The Five Acts of Diego Leon Read Online Free Page A

have!”
    Diego said, “I’m glad that you like it.” And he felt proud then, felt himself part of the words, which were ancient and wise, the tongue of his father, his ancestors. He imagined his voice lifting up and being carried off by the gentle winds that blew, reaching his father who was far, far away, guiding him back home.
    That November of 1914, Elva celebrated her seventy-fifth birthday. Their neighbor, Narciso Méndez, killed a goat, and the women helped his wife, Rogelia, make birria and tortillas. Everyone in San Antonio gathered to celebrate. The men drank pulque and stood around the fire pit, and Diego remembered the revolutionaries who had passed through the year before, bringing the disease that killed his mother. He saw the church and remembered the injured man lying inside, crying out in pain all through the night as the statues of the Virgin and Christ looked on. The revolutionaries had forced the man to drink tequila. To help with the pain, they said. He got very drunk and shouted at Diego and some of the other children, many of them dead now, like his mother. Was the man still alive?
    The small church, with its two rows of pews and one candelabra, was open, and some of the women went to confess to Father Solís, who traveled on horseback to the different villages in the area to hold Mass and give Communion. Some children ate sweets and played, Diego among them, and they ran around the church, chasing one another. As night fell, everyone gathered to toast Elva.
    “My birthday wish is for Diego to sing to me. Flor de Canela,”Elva told the crowd. “Canel Tsïtsïki,” she said to Diego. “Do you remember it?”
    He nodded. He focused, sang the words to himself in his head:
    Flor de canela, I sigh, I sigh because I remember you
    I sigh, I sigh because I remember you
    Do not suffer, do not cry, for I will be waiting for you
    The other children watched him move toward the old woman who sat on a bench near the fire pit, a long rebozo woven of golden yarn wrapped around her head and shoulders. Someone had placed a fresh bouquet of flowers in Elva’s hand. She sipped pulque and smoked a cigarette rolled from marijuana leaves, which she said helped ease her stiff joints. Diego removed his hat and he took Elva’s hand. He cleared his throat. He took a deep breath and began to sing:
    Tsïtsïki urápiti, xankare sesi jaxeka, ka xamare p’untsumenjaka
    Ji uerasïngani sani, ka xankeni nona mirikurhini ia …
    Except for the occasional giggle from one of the children, the people were silent with appreciation. Elva listened intently, taking long, deep puffs from her cigarette, her eyes low and red, glowing warm and bright in the firelight. He continued to sing, watching the embers drift up into the darkening sky, and he imagined them to be his voice. This filled him with a warmth that was painful and lovely all at once. Everyone gathered around him, and Diego sang on and on:
    Axamu uerani, axamu k’arhancheni, nokeni jurákuakia
.
    Ji uerasïngani sani, ka xangeni nona mirikurini ia
    Axamu uerani, axamu k’arhancheni, jikeni eróntakia
.
    Ji uerasïngani sani, ka xangeni nona mirikurini ia
.
    When he finished, they applauded. Narciso gave Diego a sip of pulque, which he drank quickly and immediately spit out. Elva threw her head back and laughed loud, and Diego felt happy that he had brought her such joy.
    Afterward, Elva said, “You were wonderful. You have a gift. Like all of the P’urhépecha. From the gods. They have blessed us, you especially. Given you the ability to sing.”
    “And my father?” he asked. “What was his gift?”
    “I don’t know,” Elva said. “You’ll have to ask him when he returns.”
    “Will he ever?” Diego barely remembered him.
    Elva responded, “We can only hope.”

4.
July 1915–June 1917
    F OUR YEARS . G ABRIEL L EÓN WAS GONE FOUR YEARS . There had been a heavy rainstorm the night before, and the roads and the fields were badly flooded on the day when he and