Page 18 of The Night We Became Strangers

Valeria

I followed Tío Bolívar and Graciela at a distance. I knew that if I stayed too close to them, I wouldn’t be able to hide my ire. So, I walked behind them, tearing a branch I’d pulled from a plant on our way out of the party at the producer’s house.

How dare my uncle talk to me that way in front of Matías? Who the hell did he think he was?

Not my father!

My father had been a kind man—maybe distant and busy—but he had never imposed his ideas on me or ordered me what to do. Not that I had him long. I was ten years old when he passed, so my memories of him were scarce. He was a genius—that much I knew.

Not only did he have the ability to run a radio station, dealing with all the administrative aspects of the company, but he was also a respected and talented writer and poet.

Since radionovela scripts came from Cuba and used their own slang, my father—with the assistance of his producer—would end up rewriting sections of dialogue so that the Ecuadorian audience could understand every nuance.

He also wrote plays of his own, as far as I knew.

And he had adored my mother. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

My mother would get into strange moods sometimes when it was hard for her to get out of bed.

Sometimes it lasted days—at which point my father would get so desperate he had to recruit the services of a less-talented actress, Beatriz Lara, to take her place in the nightly radionovela .

Then, as if nothing had happened, my mother would get up in the middle of the afternoon, wear her nicest suit, and head to the radio station to perform during the evening show. The next morning my father would be so contented he would bring her coffee to bed.

I had a few memories of my mother, like how she peeled off the skin of every single kernel on her corn on the cob until her plate had a pile as tall as the Cotopaxi.

Or how she never threw away her old lipstick but kept them in the bottom drawer of her bureau.

Once a week, she trimmed and filed my nails.

I tried to escape the ordeal, but she would say that the care of a mother showed in her daughter’s nails and hair.

Illuminated by the streetlight, I glanced at my nails. The misty rose polish was starting to chip. How I wished my mother were here today to take care of them.

Tío Bolívar opened the door for us, frowning.

“Good night, Graciela,” he said, hanging his fedora on the hat tree by the door. Then he turned to me. “You, stay. I want to talk to you.”

The house was dark and quiet. The grandfather clock in the living room signaled that it was nearly 11:00 p.m. I’d never been out this late.

“Sit down,” he said.

I obeyed, immediately crossing my arms. He could be angry at me all he wanted—I was mad at him, too.

“I don’t ever want to see you talking to Matías Montero again.”

“Why?”

He undid his tie, the top button of his shirt undone.

“We’re no longer friends with them.”

“Why not?”

He sat on the sofa’s armrest. “Because.”

“Because why?”

He sighed. “I don’t want to get into this so late at night. Just know that Matías Montero is off limits.”

If he only knew that Matías had no interest in me. But this was my chance to understand what had happened between our two families. “You can’t expect me to obey you blindly if you don’t give me a reason.”

“They’re jerks!” he said, dropping his cigarette butt on the hardwood floor and not caring enough to pick it up. “They’ve spent the last eight years making disparaging comments about your mother and blaming your father for what happened the night they died! Is that enough of a reason?”

Looming over me, he looked big and menacing. Gone was the easygoing man I’d always known and liked. He was clearly not used to being questioned. Graciela couldn’t be any more obedient, and I had seen the way his older children were always trying to please him—not to mention the two youngest.

I nodded, my anger melting.

He picked up the cigarette butt. “I’m sorry, Valeria, I didn’t mean to yell at you.

I just … I just can’t stand those people.

After everything my brother did for them.

You know he bought the radio station from them?

They were the original owners, but they didn’t know what they were doing or how to run it.

Polo bought it, restructured it, came up with the concept of having live music and radio dramas at night, not just news or religious ceremonies like the Monteros had done before.

Radio La Voz surged with Polito. It became one of the top radio stations in the city—in the entire country—in just a few years.

Moreover, he helped them at a time when they were struggling financially. ”

I was glad to hear that in spite of my dad’s dreadful mistake, my uncle still respected him. I hadn’t heard my dad’s nickname Polito in so many years.

