The Five Acts of Diego Leon (8 page)

There were times, she said, moments in the day when she caught a glimpse of the woman she used to be. There was a way her face looked, a feeling that would overcome her, she admitted, and she would be back to being that woman anew, the opera singer. Up on the stage again, singing, making the audience happy.

“What do you seek?” she asked. “More than anything in the world, son? What do you want? What is your destiny?”

Diego was confused. “I don’t—” he stammered. “I don’t know. I want my father and my grandparents to be proud of me. I want my mother in heaven to remember me.”

“They will,” Carolina said. “If you work hard enough. If you stay true to yourself.” She rose now. “We are through for today. I will see you tomorrow.” Carolina turned and went inside. A few minutes later, Javier came back out. He stood across from Diego, his head down.

“I’m sorry I said you looked like a girl,” he said.

“That’s fine.” Diego put the book down and walked over, careful not to step on the hem of his costume. “I do look silly.” He untied the sash and removed the toga.

“Now you look fine,” Javier proclaimed, pointing to Diego’s shirt and bow tie. “Now you look like me.” He walked over to the side of the house, pulled back a tangle of wild weeds and vines until a small iron gate came into view.

“What are you doing?” he asked Javier.

“Let’s go,” he said, beckoning him.

“But your mother.”

“My aunt’s inside talking with her. Come on now. Let’s go to the zócalo and feed the pigeons,” Javier urged him.

Diego heard Carolina’s voice inside the house.

“Quickly,” Javier insisted. He turned the knob and the gate creaked open.

Diego ran out after him, a few feet behind, catching up to Javier at the corner. They walked along the narrow street, their arms draped over one another’s shoulder. At the zócalo, they bought a bag of roasted garbanzo beans and stole a piece of bread from one of the bakers when he turned to help another customer. They sat down on
a bench, eating the smoked garbanzo beans and feeding crumbs of bread to the flock of plump gray pigeons.

“My mother hates me,” Javier said, breaking off chunks of bread.

“No, she doesn’t,” Diego said, reaching for a handful of garbanzo beans. He watched the sun descend behind the buildings, the shadows of the elegant arches supporting the portico lengthening out. The sound of gurgling water from the nearby fountain was soothing. “She loves you very much,” Diego told him.

“She wishes I’d turned out like her. That I enjoyed singing and dancing and all that stuff.” Javier sighed and tossed more crumbs at the pigeons. “I don’t like it. I never have. I never will. But I’m glad you do. I’m glad she cares about you so much. Do you know why?”

“No. Why?” Diego asked.

“Because we’re like brothers,” Javier said. “We’ll always be friends.”

This made Diego smile. He had someone now. He had a friend. A brother.

When the bread and garbanzo beans were gone, they rose and left. The sound of church bells gonging and a man in a hat playing a tune from a wooden flute filled the air. The laughter of a handful of schoolchildren faded away as the two boys walked the short distance back home.

April 1922

H
IS GRANDPARENTS’ FIRST PRIORITY WAS TO MOLD HIM INTO
whatever they felt necessary in order to secure a position for him within the affluent citizenry of the city, thereby preserving their place as a prominent Morelian family even after their deaths. After all, as Diego was coming to learn, Mexico was a nation built on the notion of legacy, of families passing down wealth and power and land from one generation to the next, over and over again. They planned to let their half-indio grandson inherit the money, the house, and the business. Better that than to leave it all to the government or the church or to charity. No one would know his true pedigree, though.

He was ordered by them never to mention his father and his P’urhépecha lineage. Diego would stop using his paternal last name, León, and would instead use his maternal one, Sánchez. His father, they told him, was a banker. A wealthy Frenchman. Diego was born there, in the southern part of the country. Somewhere near Nice. His mother died there. He stayed with his father until he too died of influenza. They made Diego memorize these details, over and over, until his real father, until San Antonio de la Fe, Elva, and his entire life before his move to the city faded away like long threads of smoke. With the exception of Carolina, who had learned about Diego’s existence from his grandmother years before he came to live with them, no one knew the truth. And certainly not his grandparents’ rich and powerful friends—bankers, merchants, politicians—whose respect
they had worked so hard to maintain. By the time Diego reached sixteen, most of the memories of his past had altogether vanished as he tried to become someone different, someone who would please his grandparents.

Since Diego was to inherit the family business, he spent more time with his grandfather as he grew older, learning from him how to notarize court documents and certificates. As a young boy, he had browsed through the large wooden bookcases in the office, thumbing through the ledgers and stacks of papers, smoothing out the crinkled birth certificates and land deeds. Now, he sat next to his grandfather, watching him record a set of papers. Everything was assigned a number and logged in, stamped with an official seal, and left to dry overnight before being passed on to the owner or stored away in the large vault in back. Diego found the solitude of the office comforting and grew to admire his grandfather, enjoyed watching as his ink-stained fingers moved expertly back and forth from ledger to document then back again.

“You see that spot there?” Doroteo said one afternoon. They were inside the office, and the old man pointed out the open door, to the sidewalk crammed with pedestrians. The day was warm, but under the shaded portico, the air was cool as Diego leaned his head out.

“Where?” he asked, adjusting his bow tie.

“Right there. Right by the column. The cracked one.”

“Yes,” said Diego. The column was plastered with bulletins and flyers. “I see it, Grandfather.”

“That was where your father used to stand. The first time I saw him he had on a pair of dirty trousers. You know? The kind peasants wear, made of simple white fabric with a drawstring around the waist. And he wore a white shirt. And one of those pointed hats made from a palm. He was barefoot. Quite a sight, son. I say this because I want you to know how lucky you are. You’ll never have to worry about being poor. All this will be yours once I die.”

