The Five Acts of Diego Leon (11 page)

“Do you two know each other?” Javier said.

“I’m not sure,” Diego said, feigning ignorance as he glanced at Esteban.

“Julius Caesar,” Esteban said.

“No. Diego.”

Esteban laughed. “I meant the play.
Julius Caesar
.”

“Yes,” Diego said. “Of course. I remember now.” Diego had been angry because he wanted to play the lead but instead was given the part of Brutus. In the end, though, he was glad he got the role he did because, as Carolina had explained, Brutus was a much more complicated character, far more challenging and interesting. Esteban Rosales had been cast as one of the senators who conspired, along with Brutus, to assassinate Caesar. There had been rumors around the preparatoria about Esteban and his ways. Some of the boys had talked about seeing him with an older man, the two locked in an embrace and kissing each other.

Javier and Esteban went on and on, gossiping about their classes at the university, talking about the current climate between the government and the church, which they saw as evil, controlling, an oppressive institution that needed to be eradicated.

“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Diego responded.

“Hardly,” Esteban said.

Diego soon felt excluded, and he finished his coffee and stormed off. The two of them hardly noticed he was gone, not until they looked out into the street and waved good-bye to him.

A few days later, on his walk to his grandfather’s office early in the morning, Diego saw Esteban. Esteban wore a pair of argyle stockings pulled up to his knees, baggy tan knickerbockers, a striped shirt with a high collar, a bow tie, and a yellow vest that fit very tight over his lean body. Pinned to the vest was a patch in the form of a star. He stood near the plaza’s central fountain holding a stack of leaflets. The few pedestrians out at that hour paid little attention to him, but when a woman did stop to take one, she looked at it,
shouted something to Esteban Diego couldn’t hear, and shoved the leaflet back at him.

“Hello, Diego,” Esteban said.

“Hello,” he said. “What have you got there?” He pointed to the leaflets.

Esteban handed him one.

Across the top,
Libre Morelia
was written in big bold letters. It was an announcement condemning the Catholic Church. It talked of its corruption, its greed, and its dangerous influence over the lives of everyone—from politicians to the rich to the very poor—in the republic. There would be a meeting, it went on to say, a gathering of “like-minded” individuals, to discuss and come up with ways to resist the church and fight back.

“You should come to the meeting,” Esteban said. “My father says it’s important for people our age to involve themselves. He says we’ll inherit this country and that if the church continues to grow, all will be lost.”

“Do you believe it? Do you think the church is corrupt? That it’s bad?”

“I do,” he said.

Despite himself, Diego imagined Esteban doing the things the others had gossiped about. He envisioned him bent over with a man behind him. He wanted to ask him if the stories were true, wanted to know what it felt like to be with someone in that way.

“What do you say?” Esteban asked now. “Javier’s coming, too.”

“Really?” Diego nodded. “You two are close, aren’t you?”

“Sure. Well, we’re … friends.”

“Friends,”
Diego repeated.

“So, tomorrow then?” Esteban said, after a pause. “Meet us in front of the university. By the main gate.”

He was still holding the flyer when he arrived at the office. His grandfather was already there, standing over his desk, squinting at an old document with faded letters and smudged ink. He picked it up carefully, the document so aged and delicate that it looked as though the slightest stir, the softest breeze, would disintegrate it, turning the fibers to dust.

“Land deeds. Old. Very old,” his grandfather said, sighing. “Sometimes I fear. What will be left when all these traditional things vanish?” He placed the document inside a slim folio with a leather cover and a buckle. His grandfather then noticed the leaflet in Diego’s hand. “Where did you get that?” he asked.

“Esteban Rosales was handing them out,” Diego said, removing his hat and sitting at his desk.

“It would be better if you avoided the likes of that boy and his family. How could someone not believe in God?” he asked, shaking his head. “They claim the church is evil. They’re the evil ones.”

“I shouldn’t have stopped,” Diego said.

“Those people,” Doroteo said, “the whole lot of them are dangerous. They have wild ideas. And that boy gives me the strangest feeling.”

“Don’t worry, Grandfather. I’ll make sure not to befriend him.”

