The Five Acts of Diego Leon (28 page)

“I’m just tired,” he said, collapsing on his bed, staring up at the faded ceiling, tracing the black veins running across the cracked plaster walls. “I’m tired and very overwhelmed.” But he could tell she wasn’t buying this.

Abruptly, she grabbed her handbag and reached for the door. “I have to go,” she said. “I’m meeting Georgie for a fitting.”

“Wait,” he told her. “I’ll dress and go with you. Then, afterward, we can go to dinner. I’ll buy.”

“No.” Her tone was sharp. “I’ll just see you. Tomorrow. At the rehearsal.” She walked out of the room and closed the door.

He didn’t want to move. He sat there and smoked cigarettes all morning, then bathed and dressed and decided he would call Bill and try to see him that evening.

In the trolley to Bel Air, he ran his hand across the green mohair seat back and tried relaxing, but it didn’t help. What would he do about Fiona? He didn’t know if it was love he was beginning to feel, or if Bill saw him as nothing more than a fling. What Diego did know was that the man excited him. It was his power, his influence, the control he exerted, his charm and sophistication, the way he doted on Diego, how he looked at him. It was partly Bill himself, and partly what he could do for Diego’s career. Bill took him places because, he said, it was necessary for his success.

“Building excitement,” he said. “Until we assign a press agent to you. Until we find the right vehicle to launch you, you need to be seen.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” he asked. “That people seeing us together will rouse suspicion? About your tendencies?”

He chuckled. “I’ve the best reason. You’re my protégé. Besides, everyone in Hollywood knows about me, about countless others in this business. They just don’t talk about it in public.”

There were secrets that weren’t, Diego soon realized, scandals that were orchestrated, and others that were allowed to continue without intervention. But when these things were exposed, the parties involved were usually quick to distance themselves, to claim ignorance. Nothing was ever as it seemed. Bill’s secret was anything but, and Diego was more than happy to go along with the charade. He was “the handsome young man with Mister Cage,” or “the new young foreign actor William Cage discovered.” And when they were out together, dining at a restaurant, at polo tournaments, or at the racetracks in Santa Anita, and Bill introduced Diego to people he knew—christening him Frontier’s “next bright star,” its “newest talent,” its “most exciting discovery”—they regarded him differently, they noticed him, they remembered his name when he ran into them at cocktail parties, dance clubs, and around the studio.

He didn’t want to think about Fiona. He felt his attraction for her weakening just as hers toward him seemed to strengthen. Lately, all she talked about was Georgie’s wedding, the beautiful dress, and Nick’s plans for them once they were wed.

“They’ll honeymoon in Venice,” she’d told him one night when
they were out, her voice tinged with romance, with passion. “A villa with a balcony in the countryside. They’ll be moving to New Haven. Nick will go to school. Yale. Study law. Afterward, he’ll take a job in a firm run by his father’s close friend in Manhattan. They’ll buy a house in the suburbs, and Nick will take the train into the city. They’ll have children and raise their family.”

It was all planned out, she had said, waving her hand across the table where they sat sipping coffee. Their entire life. Right down to the number of children they would have. The kind of car they would drive. The age at which Nick would retire. The countries they would visit as they traveled the world. He would take up golf. She would become a pillar of the community, host bake sales and afternoon tea parties.

“Doesn’t that sound nice?” she asked. “Don’t you want that too someday? I know I do. I crave security. There’s only so much makeup I can put on before I lose it.”

He said nothing. He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke. He thought about his grandparents again, about Paloma. “Everyone has always had plans for me, for my life,” he said. He stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray and ground it in with force. “But nobody ever asks what I want. What I see.”

“But I just did, sweetheart,” Fiona said, pleading with her hands. “I just did.”

“I want to act,” he said. “I want to be a star. It’s what I’ve always craved. I love acting, performing, more than anything in the world.”

“But what if it never happens? You’ve got to have another plan. Something lined up in case.”

“It’ll happen,” he said. “I’ll make it happen.”

He repeated those words now as the trolley made its way down the boulevard. People exited the car and others boarded. The men wore cheap suits and ties, the women wore plain dresses and outdated hats. It was unseasonably hot that February day. Nobody sweated, and each time Diego breathed it pained his chest, and he imagined that dirty and parched air sticking to the linings of his lungs like cactus thorns. He swallowed several times, but this only made him cough, made his eyes water. Diego stared out the window,
at the dust-coated palm trees that lined the street, the brittle fronds blowing in the warm air like the dry fingers of old people. A father and his daughter boarded the train next. They sat in the bench across from him. The girl wore a bonnet and a tan jacket, and black Mary Jane shoes with white socks. She was eating an ice cream cone. The father nodded at Diego and tipped his hat.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Evening,” Diego responded, tipping his own hat.

“Grace,” he said to his daughter. “Be careful not to get any of that on your dress.”

The ice cream was melting and white swirls dripped down along the side of the cone. She licked it faster and faster. Her pink tongue moved with a precision, with a greed that was uncomfortable. Grace ate and watched Diego, her bright blue eyes big and glassy and unblinking. He was relieved when they rose and prepared to exit the next stop.

“Say ’bye, Gracie Mae,” the father said to his daughter as he pointed to Diego.

She raised her hand and waved. The ice cream dripped down, leaving small white puddles on the floor of the trolley. He tried not to step on them as he exited the train once it reached his stop, but the car bucked forward, and the sole of his shoe came to rest over one of the drops. As he made his way down the sidewalk, the ice cream hardened and created an annoying sticking sound with each step that he took. The sound grew louder and louder, more aggravating, as he went along.

That night he learned that, since Bill was a good friend of Nick’s father, he would be at the wedding and the reception.

