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.
“Do you two know each other?” Javier said.
“I’m not sure,” Diego said, feigning ignorance as he glanced at Esteban.
“Julius Caesar,” Esteban said.
“No. Diego.”
Esteban laughed. “I meant the play.
Julius Caesar
.”
“Yes,” Diego said. “Of course. I remember now.” Diego had been angry because he wanted to play the lead but instead was given the part of Brutus. In the end, though, he was glad he got the role he did because, as Carolina had explained, Brutus was a much more complicated character, far more challenging and interesting. Esteban Rosales had been cast as one of the senators who conspired, along with Brutus, to assassinate Caesar. There had been rumors around the preparatoria about Esteban and his ways. Some of the boys had talked about seeing him with an older man, the two locked in an embrace and kissing each other.
Javier and Esteban went on and on, gossiping about their classes at the university, talking about the current climate between the government and the church, which they saw as evil, controlling, an oppressive institution that needed to be eradicated.
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Diego responded.
“Hardly,” Esteban said.
Diego soon felt excluded, and he finished his coffee and stormed off. The two of them hardly noticed he was gone, not until they looked out into the street and waved good-bye to him.
A few days later, on his walk to his grandfather’s office early in the morning, Diego saw Esteban. Esteban wore a pair of argyle stockings pulled up to his knees, baggy tan knickerbockers, a striped shirt with a high collar, a bow tie, and a yellow vest that fit very tight over his lean body. Pinned to the vest was a patch in the form of a star. He stood near the plaza’s central fountain holding a stack of leaflets. The few pedestrians out at that hour paid little attention to him, but when a woman did stop to take one, she looked at it,shouted something to Esteban Diego couldn’t hear, and shoved the leaflet back at him.
“Hello, Diego,” Esteban said.
“Hello,” he said. “What have you got there?” He pointed to the leaflets.
Esteban handed him one.
Across the top,
Libre Morelia
was written in big bold letters. It was an announcement condemning the Catholic Church. It talked of its corruption, its greed, and its dangerous influence over the lives of everyone—from politicians to the rich to the very poor—in the republic. There would be a meeting, it went on to say, a gathering of “like-minded” individuals, to discuss and come up with ways to resist the church and fight back.
“You should come to the meeting,” Esteban said. “My father says it’s important for people our age to involve themselves. He says we’ll inherit this country and that if the church continues to grow, all will be lost.”
“Do you believe it? Do you think the church is corrupt? That it’s bad?”
“I do,” he said.
Despite himself, Diego imagined Esteban doing the things the others had gossiped about. He envisioned him bent over with a man behind him. He wanted to ask him if the stories were true, wanted to know what it felt like to be with someone in that way.
“What do you say?” Esteban asked now. “Javier’s coming, too.”
“Really?” Diego nodded. “You two are close, aren’t you?”
“Sure. Well, we’re … friends.”
“Friends,”
Diego repeated.
“So, tomorrow then?” Esteban said, after a pause. “Meet us in front of the university. By the main gate.”
He was still holding the flyer when he arrived at the office. His grandfather was already there, standing over his desk, squinting at an old document with faded letters and smudged ink. He picked it up carefully, the document so aged and delicate that it looked as though the slightest stir, the softest breeze, would
“Do you two know each other?” Javier said.
“I’m not sure,” Diego said, feigning ignorance as he glanced at Esteban.
“Julius Caesar,” Esteban said.
“No. Diego.”
Esteban laughed. “I meant the play.
Julius Caesar
.”
“Yes,” Diego said. “Of course. I remember now.” Diego had been angry because he wanted to play the lead but instead was given the part of Brutus. In the end, though, he was glad he got the role he did because, as Carolina had explained, Brutus was a much more complicated character, far more challenging and interesting. Esteban Rosales had been cast as one of the senators who conspired, along with Brutus, to assassinate Caesar. There had been rumors around the preparatoria about Esteban and his ways. Some of the boys had talked about seeing him with an older man, the two locked in an embrace and kissing each other.
Javier and Esteban went on and on, gossiping about their classes at the university, talking about the current climate between the government and the church, which they saw as evil, controlling, an oppressive institution that needed to be eradicated.
“Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Diego responded.
“Hardly,” Esteban said.
Diego soon felt excluded, and he finished his coffee and stormed off. The two of them hardly noticed he was gone, not until they looked out into the street and waved good-bye to him.
A few days later, on his walk to his grandfather’s office early in the morning, Diego saw Esteban. Esteban wore a pair of argyle stockings pulled up to his knees, baggy tan knickerbockers, a striped shirt with a high collar, a bow tie, and a yellow vest that fit very tight over his lean body. Pinned to the vest was a patch in the form of a star. He stood near the plaza’s central fountain holding a stack of leaflets. The few pedestrians out at that hour paid little attention to him, but when a woman did stop to take one, she looked at it,shouted something to Esteban Diego couldn’t hear, and shoved the leaflet back at him.
“Hello, Diego,” Esteban said.
“Hello,” he said. “What have you got there?” He pointed to the leaflets.
Esteban handed him one.
Across the top,
Libre Morelia
was written in big bold letters. It was an announcement condemning the Catholic Church. It talked of its corruption, its greed, and its dangerous influence over the lives of everyone—from politicians to the rich to the very poor—in the republic. There would be a meeting, it went on to say, a gathering of “like-minded” individuals, to discuss and come up with ways to resist the church and fight back.
“You should come to the meeting,” Esteban said. “My father says it’s important for people our age to involve themselves. He says we’ll inherit this country and that if the church continues to grow, all will be lost.”
“Do you believe it? Do you think the church is corrupt? That it’s bad?”
“I do,” he said.
Despite himself, Diego imagined Esteban doing the things the others had gossiped about. He envisioned him bent over with a man behind him. He wanted to ask him if the stories were true, wanted to know what it felt like to be with someone in that way.
“What do you say?” Esteban asked now. “Javier’s coming, too.”
“Really?” Diego nodded. “You two are close, aren’t you?”
“Sure. Well, we’re … friends.”
“Friends,”
Diego repeated.
“So, tomorrow then?” Esteban said, after a pause. “Meet us in front of the university. By the main gate.”
He was still holding the flyer when he arrived at the office. His grandfather was already there, standing over his desk, squinting at an old document with faded letters and smudged ink. He picked it up carefully, the document so aged and delicate that it looked as though the slightest stir, the softest breeze, would
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