The Five Acts of Diego Leon (6 page)

“No,” Diego managed to say.

“Go away. Just go away and take your begging somewhere else. We haven’t got anything here for the likes of you.”

Diego’s voice quivered when he spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Why?” She sighed now, folded her arms. “Well?”

Finally, he spoke again. “Grandmother?” he asked. “Are you my grandmother?”

“What did you say? What did you call me?”

“Are you the mother of my mother, Amalia León?”

“Amalia.” She whispered it as though it were a name she hadn’t heard in a long time. She gripped the gold crucifix around her neck. “Who
are
you?”

“I’m Diego. Amalia’s son.” He handed her the envelope.

She looked at it then reached out to him. The woman cupped her palm underneath his chin and regarded him, as if he were not at all a person but a thing. Then she pulled her hand back, straightened her shoulders, and cleared her throat.

“And your father? Something must have happened. Is he dead?”

Diego lowered his head. “No,” he said. “But he sent me away. He told me to come here. He said he couldn’t take care of me.”

The old woman shook her head. “Very well,” she said. “Come along inside. I don’t want the neighbors thinking we’re taking in vagrants.” She led him through the door. “Quickly. Quickly.”

Inside, the house was vast. The tile floors shone brightly in the afternoon sun. The living room was filled with clay pots, couches with pillows, and sitting chairs with intricate scrolls and designs etched into their finely polished and fragrant wooden backs. A thick tapestry hung from a long metal rod on the wall alongside an oil painting of a young man wearing a suit of armor. A collection of antique pocket watches and magnifying glasses were arranged in locked cabinets. Glass figurines covered the top of a credenza made of dark wood with iron inlays. When the grandmother had him sit down, Diego couldn’t believe how soft the cushion beneath him felt, and he had to fight the urge to let himself go and fall asleep. The grandmother ordered a servant to bring him a glass of warm milk and two slices of sweet bread and roasted almonds that she carried in on a silver tray. Diego ate, swallowing the milk in deep and long gulps.

“Slowly,” she said, her voice tense. “Slowly.” She took a seat across from him, in a chair with a high back. She sat erect, her hands folded neatly on her lap. “Diego?” she asked. “You say your name’s Diego?”

He put the milk down. “Yes.”

“Wipe your mouth before you speak.” She gestured at a lace handkerchief before him.

He dabbed his lips with it then passed it back. “Thank—”

“No,” she interrupted. She waved a hand at him, flinging her
thin wrist, the bones beneath her skin jagged. “Keep the thing. I don’t want it back. How old are you?”

“Eleven. What … what should I call you? Grandmother?”

“Doña Julia. Call me Doña Julia.” Her face was gaunt, the flesh pulled taut over her sharp cheekbones. Her mouth was small, the lips very dry and pale. Her eyes were two dark brown pits that seemed to devour all light, and Diego found he couldn’t look directly into them. They were crowned by a pair of uneven and bright white brows that rested—very heavy and sagging uncomfortably—along loose and flaccid ridges of skin.

“Doña Julia?” Diego asked. “Can you tell me about my mother when she was younger?”

“She was very pretty.” His grandmother rose and walked over to a wooden secretary. She pulled the front drawer out and removed a photograph in a pewter frame that was heavy when she placed it in his hand. “Here she is. It was taken her last year of school,” his grandmother said, her voice tender, her eyes filling with tears. He saw her smile when she placed the photograph before him.

It was hard for Diego to believe that this woman in a white dress with ruffles along the neckline, pearl earrings dangling from her earlobes like small drops of milk, was his mother. In the photo, she neither smiled nor frowned. She was beautiful in a way that would forever be difficult for him to describe. His grandmother took it from him, walked back to the secretary, and placed the photograph inside. From another drawer, she removed a telegram.

“Two years ago, I received a wire from
him
.” Her voice changed; it was cold, hard. “From your father telling us that your mother had died.” She shook her head. His grandmother sighed then placed the telegram along with the letter back in the drawer and closed it. “There’s a part of me that still won’t admit it, that still wants to believe she’s alive even if it means she’s living up there. In the hills. With those savages. You said he sent you here?” she asked, composing herself once more. She sat very regal in her chair, hands once more folded and in her lap.

