Page 15 of The Night We Became Strangers

Valeria

G raciela and I pestered Tío Bolívar all through dinner to take us with him to the welcome party the producers of Ernesto Albán’s movie were hosting for his co-stars, Alejandro Toledo and Juliana Isabel.

Only a few important members of the press had been invited—my uncle being one of them.

In the end, exhaustion trampled conviction.

Tío Bolívar finally gave up and nodded, taking a satisfying drag of smoke after the hefty meal my aunt had prepared.

Since she wasn’t going—Tía Marga hated social gatherings—he agreed to take me and my cousin in her place.

Before he could change his mind, Graciela and I rushed upstairs to find something mildly appropriate to wear.

Graciela ended up wearing one of her older sister’s gowns—an emerald one—and I wore a black velvet pencil skirt dress with lace on top.

It had belonged to my late mother. I figured this classic-cut dress wouldn’t look too outdated.

In fact, I felt sophisticated in it. This was my first time wearing my mother’s clothes, but my aunt had been saving them for years in a large trunk she presented to me a few days after my arrival.

My mother must have been smaller than me, as the top was a little tight on me, but it would do for tonight.

I had not told Graciela yet, but once we reached the party, I was going to demand my camera back from Alejandro Toledo’s bodyguard. Since my uncle didn’t let us go to the press conference after the airport fiasco, I never got a chance to get it back.

The party was being held in the home of one of the producers, just a few blocks from my uncle’s house. I remembered seeing this spectacular construction as a child and thinking it was a magical palace, but I never knew whom it belonged to, and never, ever, had I imagined going to a party inside.

A surge of excitement made my legs tingle as I maneuvered my mom’s heels through the narrow cobblestone street.

“I want you near me at all times, Valeria,” my uncle said. He still hadn’t forgiven me for wandering about in the airport.

“ Sí, tío, ” I said, conciliatory.

For years, I’d been dreaming of going to parties in fancy places like these.

I wasn’t going to ruin it now. The sound of trumpets and drums could be heard from a block away.

The music only added to my excitement. Graciela and I exchanged smiles, hers behind a gloved hand.

We followed Tío Bolívar inside through the open gates and into a large patio where several tables had been set and an orchestra performed on a raised stage.

The courtyard was surrounded by large columns and, above them, balustrades with long planters and red geraniums in bloom.

The walls were a combination of peach, white, and vermillion.

I tried to spot the Mexican celebrities among the crowd, without any luck.

My uncle, however, approached the charismatic Ernesto Albán, who was wearing his customary bowler hat with its matching black tie and jacket.

Don Ernesto, otherwise known as his popular character Evaristo, was a short, pudgy man in his mid-forties.

Always kind, always smiling, he had an enviable diction that served him well in his performances in plays around the country.

His career was taking off now as he was going to start making films with international stars.

When my uncle introduced me, Don Ernesto’s smile grew even wider. “Don’t tell me you’re Leopoldo’s daughter?”

I nodded.

“My God, I met you when you were this big.” He lowered his hand all the way to his thighs.

“Look how much you’ve grown.” He held my hand with both of his appreciatively.

They were warm and made me feel more comfortable in this gathering of strangers.

“Your parents were wonderful people,” he said.

“I was very sorry to hear what happened to them.”

About that—what exactly happened? I wanted to ask.

Had it not been for the fact that my uncle was attentive to my every word and that I was in the middle of a party, I would have bombarded Don Ernesto with questions.

I’d always wanted to know the details of my parents’ demise or what brought them to that strange situation in the first place.

I’d always had the feeling that there was more to the story than what Tío Bolívar had told me.

Don Ernesto seemed open and nice enough to help me.

So far, he’d been the only person I’d encountered who had spoken about my mother with affection.

“Were you there … that night?” I ventured.

“Nearby,” he said. “During that time, Teatro Sucre was being remodeled, so I rented Teatro Espejo for my company to work in. That night, I—”

“There’s Juliana Isabel!” Tío Bolívar interrupted, pointing at the beloved actress in her long spaghetti-strap silver dress, which highlighted all her curves. Her lovely honey-colored mane was lifted in a loose ponytail cascading on one of her shoulders. Her cherry lips looked full and moist.

