The Five Acts of Diego Leon (19 page)

“Nothing for the likes of you, buddy,” he said, putting the ads down. “I’m sorry to tell you.”

Diego picked it up and looked for himself, just to be sure. There were ads calling for “leggy beauties with dancing experience,” “children six to eight months of age for a baby food advertisement,” and “blond-haired gents with broad physiques and acting experience who aren’t afraid of danger.”

Diego tossed the magazine aside.

“Cheer up, pal,” Charlie said. “Your ship’s bound to come in. One way or another.”

February 1928

D
IEGO HAD SPENT MONTHS THIS WAY
. H
E WORKED AT THE DINER
and called the Central Casting office each day. Clearly it wasn’t working, so as 1928 began, Diego decided to add a tactic to his strategy. He would go on open calls whenever he had free time.

One day, before taking the trolley, he stopped by the Western Union office on Sunset and wired his grandparents a message:

His first year in Los Angeles was quickly coming to a close, and he still wasn’t sure what he would do. There wasn’t enough money for a return ticket, though, so Diego figured the best thing for now was to remain, to continue along just as he had. He caught the trolley a few blocks away and watched it inch down the street, gliding over the metal rails that shone in the strong morning sun. Several stops later, he exited.

The open call was being conducted in a small office above a shoe store, and after walking a few blocks down the boulevard, darting past honking cars and lumbering buses, he found the place and climbed a set of dark and narrow steps up to a door and entered. The room was crowded with men and women, some pacing back and forth, others sitting down in one of many chairs pushed up against
the wall, reading the newspaper or glancing around impatiently. Diego was uneasy, but he tried his best to hide it—he knew it was important to exude confidence.

“You there,” said a short lady wearing too much perfume and rouge. “You.” She had on a polka-dotted blouse with a plunging neckline and billowing sleeves. “Are you here to audition?”

“Yes.”

“What part?” the lady said.

“Waiter,” he told her.

“Okay then,” said the lady. “Take a seat with that crowd over there.” She clapped her hands loudly then pointed to a handful of men clustered in one corner of the stuffy room. Soon, a skinny man with a sallow complexion and a scarf tied around his neck came out from behind a set of curtains.

“Very well,” he said. “Gentlemen, gentlemen. We will march you in shoulder to shoulder so that the casting director can take a look at you.” He lined them up and led them through the curtains and into a large room with mirrored walls and hardwood floors that gleamed and creaked as they walked across. “Shoulder to shoulder,” the thin man shouted, and they lined up against the wall. The casting director stood behind a large table, writing something down. The thin man walked over to him and whispered in his ear.

“Let’s get going then,” the man said as he rose. He scrutinized each of them, sometimes muttering to himself, other times shouting loudly. “This one here,” he said, turning to the thin man who walked a few paces behind him. “He’s much too portly.”

“Yes,” said the thin man. “Portly.”

The casting director made his way down slowly, stopping from time to time to sigh and shake his head. “These are all wrong,” he said. “They look much too naïve, much too … too startled.”

He continued nonetheless, moving down the line, slowly, until he came to Diego. “Too tall,” he said.

“Too tall,” repeated the thin man.

“These are all wrong,” said the director again. “All terribly wrong.”

“But there’s gotta be one, two—”

“Very well,” said the director. “We’ll test twelve. The first twelve.”

“Twelve?” the thin man asked.

“Twelve!” the casting director shouted. He walked over to the end of the line and counted, “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.”

“Yes, well then,” said the thin man. “The rest of you are all free to go.” He waved his arms.

The assistant had stopped at Diego. He was number thirteen. He had been that close. Number thirteen.

At the next open call, the spots had already been filled by the time he arrived. At another, he was required to dance for a big number set in a fancy ballroom. Diego knew this was his opportunity—he knew he was a great dancer. He was nervous though and tripped a few times before the head of casting stopped the music and said, “Sorry, kid. It’s not working.”

“Let me give it another shot,” Diego pleaded. “I need a partner,” he said, lying, stalling. “I dance better with a partner.”

The director sighed. “Lucille?” he said to a woman. “What do you think of this one here?”

