The Five Acts of Diego Leon (20 page)

Diego placed his cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the telephone. “Yes?”

“Central Casting calling for a Mister Charlie Applebaum,” said a lady’s voice.

“Yes?” he repeated.

“Mister Applebaum, please.”

“Yes?” he said again.

“Charlie Applebaum?” There was a pause.

He remained quiet.

“You there? Charlie Applebaum?” asked the lady again.

He took a deep breath, concentrating on the sound of Charlie’s voice. “Yes. It’s me. Charlie. How ya doing, doll?” Diego began to perspire. He took another deep breath. Rose was still in the back. He could hear her whistling, shuffling about as she prepared her tea.

“Report to Frontier Pictures,” said the lady.

“Swell,” he said. “That’s just swell.”

“Studio twelve.”

“Swell,” he repeated.

“Today at eleven a.m. They need a Jew. Can you make it?”

He reached for a slip of paper and a wooden pencil and marked the information down. “Great,” he said. “I’ll be there.” He hung up without saying good-bye. Diego placed the phone back down, the slip of paper clenched in his fist. Rose came out holding two hot cups of tea in each hand.

“Anything important?” she asked.

“Sorry, doll, but I have to run.” He took his pocket watch out and glanced at the time. Ten-fifteen. He could make it.

“What a pity,” said Rose. “I have brandy.”

The lady at Studio 12 held a stack of wrinkled forms in her hand, scratched her scalp with the tip of a pencil, and arched her thin eyebrow.

“
You
are
not
Charlie Applebaum.”

Diego cleared his throat, and fiddled with the buttons of his jacket. Inside, Studio 12 was a mammoth structure so vast and high that he felt infinitesimally small. The tall ceiling was filled with lights and scaffolds that crisscrossed along the length and sides of the massive building. Cameras were positioned, men in overalls used ropes and pulleys to heave a massive stone wall upright. The set was a village square with a fountain in the middle of a courtyard. The fake buildings had heavy wooden doors and windows with brightly colored shutters. There were artificial shrubs and trees, and large fans with metal crescent-shaped blades created a breeze that ruffled the branches and stirred the fake weeds breaking through the cobblestone steps. Women in plain yellow dresses with aprons tied around their waists and men in suspenders and wool caps stood near wooden carts filled with foam loaves of bread or bouquets of artificial flowers.

“ ’Course I am,” Diego said. He continued fiddling with the buttons on his jacket. His hands trembled.

“You’re not. I know Charlie Applebaum, and you ain’t him, doll,” the lady said, her hands on her hips. “You better get outta here before I—”

“Trudy!” a man with a loud voice interjected, startling the woman. He walked over. “Please tell me this is our Jew!”

“But, sir—” Trudy started to say when the large man interrupted her again.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said to Diego. “What took you so long? We’ve been waiting all morning. We need a Jew.” He turned to Trudy. “I suggest you get him to the costume trailer immediately, Trudy. Time is money. Time is money.” He clapped his hands loudly, the sound echoing throughout the entire studio.

“You heard the man,” Trudy said, pointing toward a small trailer at the far end of the studio.

Diego stood there, looking at her, confused.

“Go on,” she said. “Oh, for the love of God. Just go. Don’t cost me any added delays. The last thing I need more of today is that incorrigible man yelling at me.”

The inside of the trailer was cramped. Dresses and suits hung from large racks along the wall. A wide table dominated much of the space, and thick bolts of fabric and swatches lined the floor. It was stuffy, and an electric fan whirred incessantly in a corner. A little impish man with messy hair walked around the room with a measuring tape draped over his shoulder and a pincushion wrapped around his wrist by an elastic cord.

“You!” he exclaimed. “Jewish rabbi, am I correct?”

“Yes,” said Diego.

“Very good.
Very
good.” The man looked around, rummaging through piles and piles of clothing and fabric. “Here we are,” said the man, pulling out a wrinkled black cassock with gold clasp buttons, an embroidered tallith with tied and knotted fringes, and a gold yarmulke. He looked at the costume then at Diego.

“Is everything all right, sir?”

“Cecil,” said the man.

