Page 11 of The Night We Became Strangers

Valeria

T ío Bolívar first came onto my radar the day after my father’s radio station recklessly transmitted the infamous adaptation of The War of the Worlds .

Until that catastrophic day, he’d been a distant uncle that I would bump into at the station hallways or see in passing at family dinners during Christmas or New Year’s Eve while I was busily playing las escondidas with my cousins—hide-and-goseek had always been my favorite game.

So, I was understandably baffled when he came to my house in the middle of the afternoon and took me out for ice cream without preamble.

I suspected this outing had something to do with my parents’ absence. Neither one had spent the night at home, and I’d been worried sick about them. Fortunately, there had been Ada, always Ada, my beloved nanny, to look after me.

Tío Bolívar bought me a two-scoop mango ice cream flanked with banana slices inside a crystal tulip glass. Two scoops! My parents only ever bought me one.

“Valerita,” he said. “I’m afraid I have some upsetting news.”

I set my spoon aside after a small taste.

“There was an accident last night,” he said, his fingers trembling slightly over the checkered tablecloth. “A fire at the radio station.”

A fire ? There was still mango residue on my lower lip.

“Unfortunately, your parents didn’t make it.”

What was he saying?

“It happened so quickly.” He tapped his unlit cigarette on the table’s surface. “I—I don’t even understand what happened myself.”

There must be a mistake. “No. You’re wrong.”

“I wish I was wrong.”

“I want to see them!” I said, standing.

“No, wait, sit down. Nobody can go in there. The firefighters and the police are the only ones allowed. They’re trying to recover the bodies. I—I’m sorry, mijita .” He grabbed my hand. “I wish I could give you better news.”

“But how do they know they were there?”

“We heard their voices on the radio just a few minutes before the fire. They were performing in the radio drama. Others saw them there, too. They were on the third floor, so the chances of them escaping are slim. We have no way of knowing, at this point, how many people made it out, but the fact that nobody saw them leave the building and it is now”—he glanced at his wristwatch—“four o’clock is pretty telling, considering the fire started at ten last night. ”

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it. “How do you know they’re not hospitalized?”

“I was standing outside the building. I saw all the people who were taken to the hospital. Besides, I called all the hospitals this morning.”

“Take me there.”

“To the hospital?”

“To the radio station.”

For a long time, he didn’t say anything but simply scratched his chin. He hadn’t shaved and his growing beard was starting to join his mustache and sideburns. His eyebrows also had given up and decided to form a bridge over his brow and form one long eyebrow.

I stared at my ice cream as it slowly melted.

I’d always heard employees say bad things about my uncle: that he was mean, that he was greedy, that he drank too much, but I appreciated that he spoke the truth to me.

He didn’t treat me like a little girl, but a person with a functioning brain.

He could’ve lied to me to soften the blow of my parents’ death, like so many adults in my life would do subsequently, to spare my feelings, but he agreed to take me to the radio station to see with my own eyes that what he was saying was true.

I didn’t know if Tío Bolívar was good or bad, or if what he had just told me was the truth. All I knew was that from that day on, I would never eat mango again.

T he harmonious strings of a guitar woke me up after midnight.

I turned to my cousin in the bed next to mine, but she was asleep.

The music seemed to be coming from the street.

I thought of my cousin Germán, who’d been talking incessantly about saving money for a requinto guitar during dinner, but the truth was that whoever was outside was an experienced musician, or a group of them.

The chords appeared to be from more than one guitar.

I sat up, rubbing my eyes. The tall light post from the street partially illuminated Graciela’s dim room, and I could see my cousin’s silhouette as she sat up.

“ ?Sereno! ” we yelled in unison, dumping our covers to the floor and leaping toward the window.

“Wait!” Graciela said, as I attempted to open the lacy curtain. “You can’t show too much eagerness. You have to play hard to get.”

“You realize the serenade may not be for us, right?”

Besides, I didn’t want to play hard to get with Matías, if, in fact, it was him who had brought me a serenade after realizing it was me—his childhood girlfriend—at the newspaper the other day. Well, the term girlfriend might be a bit of wishful thinking on my part.

“Open it slowly,” Graciela instructed with the expertise her years granted her.

Maybe it was her sailor finally coming back. How disappointing that would be.

“All right,” I said, gently moving the curtain aside.

A duet delivered the first lyrics of “Perfidia,” one of the most popular boleros of the last fifteen years. The harmonious baritones—so rich and melancholic—brought about unexpected emotions. If this went on much longer, I might start tearing up.

“Who is it?” Graciela asked, still hiding behind the wall.

I squinted. “I can’t really see. There’s three of them.”

“Are they standing under our window?”

“Yes.”

She brought a hand to her chest and for once forgot to cover her mouth as she smiled.

What could only be described as a toad was bouncing in my stomach as I tried to distinguish who the third man was.

I’d already discounted the first two singers as strangers, but I still held the hope that the third one might be Matías.

Back at the newspaper, I’d been impressed with how favorably he’d aged.

He’d certainly been cute for a thirteen-year-old, but those were some awkward years for everyone, and he hadn’t reached his full potential yet. Not until now.

Under the streetlight, the third man’s hair was starting to look copper to me. He finally raised his head.

Oh, no.

Félix Recalde.

I dropped the curtain and took a step back.

“Let me see,” Graciela said, removing her front curlers and peeking outside eagerly. “Ohhh …” She sounded equally disappointed. “Félix.”

I crossed my arms.

“It’s still a nice gesture,” she added.

I sighed. “Well, what are we supposed to do now?”

“Wave, I guess.”

One voice rose above the others. It was an impressive tenor, with a projection that filled my arms with goosebumps. When I looked down again, I was shocked. The voice belonged to none other than Félix. But how could that be when he’d barely been able to speak last week?

Graciela and I stared at each other, our mouths agape. She turned on the lamp on her night table and subsequently, waved at the men.

“Do you know the other two?” I said, waving more reluctantly than my cousin.

“No. But one of them is really cute.” She covered her smile. “The tall one in the back. You see him?”

At that moment, a man in stripped pajamas—Tío Bolívar—stepped onto the street and effusively patted Félix in the back. Then, he waved at me from downstairs, displaying his widest smile.

I realized then it wouldn’t be so easy to ignore his plans.