

It was one of the servants, Jacinta. “Your grandmother asks that you bathe,” she said, lowering her head, avoiding Diego’s gaze. “The tub in the bathroom down the hall has been drawn. She also requests that you shave.”

“Jacinta, tell my grandmother not to worry herself,” he said, irritated. “I’ll do everything within my power to look absolutely respectable.”

A bouquet of fresh flowers adorned the center of the buffet, and
a thick tablecloth covered its entire surface. Napkins were arranged near each seat, and the best plates and saucers, the ones his grandmother kept in a trunk in the kitchen, had been brought out, the silverware polished, and the candles lit. The dining room glowed warm, a yellow light bathing everything.