“Come again?”

“Cecil,” said the man. “Please call me Cecil.” Cecil’s face wore an expression of concern. He sighed then shook his head. “Oh dear. They’ve done it again.”

“Done what?” Diego asked.

“Central Casting. Botched measurements.” He shook his head. “We’ll do what we can, I suppose.” Cecil shoved the costume at Diego and pushed him into a tiny dressing room with mirrors on all sides.

The cassock was much too short, and when he stepped out, Cecil rolled his eyes. “I was afraid of this. I’m going to have to lengthen it.”

Trudy burst into the dressing room and shouted, “Cecil, no time! Get the beard on him.”

“Very well,” Cecil said. He sat him down in a canvas chair and smeared adhesive over his cheeks and across his chin. He placed the beard on carefully, and it itched and the adhesive smelled bad. He tried not to grimace when Cecil asked if it felt fine. He wasn’t
about to let minor discomforts get in the way of this, his first ever part.

Cecil stepped back and said, “You’re all done, tiger.”

“Let’s go,
Applebaum
,” said Trudy. She led him to the door.

The director told him to stand near the entrance to the synagogue. Once he was there, on the set, Diego couldn’t see because so many lights were pointed in his direction, each bright and intrusive. The people standing behind the cameras and coils and wires were just shadows, faceless, disembodied mouths that screamed out orders. In the cacophony, he listened only for the director’s voice, for his was the loudest, shouting into a bullhorn. More lights, he demanded. Less sun. More wind. No, that’s too much. Just as he was about to shout action, the director rose from his chair, gasped, and took his bullhorn.

“Oh, for the love of God!” he shouted, “Torah. We can’t have a rabbi without a Torah. Fiona,” he screamed, “Gary, Trudy! Someone, get out here now and get this rabbi a Torah!”

A figure appeared and handed him a book. “How’s that beard?” asked a beautiful young woman. As she approached, he could see that she had bright blond hair and green eyes. “I normally do prosthetics and wigs and hair but I had my hands tied with other things, and Cecil was kind enough to help. It’s not too uncomfortable, is it?” She combed it with a soft brush.

“It itches terribly, to be honest,” he said.

“You’ll have to grin and bear it, toots. We’re about to roll.” She handed him his Torah then smiled, turned and walked away.

“Thank you, miss,” he said.

“Fiona,” she responded.

“Fiona,” he repeated.

The technicians heaved the cameras back and forth. There were shouts and voices everywhere, and all the other actors and actresses were getting back into position, standing behind the carts, or sitting on benches pretending to sleep, or walking by with bags full of fake parcels wrapped in brown butcher paper.

They had to shoot the scene again and again. He lost count of how many times the director ordered it redone from multiple angles, because Diego’s expression wasn’t quite convincing or because there
was a shadow on his face from the lights. When it was all finished seven hours later, he was exhausted from standing, the beard itched more than ever, and the cheap fabric of the cassock was making him perspire. They had worked straight through lunch, and he was faint and thirsty from being under the hot lights, but he was also excited. He had completed his first performance, and he felt triumphant. Walking off set, he spotted Fiona and thanked her.

She gave him a curious look. “For what?”

“It was my first time on set,” he said. “I felt better knowing there was a kind soul out there on my side.”

She set her makeup bottles and jars down and walked over to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “You were fine.”

“Honest?”

“Honest,” she said. “Sit.” Fiona leaned in and began pulling the fake beard off, inch by inch. When she had completely removed it, she took a jar of cream, scooped some out, rubbed it between her palms and fingers and massaged this into his skin. It smelled of peppermint and tingled as it dried. “You’re a swell guy,” she said, looking at him. “And a real looker, too.”

“Thanks,” he said.

Fiona gathered her things up. “It’s nice. Finding another human being in this business. Someone who isn’t full of himself or damaged somehow.”

He smiled.

“Well, I thought that, for your very first job, you did splendidly,” Fiona said.

He followed her out. The sun was still shining, but the domed roofs of the large soundstages shielded them. They walked along, Diego’s legs stiff from standing.

