Page 1 of The Night We Became Strangers
Matías
I couldn’t pinpoint with precision what noise had awoken me.
A loud screech? The clash of metal? There was some sort of collision outside my window and people were screaming.
I moved the curtain aside, pulled my window open, and leaned over the white metal sill to peek at the street three stories down.
Don Jacinto owned the barbershop across the street, but he constantly kept an eye on his beloved vehicle.
I had to admit that sometimes we messed with his car just to get a reaction from him, me being the primary instigator.
At my thirteen years of age, the barber’s outbursts were hilarious and broke the monotony of those sleepy weekday afternoons in my dull neighborhood, if only minimally.
My predictions were all wrong. Instead of the brawl I envisioned, Don Jacinto got out of his car and extended his fat arms, conciliatory, toward González, the pharmacist, who got out of his Chevy and reciprocated the hug.
“I’m sorry, vecino , it was my fault,” González said. “I shouldn’t have stopped so abruptly.”
“No,” Don Jacinto said. “It was completely my fault.”
“How about that news, huh?”
“Terrifying, Senor González. Absolutely terrifying.”
All around them, people were running up and down the street, frantically.
Nobody was stopping to look at the car damage or offer an opinion.
Curious bystanders, who normally surrounded an accident scene to voice their assessments of guilt—unconcerned with the preservation of evidence or the status of the victims—were nowhere to be seen tonight.
People were minding their own business as though they were late for an important appointment.
I rubbed my eyes. Was I still dreaming?
My parents and I lived in a three-story house in the heart of downtown Quito—a house entirely too big for the three of us and our maid, Delia, but it was only a few blocks away from my family’s newspaper, Crónicas .
It was convenient and comfortable, and my father’s family had owned this property for generations.
“Nino Mati!” Delia said, bursting into my room.
Her sudden presence and the use of “nino” followed by the diminutive of my name annoyed me. Didn’t she realize I was no longer a child? I was taller than my mother and just a bit shorter than my dad, for God’s sake! Even at school they called me “Senor Montero.”
“Something horrible has happened!”
“Yes, I saw. Don Jacinto’s Buick hit the pharmacist’s Chevy.”
“Martians have landed!”
If I weren’t so irritated with her, I would’ve laughed. She must be demented, or sleepwalking.
“Let’s go to the kitchen, and I’ll prepare you a té de tilo ,” I said as a peace offering.
“No! There’s no time for tea! That’s not what I’m doing the last minutes of my life.”
“What on earth are you talking about, woman?”
“They just announced on the radio that Martians have attacked Latacunga, and there have also been UFO sightings over the Galapagos Islands!” Her voice trembled a little. “Come!”
Questioning her sanity, I followed her to the living room on the second story, where my dad kept his Telefunken radio covered with a piece of white cloth to prevent it from getting dusty.
“Where’s my mom?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She’s not back yet. ?Virgen Santísima! Maybe the Martians got her!”
It was hard not to laugh at the stupidities coming out of her mouth.
I expected her to burst out laughing any second, but Delia didn’t have a sense of humor.
She was always businesslike and busy. No time for chitchat or distractions.
Then how could she have fabricated this outrageous lie?
I’d never known her to possess any acting skills, either, and her performance, I hated to admit it, was credible.
Wearing her pink nightrobe and curlers on her head, she approached the radio and turned the volume up. Stranger than her senseless ramblings was not seeing her in her customary light blue uniform.
“This is unbelievable,” the radio announcer was saying. “People are running through the streets. They can’t escape! Listeners, the city of Latacunga has been destroyed by a swarm of aliens, and they’re headed for Quito! I repeat: they’re headed for Quito!”
His voice sounded broken.
“Dear listeners, our civilization is wounded,” the man continued, dramatically.
“Our species is facing its own extinction. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s accept the inevitable.
The incredible news we’re delivering is coming to us from legitimate international agencies and, of course, sources at our own capital’s daily newspaper, Crónicas , which operates in this very same building.
This news bulletin is brought to you exclusively by Naranjada, the unbeatable orange soda. Now in pineapple flavor, too.”
What was this nonsense? As a heartfelt pasillo resumed, Delia got on her knees, her long, bony fingers coming together in a praying gesture, her slender frame being swallowed by the oversized cotton robe. At the top of her lungs, she recited the Padre Nuestro.
“Kneel down, Nino Matías!” she ordered. “Let’s pray for our salvation.”
I hesitated. I needed to know if what Delia and the radio announcer were saying was true. And I wouldn’t find that out on my knees.
Without speaking another word, I darted toward the stairs and out into the street.