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The Continuation of my Adventure
Episode 5: Diego
I was afraid to go to sleep. I was afraid that I would wake up in New York City, 2003, sitting at my crashed, demolished computer. True, I wanted to get back there eventually, but I wanted to see this adventure through.
My two maids were bustling about, putting things away, helping me prepare for bed, getting things ready for the morning. What would I wear tomorrow, I asked Teresa, and she shook her head. My aunt was picking my dress, she said. That irritated me.
“If I like it, I shall wear it.”
Teresa then went prattling away to the quiet Maria about how many men I’d conquered in Mexico City. Teresa must have been my maidservant for many years. I wondered if she knew more details of my past than she was using as entertainment. Worry about that later.
I sat down at my writing desk, and looked over at my canopied bed. There were great gargoyles on it. I kid you not. Grotesque faces leering and sticking their tongues out at me on each of the pillars supporting the red and white canopy.
“Why are there gargoyles on my bed?” I asked my maids.
"Those are to chase evil spirits away, of course,” said Teresa.
More like to chase me away!
“You had them on your bed at home,” said Teresa.
Fine. Go to sleep with gargoyles. That sounds like my life.
Dipping the quill into an ink well, I started scratching out a note to Senor Mendoza. “Please leave Los Angeles. Someone here wants your death. Go to the inn at San Pedro, and I will contact you there.”
Well, actually I wrote, “Salga por favor de Los Ángeles. Alguien aquí desea su muerte. Vaya al mesón en San Pedro, y le entraré en contacto con allí.”
I do recommend this way of learning Spanish. But I should also like to point out that writing by quill takes TIME. I am impressed. The writing is pretty. Even mine! I remembered the penmanship techniques Sister Edward taught in my fifth grade. I loved that class. We did sentence diagramming, long division, poetry, science experiments, and penmanship. I loved the fifth grade. We used to play “Black Knight” at home in the yard after school, too. Guess who the Black Knight was. Yes, yes, it was me!
Have I digressed again? Gloriosky, I can just hear Keliana and SueQ and Julia yelling, Will you get to the point. Where the heck is Diego? Where is Zorro? Isn’t it nice you look so beeyuuutiful. Get this story moving, for heaven’s sake!
Ok, ok, but I should like to point out that time was passing in its usual way, not in the blink of a TV camera following the script saying CUT TO DE LA VEGA SALA. And I did want to take care of the problem of Senor Mendoza, the man sent by the viceroy to spy on me and check up on things in Los Angeles. I could use the viceroy as an ally. I had no trouble from Magdalena as I wrote the note! This was encouraging. I folded the letter and sealed it, addressed it to Senor Mendoza at the inn, and told Teresa I would give her a message to take to the inn very early in the morning.
Dismissing the servants, I climbed up the step past the gargoyles and into bed. I hesitated before taking out my contact lenses, but I dropped them into a small jewel case and hoped for the best. My bones ached, but my mind appreciated the sweet breeze and the sound of crickets through my window. Why, it reminded me of when I would fall asleep in Washington, New Jersey in the 1950s, with the soft breeze and singing of the old oak watching over me, and, feeling my aching body’s relief, I fell into an unthinking sleep. When I awoke, the birds were going at their singing to the coming dawn. Again, I thought I was back in the bedroom I’d known when I first discovered Zorro. Well, not exactly. I was never so happy to see a grotesque fat face sticking its tongue out at me. I was still Magdalena in Don Francisco’s home. And I felt happy and so rested.
And I was going to meet Don Diego de la Vega today!
The maids rushed in with tea, milk, and crusty bread, and then, while I put on a white muslin morning robe and ate, they came back with water, soaps, and Teresa carried all sorts of finery. I could get used to this. I didn’t think I could get used to the eyes on the floor demeanor of the servants, however. They shoved me into a corset, oiled me down with perfumes, helped me into stockings, and put a chemise and petticoat over my head. As they toiled over me, I realized their toiling was a good thing, because that corset held me in place like a tree trunk. I didn’t have much mobility. It pushed me up but did not really push me in, though. I realized why when Teresa put the dress on me.
I had worried about Aunt Inez’s choice in vain. Golly, what a gown. Well, my father did want progeny, and she helped as much as she could! This gown was a rich, luscious gold silk taffeta. The waist was high, and the neck was very low, hence the high pushing corset that didn’t crush my waist. The dress’ sleeves flared at my wrist to my knuckles, making my hands look very small. Maria tugged at my chemise to peek over my low neckline, and Teresa sewed the chemise to the dress with very fine stitches. Talk about a silken prison.
