Page 2 of The Night We Became Strangers

Valeria

One thing I knew: There was a name that couldn’t be spoken aloud, one related to the events of that evening that had become taboo in my family.

My mother’s name.

The shiny red train from Riobamba to Quito was packed this morning.

Navigating between legs and arms, valises and boxes, I made my way to an empty seat by the window in one of the back rows.

Bodies boiled around me and something putrid permeated the air.

Somehow, it didn’t bother me. Neither did the thought of being crammed into this closed space for the next six hours.

Today, the future looked bright. I was finally going back to Quito after eight long years locked in a boarding school.

I set my two valises, which held all my belongings, in the compartment over my head and squeezed in front of a woman with a black hat and blue poncho.

“ Permiso ,” I said, reaching the window seat, but she didn’t answer. She clung onto a cage with a green parrot inside. “What’s its name?” I asked.

“Tico,” she said.

For the next six hours, that was all she said. The parrot, however, kept repeating his cheerful “hola” in a high-pitched voice, way after we’d made each other’s initial acquaintance.

I kept my gaze outside the window, where green pastures extended.

My thoughts were lulled by the train’s prolonged whistle and the discordant rattle of the engine, sporadically interrupted by the wind sneaking through the window’s gap.

I entertained myself counting Holstein cows and horses and campesinos wrapped in ponchos.

A boy and a girl cheerfully ran beside the railroad tracks and waved at us. I waved back.

What would become of me when I arrived in Quito? I certainly had a lot of plans. And dreams. My life has been shaped by nothing but dreams.

I was the family pariah—there was no doubt about it, though I didn’t understand why.

Of course, Tío Bolívar would tell a different story.

He’d say he’d sent his only niece to a prestigious private institution so she could receive the kind of education most women of her time could only dream of.

He’d boast about how I grew up surrounded by girls my age, cared for by loving nuns in a quaint little town, rather than alone in a cold, empty house.

He’d brag about how I sang in the school choir and how impeccable my needlework was.

I had left Riobamba, ready to become the perfect wife.

But if you asked me, I would say I never understood why I couldn’t move in with my uncle’s family.

I would’ve loved to grow up next to his daughters—two older cousins I’d idolized during my childhood—and his four sons, in spite of how rambunctious they’d been.

It was apparent that I wasn’t welcome in Tío Bolívar’s home.

If at least I had a sibling of my own to commiserate with, things would’ve been more bearable, but no, I was an only child, so my parents’ tragic fate was mine to carry alone.

My family’s rejection had always stung, but I tried not to dwell on resentment.

Tío Bolívar showed his affection in other ways.

He visited me once a month, bringing along expensive dolls, dresses, and stylish saddle oxfords, and taking me out for helados de paila .

I looked forward to those Sundays with embarrassing anticipation.

No other girl in my school had an uncle who showered her with as much affection as he did.

Nobody else sported the latest fashions, even if it was only on weekends when I could finally remove the plaid school uniform I was forced into from Mondays to Fridays.

When I was fifteen, however, he gave me the most precious gift of all—one that I was sure to cherish all my life and would establish the path to my dreams.

A Kodak Brownie 127.

Behind the lens, the world looked more interesting.

I could frame a moment just right and keep it forever.

Being that my late mother’s best friend and her husband owned Crónicas , one of the largest newspapers in Ecuador, I was certain I could get a job as a photojournalist. All I had to do was ask my Tío Bolívar to talk to them on my behalf.

I felt the shape of my precious camera inside my camel leather bag and turned toward my travel companion, beaming with anticipation. There was yet another reason for my excitement, perhaps the strongest one.

I was finally going to see Matías again.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” I said.

The woman frowned, while the parrot repeated “ hola .”

Tío Bolívar was waiting for me at the train station in Quito.

The rain had stopped, and he stood alone by a puddle of water reflecting his dark suit, thin black tie, and the cigarette that always dangled from his mouth.

He must have been approaching fifty, but he didn’t look it, not with that open forehead—free of wrinkles—his dark mane peppered with erratic gray highlights, and his pudgy cheeks.

