The Five Acts of Diego Leon (10 page)

“Why such a fuss?” Diego asked Doroteo as he entered the sitting room where his grandparents were, awaiting the guests.

“Paloma was away in Europe for some time,” his grandfather said. “Studying at a very prestigious girls school in Spain. She has few friends here. We hope you can make her feel at home.”

“Yes,” he said. “Of course.” He wanted to please the old man but wasn’t the least bit interested.

There came a knock at the door, and Jacinta answered and led the family to the sitting room. Emmanuel Pacheco wore a dark suit, a large bowler hat, and white gloves, which he handed to Jacinta before walking over and giving Doroteo a firm pat on the shoulder. Emmanuel was a short, stout man with a lumbering walk, a thick, unruly mustache, and blond hair. Lupe was a tall and slender woman. She had dull light brown hair that was swept up in a simple bun. The gown she wore seemed too big, as if she were a little girl playing dress-up with her mother’s clothes. While she and his grandmother exchanged pleasantries about the weather and the house, he watched Paloma. She was tall, like her mother. Paloma wore a shawl draped over her shoulders, which she clutched with her left hand as she extended her right to shake his grandmother’s. Her shoulders slumped forward, and her face was plain, no eccentricity to it. It was a face that would never inspire a man to write a poem about it, sing a song about it, or fall in love with it.

“My, how you have
grown
,” his grandmother said to her. “The last time I saw you was when you were just a child playing dolls with your cousins.” She led Paloma by the hand and walked her over to the parlor where Diego stood near the fireplace. “This is my grandson,” his grandmother said, introducing him to both Paloma and her mother.

“Charmed,” he said, bowing slightly, taking each of their hands and kissing them. Paloma’s stare was vacant; there was no sparkle, no vibrancy in her small eyes. He turned away from the woman as
Emmanuel lumbered over with his grandfather, both of whom had lit pipes. The sweet smell of tobacco filled the air.

“Your grandfather tells me that you’ve been helping him with the business since you left the preparatoria,” Emmanuel said.

“That’s correct,” Diego said. “It’s been nearly two years.”

“I imagine then that you’ll be taking over soon,” he said. “Doroteo says you’re very bright. A very good and dependable young man.”

“I can only hope to be as bright and dependable as my grandfather,” he said, smiling.

Emmanuel pointed to his left temple. “Let’s hope better, because your grandfather’s mental capacities are a little foggy.” Everyone laughed as they moved over to the dinner table to eat. Paloma sat next to him, and there was a toast.

“In Europe all the boys and girls are allowed to imbibe almost as soon as they’re able to stand on their own two feet,” Paloma said, her voice soft but not unpleasant.

“So enlightened, those Europeans,” his grandfather said.

“Diego was born there, you know?” his grandmother said, taking a spoonful of bisque.

“In France, correct?” Lupe asked him.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. France. Near Nice. That’s where my father was from. It was where he and my mother settled after eloping.” He glanced over at his grandmother, who nodded approvingly.

“I just adore French culture,” Lupe said. “So sophisticated. Wouldn’t you agree, dear?” she asked, looking at Paloma.

“Yes,” she said quietly, stirring her spoon in her soup. “Certainly.”

“She’s so shy,” Lupe said, apologetically.

Paloma adjusted herself, straightened her back, and lifted her head.

She and Diego sipped their wine silently as the conversation turned to politics, to the ever-present tension between the church and the government. From the moment his father returned to San Antonio after the revolution, Diego had never become interested in politics. Fighting, killings, and corruption … it was all so meaningless, so destructive.

After the main course, dessert, and coffee, his grandparents and Emmanuel and Lupe went into the parlor to sip brandy.

“Son,” his grandfather said. “Why don’t you take Paloma outside to the courtyard? It’s a beautiful night.”

“Very well.” He rose, extended his arm out, and she took it.

They sat down on a stone bench, and Paloma tightened her shawl around her shoulders. She looked up at the sky, at the fading blue light turning to black, the few stars glittering in the sky like specks of sugar.

“How have you adjusted since you returned from Europe?” he asked, fumbling for conversation.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Fine. I suppose.” She ran her fingers through her hair, which she wore short and parted to the side.

“Why did you return?” he asked.

“I was through with my schooling, and my parents wanted me back.”