“Good,” the old man said. “No bad influences, no distractions. You must stay focused. Just like when I told you to quit your lessons with Carolina. Remember?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“And look how that turned out for you. You and Paloma are engaged now and about to be married. You’ll have a home and a family soon. I’ll be a great-grandfather.” He clapped his hands and went back to work.

Even though their lessons had officially ended just after his sixteenth birthday, after that talk, Diego had continued seeing Carolina and continued, though informally, with their afternoon meetings. “I’m seeing Javier. Studying with him,” he would tell the old man. “I’ll go to the office with you next week. Once we pass these exams.” The excuses stopped working, though, once he completed the preparatoria; then he gave in and stopped seeing Carolina, assuming his rightful role as his grandfather’s heir. Still, there were times he caught himself humming a melody, daydreaming about performing a soliloquy to a theater full of people, reciting lines from a play he memorized years before. Diego had worked so hard to change, to mold and shape himself into a new man, the person his father and mother and his grandparents had wanted him to be. He had worked
so hard to reject those things that distracted him. But why was their pull so strong? Why couldn’t he forget? Why did the musical notes, the melodies, the words, the feeling of performing, haunt him so?

Despite his grandfather’s warnings, he couldn’t resist going to meet Javier and Esteban the next day. Diego was surprised to see that, like Esteban, Javier wore a beret emblazoned with a red star. Javier’s arms were crossed, his pose relaxed. He leaned up against the iron bars, talking to Esteban. He was smiling and nodding his head. Esteban stood very close to him with his left arm extended out, gripping one of the gate’s metal slats.

“Javier,” Diego said, approaching them. He glanced at Esteban, who let go of the fence and composed himself, adjusting his jacket, and straightening his posture. What had Diego interrupted? “Hello.”

Javier turned to him and smiled. “Hermano. So glad to hear you’ll be joining us.”

“We should go,” Esteban said.

“Very well,” said Diego, following them.

They led him through the city, then down a series of alleyways and empty lots until they were standing in front of a large brick building crowned with a single smokestack that jutted from its roof like a slim gray finger. No smoke billowed out, but a heavy layer of soot and ash covered its sides. A row of tall windows adorned the front of the building, and they were very dirty and some of the glass panes had been shattered, leaving black squares. Diego thought of his grandfather’s chessboard.

Inside, the place was cavernous and drafty. Toward the back of the single vast room, there was no light, and the dark corners and splintered doors appeared menacing and sinister. Thick cobwebs clung to the columns and posts. There were chunks of wood, broken bottles, old rubber tires, and rusted sheets of tin with jagged edges and bent nails that stuck out from their sides like claws. Everything smelled of petroleum and dust. Gathered inside were mostly boys his age. Every now and again, he would spot girls in black berets, mingling, their hair in pigtails.

Diego followed Javier and Esteban as they made their way in, saying hello to some of the boys and girls. They referred to each other as “brother” or “sister” and saluted Javier and Esteban as they moved toward a long wooden table stacked with posters and leaflets, the ink still drying. The group gathered and sat atop empty wooden whiskey barrels or old crates. The chatter died down and they all looked up now, toward the front, where Javier and Esteban stood behind the table.

“Hello, Brothers and Sisters,” Esteban shouted.

“Hello, Brother Esteban,” some shouted back.

“Hello, Comrade,” a few said.

“We are gathered here,” Esteban began, “in solidarity against the injustices and atrocities brought about by the Roman Catholic Church. Our countrymen have suffered long enough under this oppressive regime that has, systematically, subjugated and destroyed many. From our brothers and sisters in the fields and valleys, to our brothers and sisters in the mines and smelting plants, to our brothers and sisters in the factories and textile mills, to our brothers and sisters in the shipyards and rail yards, we stand here today as comrades united against tyranny and injustice inflicted upon the working man by those forces and institutions in power.”

Then Javier spoke. “The Catholic Church?” he shouted.

“Down!” they shouted back.

“The bourgeoisie?” he shouted.

“Down!”

“Organized religion?”

“Down!” They threw their fists in the air.

“Corrupt politicians?”

“Down!” they shouted louder.