“I’m so grateful to you and Doña Julia for that,” Diego said, turning to him.

The old man sat in a chair, his small body lost among the tall stacks of ledgers and crates full of papers and documents, all of them
waiting to be catalogued and notarized and filed away. Suddenly he looked at Diego, his gaze stern. “Promise me that you won’t let this business, everything I’ve worked for, fail,” he said.

“Of course not,” said Diego. “I promise, Grandfather.”

“You’re all that’s left of our family. You have to stay focused,” he said. “Continue to study. Part with things that distract you, if need be.”

“Like what?”

“Like your friends. Like all that time you spend with Carolina singing and dancing. It’s time you give up such childish pursuits. What kind of a life will you have if you follow that, huh?”

“But I like it, Grandfather. It makes me happy. I don’t find it gets in the way of my work here or my studies.”

“I know,” he said. “But you’re old enough now to begin assuming more of the responsibilities around here so that you’ll be well-prepared for
this
job, for
this
life.” His grandfather rose, loosened his tie, and removed his jacket. He walked over to Diego and put his arm around his shoulder. “I know you enjoy it, but I think it’s best that you end those lessons. Think of your future.”

Diego looked out the door, at the cracked column where his father once stood. He imagined him there, holding a tray full of cigarettes and lottery tickets, lost among the faces of the masses, a poor peasant, so desperate, so hungry and tired. After all, Gabriel had sent him here to make something of himself, to use his grandfather’s influence to chart another course for his life, hadn’t he? And Diego had no reason to defy his grandfather, to ignore his advice. The man had given Diego everything he needed, had sheltered him when he arrived on that day many years before. Where would he be without Doroteo? He remembered San Antonio de la Fe, the cold and damp house, the overgrown fields and dying animals, the stench of rot and decay. Doroteo was right: Diego was fortunate to have escaped that destiny. He owed the old man his life. Who would he have become had he stayed there?

“If you say so, Grandfather,” Diego told him. “Whatever you think is best.”

The next afternoon at Carolina’s, before his lesson, she hugged him in a way only a mother could.

“Five years,” she said. “Diego, it’s been five years. You’ve come so far. I’m so proud. You’ve learned quickly. Everything I’ve taught you. And you’ve rekindled my love of performance again. For that, I can’t repay you.”

“Thank you,” he said, releasing himself from her hold and rising now. “You’ve given me so much.” He was about to tell her of his plans to end the lessons with her when she pulled out an envelope from her pocket and handed it to him.

“Here,” she said. “Open it.” Inside there were two tickets to an opera that Saturday at a small theater near the main plaza.

Diego leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

“I figured you could see if Javier wants to go with you. Convince him, will you? It’s
Faust
. I think he would like it. Do you remember
Faust
?”

“I do,” he said. “It’s the one where Professor Faust makes a pact with Mephistopheles, a devil determined to lead him astray. This is the best present. Thank you very much.”

“Thank you,” Carolina said. “For all that you’ve given me.”

He would not tell her of his decision. Not just then. But soon.

Compared to the other buildings in the center of town, the theater was badly in need of repair. The plaster was chipping and breaking off, the columns holding up the main arches crumbling from years of neglect, the tiled ceiling fading. As they entered, Diego handed his ticket to an usher, who bowed and tipped his hat in a dignified way to the two boys. Everything around them darkened. What little light there was from the street was now gone. The lanterns along the wall emitted a low and weak glow. Sound was muffled, and the people walking into the theater moved slowly, so slowly, and the swish of their arms, the stomping of their feet on the ground, the tilt of their heads, all seemed choreographed, in perfect synchronicity.

Diego and Javier made their way down the main aisle of the theater and from their seats near the front, Diego could feel the warmth coming from the stage lights that would soon dim, pulling
him further into the world of Faust, a world where the devil walked and communicated with man, where someone could conjure up evil spirits and learn the true value of knowledge and the dangers of obsession and excess. He held his breath, waiting for the start.

“How long is this?” Javier asked, slumping in his chair as men and women filled in the seats near them.

“I’m not sure,” said Diego. “I promise you’ll enjoy it.”

“I hope so.”

The lights in the theater faded, reducing them all to shadows, to unidentifiable figures, and the performance began. He nudged Javier repeatedly, tried getting him to concentrate and focus on what was happening throughout the performance. Diego was afraid to blink, and his breath was caught in his throat, his heartbeat quickening. Now and again he would lean over and whisper to Javier, “This is where Faust conjures up the evil spirits,” or “This is where Mephistopheles first appears,” or “What a fool Faust is.”

It wasn’t until the lights came on, until everyone around them rose to applaud that he realized Javier had slept through the entire performance.

Outside the theater, the church bells rang ten times. “It’s still early,” Javier said, yawning and stretching. “Let’s not go back home just now. Come on.”

Diego followed him.

With electricity, Morelia became a different place at night. Light posts lit up once darkened streets and alleyways, illuminated the gardens, the walkways twisting through the parks, turned the plazas and public courtyards into places to gather and pass the time. Organ-grinders filled the air with music, couples held one another on benches, vendors hawked trinkets and paper parasols, and boys sold newspapers and lottery tickets. Electric signs flashed on and off with quick and rapid precision. Everything—the wooden trolley cars, taxis, bicyclists—pulsed with movement. They wandered around for a while, Diego still talking about the performance, not paying attention to which direction they were headed.

“Where are we going?” Diego finally asked Javier as they began moving farther away from the lights of the city center.

Javier stopped, turned, and faced his friend. “Don’t ask impertinent questions!” He laughed loud. “Just come on now.”