“Yes,” Diego said.

“And what does he expect us to do with you?” She reached for a
lace fan, unfurled it with a snap, then folded it again. “What are
we
to do with you?” She reclined, tapping the tip of the fan against the back of her hand.

“Let’s see you,” the old man said to Diego, walking inside the living room from the entryway. “We need to take a look.” He wore thick spectacles, and a gray mustache with pointed tips. He hardly had any hair left, and the patches of bald skin on his head appeared smooth and unblemished. They talked about him as if he were invisible.

“You say he showed up this afternoon?” The old man leaned in closer, adjusted his spectacles.

“Yes,” the old woman said. “I have no idea how. He had the letter with the address.”

“He can
read
?” the old man asked, stunned.

“I don’t have a clue.” His grandmother walked across the room. Heavy clear bottles crowded the top of the credenza, and she poured some of the amber-colored liquid into a glass and handed this to her husband. “There’s nowhere left for him to go,” Doña Julia said. “
He
sent him here.”

The old man shook his head. “What unnecessary suffering. All of this could have been avoided if only—”

His grandmother interrupted. “What should we do with him?”

The old man took a long drink. “We’ll do our best to take care of him, to educate him and refine him. What other choice do we have? He’s still our blood.”

“Thank God he inherited our light skin,” his grandmother said.

“Yes. There’s that. You checked for lice?”

“I had one of the maids do it. I was stunned when she told me he was clean.”

“Have them run a hot bath. Then take his clothes and burn them. Give him his mother’s room.”

“Very well,” said his grandmother. She tugged on her long necklace. “Go upstairs,” she said to Diego. “Your room is at the end of the hall. The maid will bathe you, then you’ll eat afterward.”

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“Doña Julia,” she corrected him.

“Doña Julia.”

“You can call me ‘Grandfather,’ ” the old man said.

“Yes, sir,” Diego responded before turning around and leaving the room. He walked slowly and stopped at the foot of the wooden stairs, listening to them.

“Why indulge this?” his grandmother said. “Why let him call you ‘Grandfather,’ Doroteo?”

“He’s still our grandson,” the old man responded. “Despite everything, he’s the son of our only daughter. We can culture him, teach him to be a good and moral citizen.”

“Peasants have no morality,” his grandmother told him. “Still, I suppose you’re right. He
is
blood.”

They were quiet for a short time before his grandfather spoke again. “God is testing us. Looking to see if we can be charitable. Can we, Julia? Can we show clemency?”

She sighed. “I guess we can. But I don’t have to like it. Or him.”

Diego crept up the steps and into the dark mouth of the long hallway.

“You’ll be schooled,” his grandfather said to him the next morning in the courtyard.

“Yes, sir.”

“You can call me Grandfather. How old did you say you were again?”

“Eleven. I’ll be twelve in January.”

He didn’t look up from his newspaper when he addressed Diego. He sipped coffee and smoked a cigarette. “You’ll attend Mass each Sunday with us.”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

Doroteo folded the newspaper and looked up at Diego. “Come here,” he said. “Sit.” He rose now and pointed to an empty chair across from his. “You should eat.” He rang a bell, and a servant appeared. “Give the boy some oatmeal. Bread. A glass of milk,” Doroteo said to the woman, who nodded and went back inside.

“Thank you, Grandfather,” Diego said, keeping his head down.

“Sit up straight,” the old man said. “And look a person in the face when you address them, child.”

“Yes, Grandfather.” He sat up, pushing his shoulders back, and raised his head.

“After you eat, I want you to return to your room. Someone will be in to take measurements. I’ll have them go out and purchase some new clothing.”

“Yes, Grandfather,” Diego responded. The servant returned with a bowl of warm oatmeal, two pieces of sweet bread, and a glass of hibiscus water.

“Very well,” the old man rose now, whistling as he strolled back into the house.