Esteban spoke again now, making grand and elaborate proclamations against entities of power, against foreign companies which, he claimed, were slowly seizing control of the country’s petroleum reserves, its businesses, its precious minerals, everything. He made references to Karl Marx, Oswald Spengler, Leon Trotsky, and Vladimir Lenin. He talked about José Vasconcelos, about how they—the young idealists who had grown sick and tired of the greed, the corruption, and manipulation—embodied his theory of la raza cósmica,
a cosmic race that would incite an uprising, bring about a new order, a new social structure whose core principles would be egalitarian, would remove social class, and would give back to the poor what had been rightfully theirs. Esteban, that shy and awkward boy, the one they said had intercourse with men and fellow classmates, spoke proudly, his voice filling every square inch of that massive room. Javier stood there, almost transfixed, it seemed, his eyes wide, unblinking, muttering, “Yes, yes,” now and again. But Diego felt confused by it all, couldn’t identify with their insipid ideals. He wanted nothing more than to leave them there, such a pretentious and juvenile bunch, filled with an agenda that had clearly been spoon-fed to them by their radical parents.

Before the meeting ended, Diego had to endure “accounts and news” from various members. Comrade Gómez-Alaniz reported that a local priest was heard criticizing the government. A rally would be planned, Esteban replied, pointing to the leaflets and posters on the table. Someone said they would notify the authorities. Comrade Mejia said a group of nuns in one of the nearby remote villages had barricaded themselves inside a schoolroom and held several children hostage. The nuns were caught and arrested. Everyone cheered and clapped. Javier told of a group of local businessmen who were planning on donating large sums of money and supplies to a handful of priests scattered around the area in order to aid them in what they called “the cause.”

“We need a list of names of those places of business,” Esteban told him. “We need to rally and protest these businesses in league with the church.” When it was done, when each comrade had spoken, Esteban turned to Diego. “I would like to take this opportunity to welcome a new member,” he said. “Comrade Sánchez.”

“Welcome, Comrade,” some shouted.

“Welcome, Brother Sánchez,” others said, rising and patting him on the shoulder.

He smiled and played along, saying, “Thank you. Thank you. It’s an honor.”

As the meeting broke up, Esteban stayed behind while Diego followed Javier outside.

Javier lit a cigarette. “You should get home.”

“Since when do you smoke?” Diego asked.

He shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t tell you exactly when I started. I just did. I do a lot of things you don’t know about.”

Diego smirked. “Like associate with this lot? With Esteban? I remember the rumors about him in school. That he was a faggot?” Diego raised his voice, and a few of the boys inside heard him.

“Would you shut up?” Javier said, pushing Diego. “He’s good. He’s a good person. He’s my friend.”

Diego pushed Javier back harder, and he stumbled and fell. “A good friend? I bet. What sort of mischief are you getting into with your good friend, Javier? Are you two—”

“Shut up,” he said now, rising, brushing the dirt from his trousers and jacket. “I know what this is about. You’re jealous that I have new friends at the university and you don’t. All you have is your boring life and your precious fiancée Paloma who you probably don’t even like. They’re forcing you to marry her, and you’re too much of a coward to question them.”

“I’m leaving,” Diego said, turning and starting to walk away.

“Go back home then,” Javier shouted. “To your grandparents. To your pampered life, and your meaningless job. That’s all you’ll ever know,”

Diego broke into a run, Javier’s voice following him all the way back.

Two days later, when he knew Javier would be out, he went to see Carolina. She answered the door, a surprised look on her face. It was late morning, and she still wore her robe.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello. I wanted to talk. Is now a bad time?”

“Not at all,” she told him. “Come in.” Carolina went into the kitchen then returned, leading him out to the patio. A few minutes later, a maid came out carrying a pot of boiling coffee, slices of fruit, and warm rolls of sweet bread.

She poured them some coffee. “I love mornings like this. Sitting out here. So peaceful.” She reached out and squeezed his hand.

He didn’t realize how much he had missed their time together.
He sat there admiring her. Carolina was beautiful in that bright morning light. Her face was free of lipstick and rouge. Her forehead was wide and strong, her eyebrows arched and perfectly symmetrical, as if they had been painted on her face by a delicate and patient hand.