“I see.”

She fussed with the tassels on her shawl and slumped back down again, her back curved, her bony shoulders jutting forward like two horns. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen. I’ll be twenty next month. You?”

“Eighteen.”

They were silent. He was relieved when he heard his grandmother calling their names. Back inside, he stood with his grandparents and Emmanuel and Lupe in the foyer.

“It was nice meeting you, Paloma,” Diego said.

His grandfather cleared his throat and jabbed him in the side. “Isn’t there something you’d like to ask Paloma?”

Diego tried not to show his anger. He had always been obedient to the old man, but this was just too much. They all stared, waiting for him to speak. “Paloma,” he said, his tone reluctant, “would you like to go for a stroll with me tomorrow? Say, six in the evening?”

The girl said nothing, only looked down at the tips of her shoes.

Lupe shook her gently. “Paloma,” she said. “Diego’s asked you out. What do you say?”

She shrugged her shoulders again. “Yes,” she said. “Fine.”

“There,” Emmanuel said, clapping his hands, his palms and fingers plump. “That settles it.”

She was from a good family, his grandfather reminded him after they left. From good stock, he would say. As if she were cattle, as if she were a thing to be bred. Paloma Pacheco would secure a good position for him among the elite of Morelia. The marriage of a Sánchez and a Pacheco. Finally! As much as the thought excited his grandfather, it terrified Diego, made him feel weighed down. Imagine it, his grandfather urged him, pouring Diego a glass of cognac. Doroteo had taken to inviting Diego to sit with him in the parlor to drink and smoke tobacco.

In between sips, his grandfather laid out the merits of his seeing Paloma. She’s a good girl, he said. Wealthy. You would never have to worry about money again.

“But what if I don’t love her?” Diego asked him that night. The cognac had gone to his head. He thought about Javier, wondered where he was, what he was doing.

“Love?” His grandfather chuckled and swatted the air with his hand. “You grow to love someone. It happens little by little.”

That was how emotions worked for the old man and others of their generation. Love wasn’t something felt deep within the blood, a mystery of the heart. A man married not for love. A man married to secure for himself a good place within the ranks of society. Love was incidental. If it was lacking in the marriage, his grandfather said, there were other ways to acquire it.

Perhaps it was the liquor that was blocking his ability to follow the conversation, but he didn’t fully understand. “What other ways, Grandfather?” He took the last sip of his cognac and felt it burn his throat as it slid down.

Doroteo glanced around to make sure they were alone. “Young ladies,” he whispered.
“Friends.”
He winked. “Pay them visits. Keep them around. Hidden but close by. Keep them for many years.” Then he raised his glass and nodded. “Even the most honest and morally straight man among us keeps a mistress.”

“Have you ever?” Diego asked him now, setting his empty glass down.

And just as his grandfather was about to answer, Doña Julia walked into the parlor. “It’s late,” she said to them both. “Doroteo, you should rest.” She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead.

Diego couldn’t bring himself to watch. He looked away.

“Thank you, my love,” his grandfather said. He rose and followed her out.

Over the next several months, Diego had little choice but to spend more time with Paloma, when he really ached to be with Javier, whom he saw less and less now that his friend was enrolled in classes at the university. He took Paloma for long walks and to the symphony, which helped distract him from imagining a life with her. During a theater performance, Diego watched, enthralled, and the urge to get on stage stirred up inside of him again.

“I used to perform, you know?” he said to Paloma.

“Your grandmother told me,” she said. “What were you in?”

“Pageants at school. I was in
Julius Caesar
. I was the lead in
Macbeth
. I studied with a very renowned opera singer.”

“Fascinating,” she said, her tone flat.

What would it be like married to such a person? he wondered. It was true what his grandfather had told him, that he would have everything he’d ever need, that his children and his children’s children would be secure. And Emmanuel Pacheco liked Diego. Each time he stopped by to pick up Paloma, Emmanuel would greet him with a hug and a handshake, his robust face lighting up. He would invite him to sit and have a drink. He doted on Diego, gave him advice and his opinion on money matters and stocks and bonds. More important—and unlike Doroteo—he listened to him. Like a true father, Diego thought.