That Sunday, they took him to Mass. His grandmother wore a black dress with white gloves and a lace mantilla over her head. His grandfather donned a striped suit and a top hat and held a cane. Diego wore a new shirt, the collar tight and itchy and stiff, and a pair of thick wool trousers with buttons and suspenders. His black shoes were uncomfortable, and his grandmother had instructed one of the maids to wash and comb his hair and to scrub his hands and beneath his nails. His fingertips hurt now, as he fought the urge to run them through his hair. They arrived at the church and took seats in one of the front pews. Diego tried hard to contain his excitement; the church was massive. There were swooping arches and columns and pilasters with gilded edges. Ornate iron candelabras swung from the high ceilings, supported by thick chains bolted to wooden beams. There were huge stained glass windows, statues of saints resting atop tall pediments, a baptismal font made entirely of silver, and an organ with many brass pipes and a choir that stood nearby, singing. Diego felt small and insignificant sitting there, among such grandeur and opulence. And there were so many people crammed inside the pews that seemed to go on and on, row after row. This was nothing like the church in San Antonio—small, intimate, each individual voice distinguishable when the congregants prayed or sang. There were two lines for Communion, and it took a long time before Diego
reached the front. The priest hardly looked at him and muttered the words “Body of Christ” so quickly that Diego didn’t have time to answer him before moving on. When the priest ended the Mass, and everyone rose from their pews and made their way out, the crowd was vast, deep, hundreds of feet shuffling forward. Diego felt disoriented, dizzy, overwhelmed, and he was relieved once they were outside and he felt he could breathe again.

Several people stopped to say hello to his grandmother and grandfather as they stood on the steps near the main entrance.

“You say he’s your grandson?” a young woman with hair the color of corn silk asked his grandmother.

“Yes,” Doña Julia said. “He’s been away. Living … abroad.”

The woman was so exquisite, her face smooth and flawless, lips bright red, her eyes so wide, like an animal’s, he thought. She wore an elegant pleated dress made of soft fabric with large gold buttons that shimmered and danced each time she took a breath. The top flap of her purse was open and, as she talked to his grandparents, gesturing excitedly with her hands, a lace glove tumbled out and fell on the ground near her feet. When he reached out to grab it, she jumped, startled.

“Give it back,” his grandmother snapped at Diego, taking the glove and handing it to the woman. “My apologies,” she said.

“The boy,” his grandfather said, clearing his throat. “Like my wife said, he’s been living abroad. Europe. His ways are …” and he waved his hand.

The young woman smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Well. Curious little fellow, isn’t he?”

“What’s wrong with you?” his grandmother asked as they walked away. “You had no business taking her things. She’s a very important person, the daughter of a powerful politician. If I ever catch you doing that again, I’ll—”

“Don’t be so hard on the boy,” his grandfather interjected. “It’s not his fault. The people he was raised among, they’re backward. We’ll straighten him out. Now, let’s try to enjoy ourselves.”

They strolled though a park and plaza where vendors sold toys and pinwheels and kites made of bright paper. There were figurines of glass and clay, so many small and beautiful objects that glimmered
and shined. His grandfather purchased a leather belt and a vaquero hat, and he gave Diego money and told him to buy something, whatever he wanted. He used the coins on a wooden whistle and two pieces of squash candy. He was chewing on the last piece and standing with his grandfather, who was reading an announcement nailed to a post, and watched when Julia stopped to talk to a man and a woman. A parasol was hooked over the woman’s arm, and the man wore a waistcoat with a frock jacket over it, and a white cravat tied around his neck. A few minutes later, a boy about Diego’s age with light brown hair joined them. His grandmother said something and pointed across the street. They waved at Diego and his grandfather, but the old man was too busy reading the announcement to notice.

The first three months there, his grandmother left Diego alone during the mornings. Every day his grandfather closed his office and returned to the house for a long lunch. On the first day he was told he would be eating with them instead of taking his meal in the kitchen with the servants, Diego learned of Javier Alcazar and his mother, Carolina. It was Doña Julia who spoke of the family first.

“I saw Carolina Alcazar again this morning.” She looked over at his grandfather.

The old man sat at the head of the table, taking spoonfuls of his soup. “And how is she?”

“Fine,” his grandmother said. She finished her soup, and one of the maids, a young woman with a long ponytail, walked over, removed the bowl, and placed it on a tray. His grandmother dabbed the corner of her mouth with her napkin and looked over at Diego. “We saw them last week in the plaza, remember? They waved at you. Javier’s about your age. You two should meet. He would be a good influence on you.” She stared at him from across the table, in a way that made him feel uneasy.