Page 19 of The Night We Became Strangers

When my uncle had told me about her, I couldn’t believe it and had listened in awe.

A woman artist. A woman who’d studied abroad and exhibited in Europe.

I aspired to be like her, but of course, she was the daughter of a doctor and former vice president of Ecuador, so she’d had many opportunities that most of us didn’t.

I could tell Félix was trying to say something else, but he probably didn’t know what. His cheeks had turned even more flushed. I felt sorry for him. Some people couldn’t stand silence, but I didn’t mind it.

“I have something for you,” he blurted out.

My gaze went to the package he’d brought with him. It was wrapped in brown paper and a string held it together. He stood up, formally, and handed me the box.

Oh, how I loved presents! Perhaps because I’d had so few in my life. It was probably perfume, but it was a little heavy. A music box? Excitedly, I unwrapped the package and revealed a cardboard box.

I opened it as quickly as I could.

I gasped.

“Your uncle said they stole yours.”

“ Virgen del cielo. A camera?”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I pulled it out of the box.

A 35mm Leica with a fancy lens! A professional camera!

Félix had bought me a much better camera than the one that idiot had stolen from me.

I watched him in astonishment. “Thank you, but I don’t know if I should accept this gift. It’s too expensive.”

“P-p-please do. I know you like photography, and you were heartbroken when you lost your camera.”

“But a Leica?”

“You deserve it.”

“Thank you, Félix. You’re too generous.”

I looked through the lens, zooming in and out. Félix had a big smile on his face, and I was happy to keep the camera, but something in the back of my head told me I was going to pay a high price for accepting this gift.

The pressure was overwhelming. Even Tía Marga and my older cousins had been talking to me about the wonders of Félix Recalde and his family.

Given the fact that Tío Bolívar’s family had sent me away for eight years just as soon as my parents died, I had a strong feeling they didn’t want me around much longer and were trying to get rid of me.

What better way than shipping me off with a rich husband?

I tried in every possible way not to be a burden to the family.

I was agreeable at all times: I helped my aunt in the kitchen, served my uncle a glass of jerez every night after dinner and lent ears to his grievances about President Camilo Ponce’s government.

I occasionally took care of my cousins’ children, listened to endless gossip from my cousins’ wives, played cards with Joselito, accompanied Germán to buy his new guitar, and even listened to Graciela’s poetry until the wee hours of the night while trying to conceal my yawns.

But it was not enough. They still wanted me to marry Félix.

A battle brewed inside of me: the need to be liked and accepted by my family as a means of survival, since I didn’t have a home of my own or a job to support myself, versus the urge to be my own self and rebel against a forced marriage.

It was against my nature to be so congenial.

At school, I’d always gotten in trouble with the nuns for what they called “my nonconformist nature.” I was always the first to lead the other girls into a rebellion over a variety of things: the food (meals not balanced enough for our growing bodies), wanting to start a theater club in the afternoons, not having to confess every Saturday out of obligation, asking questions about the doctrine that our religion teacher would shut down every time, having to go to bed at eight o’clock when girls who were only a year older got to stay up until nine.

There had always been something to complain about.

But it all boiled down to me not caring about the consequences of my behavior.

I didn’t fear an expulsion. In fact, I would have loved nothing more.

I didn’t want to live in a boarding school in Riobamba during my entire adolescence.

I wanted to be here in Quito, with my family, interacting with boys, being able to go to the movies and parties, and to try new things.

I was eager to live life. Getting married just when I was finally free seemed like another kind of prison.

But what else could I do if they didn’t want me here?

My uncle was so worried about the station.

They’d been losing money every year, he said, not getting enough advertisers, and they hadn’t been producing radionovelas in years.

In fact, he wanted to hire Beatriz Lara, who was now a well-respected actress.

He believed she might boost their ratings.

Meanwhile the Recalde’s stations, Radio Los Andes and Radio Luna, were excelling. It would be so much better to associate with them, he would say. Part of the problem, as I understood it, was that my uncle had never intended to run a radio station. He’d been in another line of work.

“Numbers are his thing,” Tía Marga explained, while we rinsed and sorted out lentils to make menestra for lunch. “He doesn’t have a single artistic bone in his body, and communications bore him. He’s an introvert, mijita —he hates talking to people.”

So, it was up to me to save the family. Indirectly, all of them had told me that my parents had brought disgrace to the Anzures name. In other words, it was my fault-by-association that my uncle was so miserable.

“Graciela is already engaged, or we would consider her as a potential wife for Félix,” Tía Marga continued, as if they owned her. “Think about it, mijita . Where else are you going to find such a good match? After what happened with your parents, our family is tainted.”

In a way, she was right. At a melcocha party Graciela and I had attended the other afternoon, a group of guys had mockingly asked me about the “Martian invasion.” Others stayed away from us the entire time, and I hadn’t seen Matías since the producers’ party.

Not that he had shown any interest in me.

His “don’t let me keep you” still stung.

Félix, on the other hand, was so kind and sweet. He wasn’t ugly, either. In fact, the more I looked at him, the more appealing he seemed. Not to mention that he’d given me an expensive, brand-new camera, and brought me a serenade. Plus, he was turning into a decent dancer.

I let out a sigh and rested my elbows on the kitchen counter. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“Really?” Tía Marga got up and hugged me.

I’d never seen her smile so widely before.

“Oh, I’m so excited. We’re going to have a wedding! I’m going to call your uncle!”

As she darted out of the kitchen, I exchanged a glance with Clemencia, their maid, who looked at me in solemn disappointment.

A pang of regret hit me.

What had I just done?