Tío Bolívar was my father’s younger brother, an accountant who’d been consumed with work responsibilities and a large family, and who, from one day to the next, had been solely in charge of a disgraced radio station and an orphaned niece—me.

I’d hoped that at least my youngest cousin would’ve come to the station with him.

Last I heard, his two older boys were married and so was his older girl.

The only girl who remained at home was Graciela, whose biological clock was desperately ticking at twenty-one, and two younger brothers, ages sixteen and eight.

I hadn’t seen any of them in years because I spent every holiday and summer breaks at my dad’s cousin’s house in Ambato.

My dad’s cousin, Amparo, was a middle-aged, crooked woman with jet black hair that she religiously dyed every three weeks.

Her dark pixie cut created an interesting contrast with her pasty white skin and her many wrinkles, not to mention the overwhelming rouge on her cheeks to match her bright, carmine lips.

Everyone called her Dona Amparito, and she had always been kind to me.

She was a distant cousin and very busy with her fonda , a humble restaurant where I helped during my breaks.

She had never married, but her parents had left her the business and a one-bedroom apartment.

By the end of my visits, my back was in shambles from having slept on her sofa for weeks.

It always baffled me that I couldn’t go back to my hometown during the summer break. I knew Tío Bolívar had his hands full with six children and a radio station, but I’d always had the feeling that this forced separation was deliberate.

“Look at you, Valerita,” Tío Bolívar said, whistling. “All grown up.”

I hated the nickname Valerita . Why did people in Quito always add diminutives to names?

“ Hola, tío ,” I said, running my gloved fingers by my mint swing skirt, attempting to flatten the many wrinkles that the long train ride had left behind.

He picked up my two valises, and I followed him outside the station.

As we passed by a window, I glanced at my own reflection.

Flying hairs expanded like sun rays all over my high ponytail.

I did my best to comb them with the palm of my hand.

I’d wanted to make a good first impression on Tío Bolívar’s family, but that was not going to happen.

We got into a teal-and-white 1955 Ford Fairlane. The scorching leather seat burned the palms of my hands as I settled on the passenger seat. Tío Bolívar unrolled the driver’s window and started the vehicle.

“How was the trip?”

I’d forgotten all about his nervous energy, which seemed to come and go with his moods, but today, it was fully activated. He kept nodding his head with quick small movements, even though I wasn’t saying anything.

“Long and tedious,” I said. “But I took some pictures.”

“You still have the camera I gave you?”

“Of course!” I perked up. “In fact, Tío, I was hoping you could introduce me to the Monteros. I would love to work for Crónicas as a photographer.”

In spite of being good friends with my parents, I wasn’t sure the Monteros remembered me after so many years. I had many memories of Mrs. Montero, my godmother, and her first husband coming for dinner at my house, and bringing their son, Matías, to play with me.

We stopped at a red light. He tapped his thigh repeatedly.

“I don’t know, Valerita. Things have changed.”

Valeria.

“Oh, yes, they’re no longer in the same building as the radio station, right? I heard about that.”

He lit a cigarette, eyes squinting. He didn’t say anything, so I filled the silence.

“For nine months, they printed the paper at El Día until they fixed their printing press and got their new building.” I wanted to impress him with my knowledge. A photojournalist, after all, must be well informed.

As the light switched back to green, he accelerated, his gaze back on the road. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

I didn’t like the dismissive tone of his voice, but I was prepared for this.

I had been planning my response for the last three years.

“I know it’s not customary for women to work, especially at a newspaper, but I think I can do it.

I’ve been practicing so much, and my friends say I’m really good.

” I tapped the bulge in my bag. “I brought some photos to show you. Besides, I don’t want to be a burden to you. I can make my own money.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” he said.

He gave me a sideways smile, but didn’t say another word as he drove toward downtown Quito.

The city had grown vertically in the last eight years, and imported vehicles crammed the streets.

As we drove past Cine Pichincha, a big sign advertised Silvia Pinal and Pedro Infante’s latest movie, El inocente .

I was finally in the capital and could watch a variety of Mexican and American films whenever I wanted, not the same old film over and over again.