“But why did he broadcast that blasted script after what happened when Orson Welles did it in the United States?” I said, my throat closing in.

He shrugged, lifting his hands.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing for the last eight years.”

Later that night, while Graciela was getting ready for bed in the lavatory, I finally peeked into the folder she’d hidden from me the night Tío Bolívar told me about the Recaldes and their intentions toward me.

It was the original script of The War of the Worlds with my father’s pencil notes all along the margins.

Some pages had burned down, but several were legible.

Had Graciela wanted to spare me the pain of seeing this sad reminder of my parents’ last night on this earth?

In parentheses, my dad had indicated what sounds would go where and what utensils they would use to produce such effects.

Nothing looked out of the ordinary except for one thing: my mother’s name had been crossed out in several pages and above it—in big bold letters—he’d scrawled the name of Beatriz Lara, my mom’s understudy.

I’d always thought my mother had performed at the station that night. Could there have been a mistake? Had she been somewhere else? And more importantly, had she survived the fire?

The next day, I attempted to get an answer from my uncle about my mother’s whereabouts during the night of the broadcast. “Did you hear her voice during the radio drama? Are you certain she was one of the actresses there that evening?” I even mentioned I’d seen the script with her name crossed out.

Tío Bolívar gave my cousin a scolding look. “I told you not to save it,” he told Graciela.

“I’m sorry, Papá,” she said. “I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It’s a piece of history. Besides, the fact that it survived the fire must mean something.”

“Like what?” my uncle said, skeptical.

“I don’t know. A sign?”

“It wasn’t the only object I found after the fire. Does that mean everything has a meaning?”

Graciela rolled her eyes—it was the first defiant gesture I’d ever seen from her.

“You’re certain you heard my mother that night?” I insisted, bringing my uncle back on track. I still hadn’t touched my lunch, even though it was aguado de gallina , my favorite soup.

“I already told you, I can’t remember. It was so long ago. I didn’t even hear the entire thing before I went to the station to see what on earth was going on.”

“But everyone says her voice was so distinctive.”

I looked around the dining room and my gaze settled on my aunt, the only other adult who might have memories of that evening.

My little cousin was oblivious to our conversation, busily peeling the skin off his chicken’s drumstick, while Germán looked at me mildly interested—chin resting on the palm of his hand, right elbow on the table, even though Tía Marga had forbidden it.

“I didn’t listen at all,” Tía Marga said. “I go to bed at eight.”

“Why are you so interested in this now?” Tío Bolívar said, sipping his broth. “It happened so long ago. Of course, your mother was there, Valerita, otherwise she’d be here, right?”

“But did anyone see her body?”

Tío Bolívar shrugged. “I didn’t, but her father—your grandfather—did.”

My grandfather had passed away shortly after my mom died.

He’d been sick for some time before that, and I barely remembered him.

It was one of the reasons why I’d been sent to a boarding school instead of moving in with another relative.

My mother had no more family left in Ecuador, as far as I knew.

“I have wonderful news,” Tío Bolívar said, serving himself a glass of mineral water with a satisfied smirk. “Juliana Isabel has agreed to perform on Canciones del Alma next week.”

And just like that, one of the most important conversations of my life was over.

After lunch, I received an unexpected visit.

Félix was standing in the middle of the living room, wearing a black leather jacket that looked like it had swallowed him whole. In his hands was a small package. We awkwardly said hello, not knowing whether to shake hands or hug.

“Nice picture,” he said, sitting in front of me.

He pointed at a painting above the gramophone that had intrigued me since I’d arrived.

Geometric shapes in orange and green tones gave shape to a minimalist woman sitting in a dark chair while holding a vase in her lap.

A woman waiting. I identified with her, as my life seemed to be in a standstill while I waited for something I’d yet to figure out.

I’d asked my uncle about this piece, and he said it was an oil from a female Ecuadorian artist he’d once met.

“The artist is Araceli Gilbert,” I told Félix. “She’s fairly young. In her mid-forties, I think. She studied art in Santiago de Chile, New York, and Paris.”