I just feasted my eyes on me.
And started getting nervous. What would I find? Would Diego BE Diego? Was he Zorro? Would I be able to help him defeat the Eagle?
Teresa combed my hair into rolls and then took out a head covering that melted my heart. Magdalene, you have impeccable taste and a sense of great style and fun! The cap was a kind of beret that Teresa carefully pinned at the back of my head. Its color matched my gown with an overlay of black netting and a black tassel dangling down. Maria slipped on my low heeled, black silk shoes.
I was dressed to kill.
Someone knocked at the door, opened it, and walked in. It was dear Auntie Inez, her face all brightness.
“You look beautiful! I knew that dress would be right for today. Oh, my dear, no man will be able to take their eyes off you. Why, I am having trouble!”
A thousand pardons, Auntie, but I will not go there.
“Thank you, Auntie,” I said, almost adding, “And how did you like Sergeant Garcia?”
She tittered nervously. “We must go down. Your father is anxious to leave.”
Teresa draped me in an embroidered shawl of black net, the floral motif of the shawl in bright colors – reds, yellows, and greens, and trimmed with silk fringe. Can I please take these clothes with me when I leave?
Father looked delighted at my appearance, but after he bowed formally toward me, we went into the chapel. He led us in Latin prayers. Pater Noster, Ave Maria. I remembered many of them, but that might have been because both Magdalena and I had been raised in an old Catholic tradition, pre-Vatican II. We might both have studied with Sister Edward.
But, oh I am heartily sorry –
All I could think of was that today I was going to meet Don Diego de la Vega.
The parallel time alternate universe world celebrated with me. When we went outside to the carriage, the birds were cavorting and singing, the air felt fresh and vital, and the sun’s light was steady and white, making all the colors especially vibrant. The ride seemed very long, the three of us sitting there.
Finally, I said something.
“Who is El Zorro?” I asked.
“How do you know about him?” Father asked, startled.
Uh oh. How did I know? I could hardly say, “Walt Disney’s Zorro.” Then I remembered the handbill.
“I saw the notice at the inn,” I said, relieved.
“You should not think of him,” said Don Francisco. “He is making all sorts of trouble, claiming to represent all the people of California, but he does not. He takes up the defense of the peons and those not of noble blood.”
“Is he…like Robin Hood?” I asked, quickly trying to figure out when Robin Hood was. Right. Richard the Lion Hearted. Way long ago, only perhaps the Spanish wouldn’t have heard about him. “Will he steal from us to give to the poor?”
“Who knows what he will do?” my father muttered. “The man irritates the blazes out of the military and the upper classes. The peons worship him. At the drop of a sword, he could rouse the people against their rulers and masters.”
“There must be a reason, Father,” I said, calmly. I felt Magdalena listening alertly.
“I am not saying that the military do not at times abuse the power they have. I will give you that. We have had some lousy commandantes, and we have complained bitterly to the governor and to the king. But Spain has enough problem without California turning into chaos.”
“Who is Zorro?” I asked, digesting this information.
My father shrugged. “No one knows. The fellow wears a black outfit and mask. He is a mystery, and that is part of his charm, I suppose. All ladies are mad about him.” No kidding.
The land we drove through was rich pasture, and the herds looked fat and plenty. Above us, on the soft hills, were row upon row of vines. Below us, a river made its way through the pastures and the vineyards. What a peaceful and rich land.
I could see several buildings in the distance, and then the graceful two story structure surrounded by a great wall.
Very much like what I knew the hacienda to look like.
Today I was going to meet Don Diego de la Vega.
This really was real.
My heart started beating against the poor whale’s bones. I began to feel that something was wrong here.
Oh,no! I had forgotten!
I couldn’t play the piano! I could beat some tunes out with my right hand and make out a few chords with my left, but as for playing elegant tunes, I was hopeless. In my nervousness, I couldn’t even remember the song I was supposed to be playing when Diego entered the sala.
Think. Think. (Well, it worked in The Music Man.)
We drove up to the gate, and an old Indian came to help us out.
“Thank you, Juan,” said my father.
I smiled heartily at Juan, wondering which Juan he was. The old native looked at his shoes and then backed away.
The terrace looked bigger than I remembered, with several servants and vaqueros going back and forth - like a town plaza - and there were the stairs, and they were going up – I looked at the door I knew to be Diego’s room, and there was Bernardo looking down at us. He bowed to me! I wanted to wave happily and call out, “Yo! Bernardo!”
Bernardo, by the way, looked like Bernardo.
