Page 17 of The Night We Became Strangers

Matías

I stared languidly at The Angel of Silence, an Italian statue crowning the first mausoleum built in Cementerio San Diego, one of Quito’s oldest graveyards.

With a finger against his lips, the monumental angel gestured for all of us to remain silent.

All around us were marble statues and eclectic mausoleums belonging to aristocratic families, former presidents, fallen soldiers, as well as religious figures and artists.

The styles of these structures were as diverse as the people resting here: neo-Gothic, neoclassic, Baroque—all filling up this city of concrete among rows of trees and sporadic benches.

My history teacher said most of these sculptures were brought from Italy to the gulf of Guayaquil, then transported to Quito on the backs of mules, to be assembled here.

It was a pity that such elaborate constructions held nothing but lifeless bodies who couldn’t appreciate the artistic greatness erected above them.

Our family’s mausoleum sat next to the angel that had captivated me so.

My father had been assigned to a premature niche inside the neo-Gothic structure, the final resting place of my grandfather and his father before him.

It was probably going to be the place where I would be buried, too.

Just like my family said I’d been born with “the smell of ink” and an indisputable future in print—whether I wanted it or not—my final resting place was also part of my family legacy.

I wondered if Valeria’s parents were going to be buried in this cemetery as well.

So far, I hadn’t seen anyone from her family—neither here, nor at my father’s wake.

When I’d mentioned them to my mother, she’d shut me down immediately and told me she wouldn’t be attending their services and neither would I.

I’d tried to ask why. Hadn’t Valeria’s mom been her best friend in the entire world, not to mention my baptismal godmother?

My mother said one day she would explain everything, but now was not the right time.

She hadn’t removed her sunglasses since she left the hospital and hadn’t said much, either.

As stiff as one of the statues around us, she held her black patent leather purse in her hand, the tip of her nose pink, her mouth void of any lipstick.

She hadn’t bothered fixing her hair in her customary pompadour, either.

Her loose bun was more of an afterthought, while a black lace veil covered her head.

As the priest finished the Rite of Committal, the pallbearers—me included—lifted my dad’s casket and inserted it into his crypt. My throat felt thick and achy, but I’d been told from a young age that men didn’t cry, so I would wait until I was alone to do it—if I did at all.

“Your father will be missed,” Raúl Cortés told me after, patting my back. I still didn’t know how he’d survived the fire but my father hadn’t.

Both acquaintances and strangers offered me their condolences, and my grandfather on my mom’s side—the only grandparent I’d ever known—held my arm as we walked away from my dad among tombstones and patches of grass.

Despite his age, my grandfather was still a big man, admired by women and men alike for his business successes and engaging personality.

But in the last year, I’d noticed how his customary assertive pace had slowed down and his large shoulders slumped.

My grandpa and I shared a love for history and politics, and we often engaged in long conversations about the aftermath of the war in Europe and the Pacific, as well as the Peruvian invasion of 1941.

But that was the extent of our conversations.

I doubted he knew more about my mother’s odd reaction to her friend’s death, but even if he knew, he wouldn’t tell me.

My mother and he had their differences throughout the years, but my grandfather was loyal to her to a fault.

The rest of the afternoon was spent at home in the utmost silence.

I couldn’t stand seeing my mom’s lethargic face as she sipped the consomé Delia had prepared for us, or locking myself in my bedroom any longer.

Shortly after dinner, after my mom had gone to bed, I went outside to get some fresh air.

I hadn’t planned to go to Valeria’s house, but somehow, I ended up there. All the lights were off and when I rang the doorbell, nobody opened. I went to Benjamin’s house, which was only a couple of blocks away, and mentioned Valeria and her parents.

“Didn’t you hear?” he said. “Her uncle sent her to a boarding school in Riobamba. She left this morning.”