“You ever been to the Pig ’n Whistle?” she asked.

“No,” he said.

“Good. Because you’re taking me there. This weekend.”

“Sounds great,” he said. It could help to have an ally like her at Frontier, he thought.

She jotted her address down and told him she would be ready by five that Saturday. She then looked at him, and said, “Oh, geez, you better go to the wardrobe trailer and change.”

Diego went into the trailer, removed the costume, and handed it to Cecil. The set was empty and still now; the floodlights were turned off, the fan blades no longer rotating, the cameras tucked to one side and covered by large canvas tarps. Diego stopped, lit a cigarette, and stood there looking at the spot where he’d spent a good portion of the day. He was proud of himself, proud of the fine work he’d done. He thought about Charlie, his friend. What had Diego done? But it was just a part, he thought. One small, irrelevant part. Nothing would come of it anyway, he thought. No harm was done.

November 1928

H
IS PAYMENT WAS ENOUGH TO COVER THE RENT, PLUS A LITTLE
extra, so he used some of his earnings to purchase a pair of plus four trousers, argyle socks, a new shirt, and a tweed checkered flat cap to wear on his date with Fiona. That night he bathed and dressed and adjusted his tie in the mirror. He placed the flat cap on his head, turned, and walked out the door, whistling all the way down the steps.

“Say,” Rose said, seeing Diego as he entered the lobby. “Don’t you look spiffy. You taking me out for a night on the town?”

Diego shrugged his shoulders. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

“Two-timing on me?” Rose asked. “What’s her name?”

“Fiona.”

“Fiona, huh? Bring her here. I’ll scratch her eyes out. Good-for-nothing hussy.” He laughed as she continued twirling, swaying her hips back and forth.

“You’ll always be my one and only, Rose.” Diego kissed her softly on the cheek; her thin skin smelled of lemon. “Always you, Rose.”

She laughed. “Liar. But I’ll take a lie like that over any old truth.”

Ruby came out from the back room with a pile of receipts in her hand. She shook her head and scratched her forehead. Her hair was a mess, and there were large bags under her eyes.

“Rose, honey,” she said, her voice exhausted, “stop fooling around now. We got a ton to do.”

“Is everything okay?” Diego asked.

“No,” she said. “No it ain’t. But thanks for asking.”

“The first of the month,” Rose whispered. “Always gets her tense. Goes around collecting rent—”

“I paid.” Diego interrupted. “Early. Placed my check in your box there.”

“I know,” Ruby said, handing him a receipt. “But it looks like we’ll be having a couple of evictions.” She thumbed through a ledger and shook her head.

Rose whistled and snapped her fingers. “They’ll be out by tonight.”

“Rose,” said Ruby, slamming her hands on the desk. “Get the locks.”

Just then Charlie came shuffling down the stairs, a suitcase in his hand. His coat was wrinkled and dusty, and his trousers were dotted with several black stains. “I’m going, ladies. I’m going.” He placed his suitcase down.

“Charlie,” said Ruby. “I’m real sorry. But I ain’t running on charity alone.”

“It’s fine. I understand,” he said. “You been good to me. Real patient.”

Rose walked over to Charlie and kissed him on the cheek. “What’ll you do now, honey?”

Charlie shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know. Maybe go back home.” He took a deep breath, picked up his bag and moved toward the front door.

“I’m real sorry, Charlie,” Diego said, reaching out to shake his hand.

He only looked at him, staring intently into Diego’s eyes. “Of course you are. Of course you’re sorry, pal. I am too.”

Charlie walked out without taking Diego’s hand.

He tried forgetting about Charlie and the eviction. It wasn’t his fault, he told himself, as he walked down the street in his new glad rags, whistling to himself. He tipped his hat to a woman walking a poodle and two young girls in coats with matted fur collars. Something was different about the people he passed on his way to the
trolley platform. They were all looking
at
him, Diego realized, not through him. They were all
noticing
him. Getting the part had put a bounce in his step. He walked, his shoulders back and his head up. He was chipper as he continued on to Fiona’s building. Fiona was an exquisite sight in a shimmering green dress that accentuated the curves of her body.