Lucille walked over. She put her hands on her hip, leaned in so close that Diego caught the faint scent of coffee on her breath.

The director scratched his head. “Could you be his dance partner? I’m not asking you to kiss him.”

“Sure,” she said, removing her sweater and placing her forms down on the table. “I’d love to dance.”

Diego rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, took Lucille, and led her in a waltz, humming in her ear. If he charmed her enough, maybe there was a chance. She giggled, threw her head back, and closed her eyes. He felt the wind rushing through his hair, felt it whistling in his ears, as he moved elegantly across the floor. This, he thought, would surely convince them. When the music stopped, he let go of Lucille, who fixed her hair, and said, “Oh my goodness. What a divine dancer you are.”

“Why, thank you,” Diego said, smiling.

“But you’re still wrong for the part,” the casting director said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Just what the man said,” Lucille told him.

“But why? Surely I meet your requirements,” he said, not fully knowing what they were.

The director sighed, folded his arms. “Just look at you.” He stepped forward, grabbed Diego gently by the shoulders, and walked him over to the mirrored wall. He stared at his reflection—his hair, his olive skin, his dark eyes. Diego stood straight, pushed his shoulders back, and took a deep breath.

“What’s wrong with me?” he asked. “I tell you, what’s wrong?”

“Son,” the man finally said, letting go of his shoulder. “You’re much too ethnic looking. This part is for an American soldier. American,” he repeated. “Not Italian or Gypsy.” He scratched his head again. “I’m sorry, kid. You’re great. Handsome in that exotic way. A wonderful dancer. But you’re not what we’re looking for. Not right now. You don’t have it. Not for us.”

It was the same thing at the next open audition. And the next one. He was exhausted, angry, and impatient. He remained quiet on the trolley ride back, fiddling with the loose change in the pockets of his trousers, the last of the money he had. A man in a suit and black spats covering his shoes looked at him a few times and rolled his eyes. After a while, he rose and took a spot toward the rear of the car.

Diego tried to get his mind off things. He focused on the moving trolley, the clumsy jolting forward as they inched up Santa Monica. At the next stop, Diego rose and got off. Out on the sidewalk, he lit a cigarette and sat down on a stone bench. While he smoked, he watched an ice vendor haul heavy dripping blocks back and forth, between his truck and a cluster of small bungalows farther down the street. A woman in curlers and a housecoat steadied a baby on her hip and chatted loudly with him as he worked. He could just turn around and forget about it, he thought. Go back to Mexico and stay there. This time for good. He felt broken, defeated, foolish.

Across the street there was a small church with a cross that was made of lightbulbs that blinked over the front door. He thought
about going in, praying to God to give him a sign, to help him figure out what he should do. Then, little by little, people began filing in. He watched them now, the faithful, the believers. He felt envious. At least they belonged to something. But there was nothing, no place for him.

October 1928

I
T WAS THE TIME WHEN THE MONARCH BUTTERFLIES, WHICH
migrate down from Canada and the United States, returned to Mexico to spend the winters under the lush and temperate canopies of tall trees in the hills and valleys of Michoacán. It was also the time of the year when the dead returned to the earth from the afterlife. The city of Morelia would no doubt be making preparations for the Day of the Dead festivals, Diego thought. The bakers would be making pan de muerto, tracing into the loaves of warm bread designs meant to resemble crosses or doves or human bones. Vendors would set up makeshift stands along the streets to sell sugar skulls, their faces and foreheads decorated with brightly colored intricate scrolls. Campesinos would come from the hills, carrying bundles of red and yellow marigolds that they called cempazúchil on their backs. Elva once told him the P’urhépecha referred to them as the “flowers of the dead” because their color helped guide the spirits of the deceased back to the altars their families erected for them, adorned with food and alcohol and candles. It was Elva who taught him not to fear death, not to fear the spirits that returned each year.

It seemed only fitting that the news reached him then, during that time of migration and return, that time when the air is heavy with spirits and echoes. He was in the courtyard of the Ruby Rose, sketching clouds in the sky with a thick charcoal pencil—remembering
their name in P’urhépecha, janikua—when a Western Union messenger approached and handed Diego the telegram.