The music stopped and you could almost hear a collective gasp—particularly from the men in the patio—as she smiled and greeted those next to her.

Don Ernesto Albán excused himself and approached her.

I would have to catch up with him later to get more information.

In the meantime, I would find that wicked bodyguard who took my camera.

I searched behind Juliana Isabel for Alejandro Toledo and his security team, but I didn’t see any of them in the vicinity, no matter how hard I looked. Among the crowd, however, I noticed someone staring directly at me.

Matías.

I’d suspected he might be here. I held his gaze for an instant, then looked away.

If he wanted to ignore me, so could I. I was done playing the part of the stupid girl with a crush.

I couldn’t believe I’d been thinking about him for eight years straight!

It was ridiculous. I didn’t even know who he was anymore, and my assessment as a ten-year-old child may not have been accurate.

He had appeared to be a nice boy back then, but clearly, he wasn’t now.

Arrogant and full of himself, that was what he was.

I turned to Graciela, who was talking to a man. Well, mostly nodding as he spoke and when she had to answer, she would bring a hand to her mouth first.

Someone ought to take that girl to a dentist.

“Valeria, look who’s here!” My uncle said.

I turned to look at none other than Félix Recalde. He seemed taller and thinner than the last time I’d seen him. I didn’t remember his hair being so bright and so red. I pinched my cousin’s arm.

“ ?Ayayay! ” she said.

“Sorry,” I said. The habit was too hard to break.

“Isn’t it wonderful to find him here?” Tío Bolívar said, with a smile I rarely saw.

“H-how are you?” Félix asked me, stuttering a bit.

“Fine, thank you.”

Someone came to greet my uncle and while he was talking to the other man, there was an awkward silence between me and Félix. I sneezed.

“ Salud ,” he said.

“Thank you.” My nose had gotten so itchy.

“You have a beautiful voice,” I said, recalling the serenade from the other night.

“Thanks.”

We had thanked each other enough. What else was there to say? Félix and I smiled at each other like a pair of idiots.

“M-my p-p-parents would like to say h-h-hello to you,” he said after yet another unbearable silence.

“Where are they?” Tío Bolívar asked, after disengaging from his other conversation and grabbing a champagne for the toast on the fly.

Félix guided us to his parents’ table. Once again, I was subjected to the scrutiny and stares of Dona Caridad Recalde while her husband and Tío Bolívar spoke. I wanted to scream that I wasn’t merchandise for sale!

One of the producers clicked his wineglass with a fork to garner everyone’s attention.

I could tell by his accent that he was Mexican.

He thanked us all for coming and proceeded to make a toast for Juliana Isabel, Alejandro Toledo, and Ernesto Albán, and for the projected success of the movie they were about to film.

I still hadn’t seen Alejandro Toledo or his bodyguards anywhere.

When I asked Félix, he told me that the Mexican singer hated crowds and gatherings, and didn’t like to give interviews, so he’d opted not to come to the celebration.

I collapsed onto my chair, sighing. Toledo had been my primary motivation to come to the party.

As the band started playing a guaracha , Tío Bolívar prompted me and Félix to dance. I wished he hadn’t. Whereas Félix was a gifted singer, dancing was not on his list of talents. We stepped on each other’s feet several times. In one of our stiff, forced turns, I spotted Matías laughing.

At me? I wanted to slap him.

My cheeks burning, I turned toward Félix and tightened my grasp of his hand.

My left hand landed softly on his shoulder.

I’d been dancing for years with my classmates, so I knew the steps.

I just needed to get a hold of my nerves and my chagrin at having Matías watching me.

My friend Rosaura had taught me a trick so that my hips would move more.

I had to dance on my tiptoes. So, I did just that.

Matías wouldn’t laugh at me when he saw what I could do! I took a deep breath, listened to the rhythm of the song, and told Félix to slow down.

“Follow me,” I said. “Listen to the beat.”

He nodded and followed me obediently. Soon enough, we were doing a lot better.

Our next turn went smoothly. I even started to have fun.

I quickly glanced back at Matías. He was now dancing—very well, to my annoyance—with a cute girl in a red polka-dot dress.

A different girl than the one from the airport.

But he was flirting with her just as much.

I shouldn’t care about what he did. We’d never been anything but friends.