“Simon Wexler’s gotten me out of some pretty sticky situations,” Bill told him as they lay in front of the fireplace, his arms wrapped tightly around Diego’s shoulders. “We go way back. I’m happy for Nicky. I was beginning to think the guy would never settle down.”

Diego said, “Do you ever think about that? Settling down?”

Bill was quiet for a long while. “Yes,” he said. “But as long as I could set up the rules. As long as I could keep my affairs from my wife and family.”

“Family?” Diego asked. “You think about family?”

Bill chuckled. “Of course I do. Don’t you?”

He didn’t answer.

Bill squeezed his shoulders. “I bet you’re going to look absolutely dashing in your tuxedo.” He kissed Diego on the cheek and mouth and whispered, “It’ll take all my will not to rip your clothes off and have you right there. In front of all those people.”

They made love that night, and as Bill slept, Diego lay awake thinking about the question of family. About marriage. About the future and Fiona. The upcoming wedding made him nervous. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but it never came.

The Hollywood United Methodist Church had been completed just two years earlier in 1930. Its smooth stone facade gleamed new and pristine that day as Diego sped up Highland Avenue. A row of cars lined the front of the curb when he pulled around with Nick in the red roadster Simon had purchased for his son as a wedding gift. As was dictated by Fiona, Diego’s duty was to take Nick out for one last night on the town as a single man before he was to exchange vows with Georgie. He had taken Nick to several nightclubs around the city, just the two of them, the previous evening but the party was cut short when Nick overindulged and passed out by eleven. Diego, for one, had been relieved. He wasn’t looking forward to a night out with just Nick. They had very little in common, and their conversations usually consisted of breezy talks about the horse races or football games. Nick was severely hungover and groaned in the passenger seat.

“Where did you learn how to drive?” he asked as he stumbled out of the car.

Diego ran around and straightened Nick’s bow tie and fixed his hair. “Never mind that, Nick,” he said. “Pull yourself together. You’re about to get married.”

An old man in a ridiculously large top hat and monocle strolled over. With a shaky hand, he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a metal flask. “Hair of the dog that bit ya, Nicky.”

Nick took it and drank. “Thank you, Mister Riley.” He handed it back.

“No, son,” said Mister Riley. “You keep it. I’ve a feeling you’ll be needing more of that.” He winked and climbed the steps and into the church.

Nick finished the rest of the booze and tossed the flask inside the roadster. “Let’s go then,” he said. “Let’s get me married.”

The wedding ceremony was slow to start. The attendees, all mainly family members and friends of Nick, sat with patient but annoyed looks on their faces as the minister and the organ player fussed about doing who knew what. The alcohol had relaxed Nick and he smiled repeatedly and patted Diego on the back.

“Before long it’ll be you and Fi up here, old buddy,” he said to him.

Diego nodded just as the wedding march began and the last few guests trickled in. He saw Cage walking down the aisle with a tall and very striking woman.

“Bill’s latest discovery,” Nick whispered in Diego’s ear. “What I wouldn’t give to be that guy. A different girl on his arm each time.”

Now the wedding procession began. Fiona made her way down the aisle with small and graceful steps. She was exquisite, her blond hair swept up in a bun, bare shoulders exposed, and her face flawless. She reminded Diego of a statue, a form carved of a single slab of marble, each curve of her body, each angle, clearly defined, smooth and untouched.

“You’re one lucky guy,” Nick leaned in and said to Diego.

Georgie made her way down next, the long train of her dress trailing behind as her father, an overweight man with a balding head who walked with big, cumbersome steps, held her by the arm. The exchanging of rings and vows was slow and predictable, and Diego felt Fiona’s eyes on him. Several times he glanced over to find her smiling knowingly at him, a glimmer in her eye. He wished only to glance back, to see Cage in the audience, to yank the woman from
his side away and take her place. He was so lost in thought, he didn’t even hear the priest present to the crowd Mr. and Mrs. Nicholas Wexler, didn’t remember his and Fiona’s march down the aisle, a few steps behind the newly married couple. Next thing he knew they were all outside, in the glaring white light, standing along the sidewalk, throwing rice at the couple.

“So wonderful,” Fiona said, dabbing the tears from her face with a handkerchief. “So … so romantic.”

Through the dinner, the awkward speeches, the cutting of the cake, the bride and groom’s first dance, Diego drank. Cocktail after cocktail.

“Slow it down, will you or you’ll pass out,” Fiona whispered to him at one point.

He couldn’t help it. He was seething. Bill sat there with the woman, his arm around her shoulder. She tossed her hair about and batted her eyelashes excessively as she engaged the people sitting at their table in conversation. Bill took her out to dance a couple of times, and Diego saw him whisper in her ear from time to time, even kiss her neck, and caress her cheek. Toward the end of the evening, when Nick and Georgie had snuck away inside the house and the few remaining guests milled about, Diego walked over to the bar and asked the server for one more. He drank the whiskey and was smoking cigarettes when he saw Bill approach.

“I’ve been watching you all night,” he said. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”

Diego chuckled. “What do you care? You better go before your little harlot wonders where you’ve traipsed off. Does she know about your proclivities? The ones you keep so secret?”

“Please,” Cage said. “Don’t make a spectacle. She’s my date. That’s all. Nothing more.”

Diego laughed and stumbled forward. Bill caught him. He grabbed him by the arms and led him away. He walked him down a gravel path behind the tables, and they found a bench and he sat him down.

“I’m sorry,” Diego muttered. “I’m so sorry. I just. I feel so confused.”

“It’s all right,” Bill said as he sat beside him. He reached into his
pocket, pulled a handkerchief out and used it to dab Diego’s face. “There’s no reason to apologize. No reason to be jealous. She’s just my date. From time to time I have to be seen with women like her. That’s all.”

Diego rested his hand on Bill’s thigh and placed his head on his shoulder.