But there was one thing that Diego was sure of: he was not, nor could he ever be, in love with Paloma Pacheco. Quite simply, he found her dull. Diego spent their dates trying as hard as he could to engage her in one way or another. He took her dancing, to dinners, to church parties and socials with other people their age. No matter what he tried doing, he could never draw her out. He yearned for the kind of partnership and excitement he knew was possible with Javier, his closest friend.

One night, as they stood in front of her house saying good-bye,
he took her hand and kissed her on the cheek. He was about to leave when she spoke.

“Despite what you may think, I do like you,” she said.

“Oh?” he asked, turning around now. He really didn’t care one way or another.

“Yes,” she said. “And my father says you would make a fine husband.” She lowered her head, trying to be coy. “You must forgive my awkwardness. It’s just that I have little experience with boys. I get nervous.” She approached him now, took his hand and brought it up to her face. “You can kiss me,” she whispered, assuming he wanted to. “On the mouth.”

He closed his eyes and pressed his lips to hers. He tried to but felt absolutely nothing, and then it was over.

“Good night, Diego,” Paloma said, climbing the steps to the house.

“Good night, Paloma.”

The following year, they announced their engagement.

June 1926

P
LUTARCO
E
LÍAS
C
ALLES—ELECTED PRESIDENT OF THE REPUBLIC
two years earlier, in 1924—was, like many of the radicals and intellectuals around Morelia, a staunch atheist who harbored little sympathy for the Catholic Church. On June 14, 1926, Diego read in the newspaper that Calles would actively enforce Article 130 of the 1917 Constitution, stripping the church of much of its power. Priests no longer could hold public office, were required to register, and were not allowed to wear religious garb in public. Individual states were allowed to regulate the number of priests in specific regions, leaving entire areas completely void of clergy. Schools were secularized, and priests and nuns were regularly arrested. As a result, many began to flee to the United States.

Shortly after Diego read the newspaper article, he noticed the unease around Morelia gradually begin. Those opposing the church began nailing leaflets on posts around the city calling for control of the church by the government. Young people stood on the street corners and sidewalks shouting, handing out
Libre Morelia
leaflets announcing meetings to inform the wider public of the dangers and corruption inherent within the Catholic Church. After all it was the Benedictine and Franciscan monks in robes who had blessed the Spanish conquistadores, they charged, the very ones who then turned around and enslaved or slaughtered the indigenous. They told of the accounts of the priests in Nueva España, of their condescending view of the “native beast”—his savagery, his animalistic
urges, and the murderous and treacherous tendencies coursing through his blood. The church, they proclaimed, had, from the beginning, manipulated the government, destroyed lives, shattered the nation’s faith.

The priests preached that it was the end time, that it was foretold that an era would come when a godless government would rule over this land, condemning generations of souls to an eternity in hell. Their sermons stirred up feelings of resentment and suspicion in Diego, his grandparents, and their closest acquaintances. They prayed in secret, late at night, by candlelight. The saint statues and crucifixes and rosaries were hidden away, brought out only when they were in the company of those that could be trusted. The air in the city was charged with a sense of instability, with nervous energy. Diego could see it in the way people walked, their steps quick and frantic, in how they eyed one another with erratic and suspicious glances.

At the university, Diego knew students were banding together in between courses or after school and congregating outside the church’s gates to protest. They wore hats emblazoned with red stars, cursed, and caused commotions wherever they went. Hearing of all of this, Diego thought about the warring tribes before the Spaniards arrived, the Conquista, the French occupation, the fight for independence, the revolution, now this, and what was yet to come. An endless cycle of violence in Mexico. It was in their nature to wage war over false ideologies. They would die that way. What a waste.

Diego was excited about meeting Javier for a cup of coffee. But when he showed up to the café that afternoon with Esteban Rosales, Diego became quickly annoyed. Esteban’s father owned and ran a small printing press which some of the more radical newspapers and daily circulars used. Esteban’s parents were atheists whose anarchistic beliefs were in direct violation of those of the Catholic Church and the country. In their preparatoria, Esteban Rosales had had few friends and was known around the school for being something of a misfit, an odd boy. He had been a skinny and frail teenager with messy hair and long legs. Now, he was more filled out, his hair cut
and combed neatly. He wore a thin mustache and long sideburns. He strolled into the café with confidence, smoking a cigarette and holding a stack of books.