It was from his grandmother. He signed for it, and the messenger bid him good day before turning to leave. No doubt it would be another plea for him to return. But, no it wasn’t. His father, she wrote, was dead. Her message was brief. He glanced at it, catching only a few words and phrases as he felt the blood rush to his face. An old woman had appeared at the door with a man who identified himself as Luis Vara. Gabriel León, she wrote, his father, was dead. He had shot himself with a gun.

The “old woman.” Had it been Elva? Was she still alive? He whispered her name a few times as he held the telegram. Elva, he said. Elva.
Tsánda. Janikua. Anhatapu
. He conjured up an image of her, a scent, or a sound, something to remind him of her, of her presence in his life. He tried remembering his father’s face, but all he remembered was his scar, the one he came with after fleeing the revolution. Diego rose now, and the notepad and pencil fell from his lap and onto the floor of the courtyard. He had to go. He had to find a church.

Ruby, who was manning the front desk, told him to go to Saint Luke’s. “You all right, son?”

“Yes,” he responded. “Thank you, Ruby.”

The walk to the church felt long, his footsteps heavy, agonizing. He tried imagining his father’s last hour, the look of terror he must have worn on his face in that final moment, the sharp metal point of the gun pressed to his head. What must have gone through his mind? Why did he end his life? Maybe it was a lie, a ploy by his grandparents to get him to return. Had the old woman indeed been Elva? But she didn’t know where his grandparents lived in Morelia. Maybe Luis Vara did, after all he was his father’s close friend.

By the time he reached Saint Luke’s, he felt exhausted, confused. He sat in one of the pews near the front. This church was different from the churches in Mexico. There were no lit candles, and the statues stood in alcoves and niches carved into the concrete walls, not high up on pedestals. It was completely empty. He was startled by the sound of fluttering wings. High up in the rafters and trusses
of the church were two pigeons that had drifted inside through the open doors. They hopped around, their short necks bobbing forward and backward, their claws bright pink. He sat back in the pew, the polished hardwood smooth against the fabric of his trousers. The pigeons had settled now, and the faint sound of cooing drifted down from the rafters, the harmony mixing with the gong of the church bells and the rush of cars farther in the distance. He closed his eyes, breathing in and out, and imagined himself back there, in Mexico.

What he understood was that he was now alone. Diego could feel it. He needed no further proof. He knew that he was the last of the Leóns, the last of his kind.

Early morning, he dressed for work. His grandmother’s telegram lay on the table near the window, the edges frayed and tattered. His stomach turned upon seeing it. He grabbed his coat and hat and left for Joe’s. Downstairs, he stopped at the front desk and put his cigarette out in an ashtray. A few feet away, sitting atop the counter was a new Bakelite telephone. One of the twins came out from behind the curtained door. He knew it was Rose when, upon seeing Diego there, she smiled, her bright white teeth shining full in the light.

“My sister says you seemed rattled the other day,” she said, reaching out to take his hand. “You all right, honey?”

“I’m fine.” He sighed. “How are you?”

She squeezed his hand and petted his palm. “I’m all right,” she said, taking a deep breath. She covered her mouth with a handkerchief and coughed. “Damned cold.”

“It’s not serious?” he asked, lighting another cigarette. He offered her one, and she nearly snatched it from his hand. Diego lit it for her and reached for the ashtray.

She wore a pair of long silk gloves that were bright orange and waved her hand. “A pesky old cough. And I get a little winded climbing up and down those blasted stairs. ’Course, Ruby worries. Just like our ma, she is.”

“That’s nice of her,” Diego said.

“She’s a real doll,” said Rose. “I know she spends all her time going about this place like a real sourpuss. But it’s all an act.”

“Still,” Diego told her. “I want you taking good care of yourself.”

“Oh, you,” she said. “Look at me. I’m blushing. Like a little girl.” Rose finished her cigarette and walked into the back just as a teakettle whistled. “Doctor gave me an herbal infusion. Told me to drink it each morning. ’Course, it’s better with a little brandy.” The phone began to ring, and she shouted at Diego to answer it.