The door flew open, and a boisterous, eager Don Alejandro came running out to greet us. “Ah, Don Francisco, and your beautiful daughter. And dear Inez,” he added, as if an afterthought. The vigorous old man dominated the patio. He was taller, but the silver hair, and the twinkling eyes might well have been George Lewis’.
I curtsied to the grand old man, though I wanted to fling my arms around him. He kissed my hand and studied me with such delight, that I thought I had done him a great, wonderful deed.
“My son Diego is not home at present, but I expect him at any moment,” he said excitedly, ushering us into the sala I knew so well. Actually, it struck me as more lively and colorful than the sala we know, and there were several vases of fresh flowers about that smelled spicy and sweet.
I sat in the chair by the window, the one Diego would sit in later in the episode, with Aunt Inez beside me. Don Alejandro joked with my father, servants brought cool water, and I waited.
A horse trotted up outside the gate. Someone strode through the terrace, and I heard him running up the stairs. I closed my eyes, envisioning him. Would he be the Diego I knew? Would he be Zorro? I may not be able to play the piano, but my strings were pretty taut. Was it fair to want only a gorgeous, handsome Diego, to be so swept up by appearances? Perhaps this Diego would be short and fat. Perhaps he had a double chin. Would that matter? After all that suffering I made myself do last night, should that matter to me? Was I such a hypocrite? What if Diego was more like Shrek?
“Pardon me,” Don Alejandro said, bowing to us. “My son has returned. If you will excuse me, I will invite him to join us.”
Don Alejandro went out. I heard him going up the stairs to convince Diego to come down and meet me.
Aunt Inez said, “Wouldn’t it be good if Diego came in and heard you playing music? Francisco, she has such a beautiful touch.”
“After all that schooling, I would hope so,” my father smiled. “I would love to hear you, child.”
I would, too. Magdalena was being maddeningly quiet, and my stays were being maddeningly omnipresent. How could anyone play wearing a corset? I went to the piano, racking my brain, increasingly nervous, and wondering what to play. For the life of me, I could not remember the song Magdalena played. I zipped through the dialogue of the script I knew so well, but instead of the right song coming to mind, all I could remember was sitting in the hotel room in Key Largo and laughing as Keliana, Jill, and Suezzzz performed “My Guy” for the rest of us Guy fans.
Well, that would certainly liven up the proceedings. I could probably fake through a chorus of “My Guy.”
Think again.
I thought again. “I sing of the lovely Elena…”
No, that wasn’t it.
“Lonely guitar…whooo whooo.…” Oh, not that!
A door opened and shut.
I jumped.
I heard Don Alejandro say, “My son will be down in a moment.”
I placed my hands on the keys and touched a few notes lightly. Magdalena or someone seemed to take pity on me and I was playing a Mozart tune. I knew that Mozart had borrowed it from a song about someone losing their dog, so that was funny. But it was a pretty tune. I noticed that the piano had been tuned since episode one.
“Your daughter plays beautifully,” I heard Don Alejandro say.
I heard someone walking outside on the terrace, toward the door. A quick, alert step. You know how Gail talks about melting into puddles? Well, I felt I was about to. The door opened.
I remembered. “Mi corazon my love.” Yes!
My fingers found the notes and pressed them down.
“Ah, here is Diego!” called out Alejandro.
“Diego, my boy!” called out my father. “It’s been much too long!”
I played, listening intently, although I knew what everyone was going to say. This is possibly the nicest, most exciting experience of déjà vu I have ever known.
“You are looking very well!” said my father.
“Thank you, Don Francisco,” said a voice, and I my fingers paused in their playing for just a fraction of a beat. Diego’s voice. Was it the one we know so well? All I can say is – I felt as if someone had smoothed satin across my bare skin. That quiet resonance that I knew could deepen into a powerful deep voice if it needed to.
I dimly remembered that I was to turn around and smile, but I could not bring myself to move, and there was that wicked, pinching corset.
“My daughter, Magdalena,” said my father. “She was only a baby when she left Los Angeles.”
I always liked that line. It sounded as if the baby Magdalena got bored in Los Angeles and up and walked out on her own.
“As you know,” my father went on, “she was brought up in Mexico City.”
And a few other places that might surprise you, I thought. I concentrated on the music. Diego, you come here. You are supposed to come here.
I continued playing as the forceful steps came close to me, slowed, and then stopped. I felt his presence as I played, and I finished the phrase. Then, I couldn’t remember if it was in the script or not, I held my fingers still on the keys.
And I looked up at Diego de la Vega.
