Page 10 of The Night We Became Strangers

Matías

I n mere seconds, general panic turned into rage.

While the doctor and I helped the pregnant woman into the hotel lobby and set her on an ivory couch, an angry mob had gathered in the plaza and, among screams and curses, they marched in the direction of the radio station.

“These sons of bitches! We’ll show them!”

“ ?Desgraciados, van a ver! ”

A mass of people gathered outside the vestibule’s window, shouting threats and irate words, then advanced toward Chile Street.

I looked at the doctor, and he nodded. Slipping on the green-and-white checkered marble floor, I rushed out of the hotel and followed them for the next block.

The crowd consisted of mostly men carrying large sticks and rocks, but a few women were partaking in the mutiny as well.

“ ?Matías! ”

Someone yelled ahead of me. I recognized the voice and face of my friend and neighbor Benjamin among several others.

“Benja!” I said.

Squeezing through the multitude, I finally reached him.

“My dad’s inside the building!” he said, pointing at the five-story Crónicas building coming into view.

Benjamin’s father, Raúl Cortés, was the newspaper’s editor-inchief.

He and my dad had also been friends for years.

It was not unusual that Raúl would be there tonight, as sometimes editors stayed late to solve problems that may arise with the next day’s edition, or to read the front page, or to write their own opinion pieces.

On occasion, my dad would stay late as well, particularly if some political drama had developed in the evening and he had to oversee the new story and front page.

“Do you know if my dad is there, too?” I asked.

“I don’t know!” He had to scream to be heard as the horde around us was getting rowdy.

As the mob reached the building, they tried to open the metal door, but it was locked. They banged on it relentlessly. Others threw rocks at the windows or hit them with their sticks, cracking some of them. Someone got hold of a brick and threw it at one of the windows, shattering it.

Among the crowd, I spotted one of my destitute cousins—those we never mentioned.

They were older than me by two or three years—twins—a man and a woman.

One of my aunts had made a “questionable marriage,” according to what my mom had related to me, and had basically been disowned by my grandfather, so they apparently lived in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Quito.

But I had seen photos of them that my mother had showed me in utmost secrecy a couple of years ago.

He stared at me, which told me he knew exactly who I was. I waved at him as a sign that I knew who he was and didn’t hate him, but he turned away and kept walking toward the building, a torch in his hand and a rolled newspaper under his arm.

I lost sight of him as people began gathering outside the building like ants on a piece of watermelon.

“We have to go in,” I told Benjamin, “and warn the people inside what’s going on.”

“How? The door is locked!” Benjamin said, testing the door-knob again. He barely had enough room to move as the mob was squeezing him against the door.

I pushed bodies aside and made my way toward the glass window, where the linotype machine could be seen. I wiped the glass with the corner of my shirt and tried to look inside, hands and face pressed against the cool glass.

The linotypist stood by the machine in his navy smock, staring at us with a puzzled expression.

I bet some technicians and operators were not even aware of the unfortunate broadcast yet.

There was some movement behind him, but I couldn’t tell who the people were.

The crash of another window startled me as a bulky rock broke through the glass.

People proceeded to throw burning newspapers inside the building.

The very same pages of Crónicas were feeding the burgeoning fire.

“Stop!” I yelled. “What are you doing? There are innocent people inside!”

But the crowd was blinded by rage. A man, slightly taller than me, was about to hurl a large torch inside the building. I tackled him to the ground, but as soon as I got up, someone punched me on the side of the face. I fell on a couple of women who were directly behind me.

They shrieked.

“Sorry,” I said, attempting to stand.

“Here!” Benjamin said, offering me his hand. Somehow he’d managed to escape the mass of people pressing him against the entrance.

The brakes of a truck caught my attention as its driver was parking the vehicle across the building and forcing people to move out of his way without regard for human life. The back of the truck was filled with rocks that the mob proceeded to grab and throw against the building.

How did they know to bring rocks?

The smell of gasoline became overwhelming.

“What are you doing?” I asked everyone and no one in particular.

This was my father’s building, my grandfather’s legacy, the pride of the Montero family.

A newspaper my father worked very hard to print every day at the sacrifice of his own family time.

A paper that had cost him his own blood, sweat, and tears.

Now these bandits wanted to destroy it because of a stupid radionovela ? It didn’t seem fair.

“Someone, please, call the police! Call the firefighters!” a voice shouted behind me, but I couldn’t discern whom it belonged to.

I attempted to push away the vandals who kept throwing rocks and burning newspapers, but a few of them restrained both my arms.

People had truly lost their minds. A cluster of men managed to bust the door open. Men in navy smocks fled out. Some were welcomed into the street with a shove or a punch—even though they clearly had nothing to do with the disastrous broadcast.

“Where the hell is Leopoldo Anzures?” a voice in the furious crowd shouted. “This is all his fault!”

“Come out, you malparido !”

“Now comes the second part of the invasion, cabrones !”

“Please, someone call the firefighters!” One of the Crónicas workers said, between coughs.

As the flames grew, we could hear the screams of people inside. More and more employees found their way out, but as the fire spread, a group of people attempted a human chain to descend from one of the higher windows—with disastrous results. All five or six of them fell to the ground.

I shut my eyes, but I feared that the scene I’d just witnessed would stick with me for the rest of my life.

I brought my hands to my throat where a big lump grew painfully.

After minutes that seemed like hours, a fire truck finally came to the rescue, its siren a welcome, heaven-sent sound in the midst of the uproar.

“What took you so long?” a concerned woman demanded from a firefighter attempting to unfasten the hose from the truck.

“Most firemen and policemen are in Cotocollao, fighting the so-called Martians,” the firefighter said, annoyed. “The rest of us thought the calls about the fire were part of the radio drama.”

As a second firefighter descended and helped the other one unravel the hose, two angry citizens threatened them with a thick stick.

“One more move and we’ll kill you!”

Others got hold of the first firefighter. A man in a military uniform ran inside Crónicas before anyone could stop him.

I managed to escape the grasp of the faceless mob. Something told me that my father, at the very least, might be inside. I had to do something. Covering my head with my sheepskin jacket, I entered the burning building.