Page 21 of The Night We Became Strangers

The next thirty minutes felt like four hours, but I finally heard someone at the door.

There were several male voices, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying.

The steps grew closer, and I thought I heard the words “ carne asada ” and “potatoes.” This came as no surprise to me, as I’d noticed that the men in my family were always in the mood for meat, preferably beef, and a meal didn’t seem to be complete without some form of animal protein.

But why was he ordering dinner so soon? Shouldn’t he wait for the object of his affection—or lust—to arrive first?

What if she wasn’t coming tonight? Then all of this would’ve been for nothing.

Not only would I have wasted money on this uncomfortable uniform, gotten cramps in my legs and possible permanent back damage, but I was also about to miss one of my aunt’s delicious meals.

All this food talk was making me realize I was hungry as I hadn’t eaten since lunchtime.

Even worse was the possibility that they might send me to jail for trespassing or maybe even lose my brand-new camera!

I cradled my Leica in my hands. All this sacrifice and risk could amount to—what?

Some photos of Alejandro Toledo sleeping or having a drink by himself on the balcony?

After a moment of endless anguish, there was a loud knock on the door, followed by more steps and then a woman’s voice! God had answered my prayers!

It turned out her name was Lupita, and she had a melodious, sweet voice. I was desperate to open the closet door and take a peek. She must be some kind of goddess to have won the affection of the elusive singer.

Who knows how long I was stuck in the closet?

It had gotten pitch black after the sun had set.

From what I could gather, they had eaten their meal already.

I contemplated the possibility of sneaking out and taking pictures, but I didn’t know about being so obvious and upfront.

I didn’t want them to see me, so I had set my hopes on the balcony.

From the bedroom, I could safely take their photos.

But in the dark? Would the bedroom light illuminate them enough? I had a flash lamp, purchased with most of my savings, sitting inside my bag. I’d practiced a few times, and hoped it would work. I’d better take it out and be ready for that prized photo I was about to take.

The heels of women’s shoes startled me as they came near the closet door.

Was she about to hang her coat? Please, no.

Instinctively, I crouched and lifted the camera against my face, ready to take the shot—even if it was that of a surprised woman.

Hopefully, Alejandro would be nearby, and I could catch both of them in the same frame.

With my free hand, I slowly removed the flash lamp from Graciela’s bag. Another set of footsteps followed and also stopped by the closet. That had to be him !

I held my breath, my legs trembling. I didn’t think I could hold still for much longer, but this might be it.

My one and only shot! They were probably kissing or hugging or something .

Why else would they have stopped? I slowly straightened my legs from my crouching position.

My knees ached, and my back was covered in sweat.

What if it was the bodyguard? Would he shoot me if he found me here?

I hadn’t seen a gun, though that didn’t mean he didn’t carry one.

She was giggling now, but I couldn’t hear Alejandro. I could open the door, take their photo, and run away. Except that one of the bodyguards might block my exit, and then what?

I shivered.

The woman laughed again, and this time her voice was more distant. If I was going to do something, I had to do it now. With my bag over my shoulder and a good grasp of my camera, I slowly opened the door.

No one in the hall.

The bedroom door looked ajar, and there didn’t seem to be anybody in the parlor. Hopefully, the bodyguards had gone out for dinner to give the couple privacy. I stepped out of the closet. Fortunately, the flats I was wearing were soft and didn’t make any noise when I walked.

Slowly, I pushed the bedroom door in. Just as I had predicted, Alejandro and Lupita—who struck me as an average girl in a lilac dress and not the goddess I had envisioned—were standing by the balustrade, enjoying the city view with a glass of wine in their hands.

She giggled as he softly rubbed her back.

There was just enough light coming from the bedside lamp to make out Alejandro’s characteristic Elvis-like pompadour and slicked sides. I would probably only get one shot, and this had to be it. I lifted my camera and the flash lamp and pressed the shutter.

They immediately turned around— that damn flash!

“Hey!” Toledo said.

I took another photo as they were both facing me now and I could get a clear view of their faces.

As he came toward me, I dashed to the front door.

Thank Heavens neither one of the bodyguards was in the parlor.

I scrambled with the doorknob as Toledo came toward me, but I managed to open it and get out of the suite.

“Hey, what are you doing!” one of the bodyguards, coming down the hall with his partner, said.

“Get her!” Toledo yelled.

The two bodyguards didn’t have to be told twice, and they sprinted behind me.

Holy Mother, I’d never attempted to run this fast before.

There was no way he was taking this camera from me, not my 35 mm Leica with a prime lens!

He would have to kill me first. With the camera swinging side to side and the expensive flash lamp still in my hand, I scurried down the hall like a madwoman.

After a while, I couldn’t figure out where I was or how to get out of this maze of shadowy halls and rooms with doors that looked exactly the same.

If only I could find the staircase—I didn’t have time to wait for the elevator. Someone grabbed my arm and pulled me into a room.

Oh, no, they got me!

The room was only illuminated by a dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling, but already I could see that it was the janitor’s closet.

There was barely any space to move with an oversized trash can, cleaning supplies, brooms, buckets, and a vacuum cleaner.

The hand, it turned out, belonged to none other than Matías Montero.

“Mati!” I said, reverting to his childhood nickname. “What are you doing here?”

He brought his finger to his lips so I would stay quiet. Then he pressed his cheek against the door. Fast footsteps approached and we held our breaths until the steps became more distant.

I repeated the question. “Why are you here?”

“The same reason you are,” he said.

He was trying to get a shot of Alejandro Toledo?

“How do you know what I was doing?”

“I just saw you getting out of his room!”

“You take pictures?” I asked. “But you’re the owner of the newspaper.”

“Not yet. My mother wants me to start from the ground up and learn every aspect of working at a newspaper, so I’ve been spending time at every single department. Now, I’m doing journalism and photography, and after that—” He paused. “What’s so funny?”

I didn’t realize I was smiling.

“I just find it amusing, that’s all.”

“What?”

“You and me here! It’s so ridiculous.” I didn’t want to say it aloud, but the sight of the heir of a publishing fortune stuck in a closet filled with cleaning supplies and brooms was comical.

He smiled and, for a moment, he reminded me of the young Mati. This was a different kind of smile than the ones I’d been seeing since I’d gotten back—that sardonic smirk I despised.

“How did you end up here?” I asked.

“Well, rumor has it that Toledo has been seeing Lupita Pena.”

“Yes, I saw her. Who is she?”

“She’s the daughter of the Mexican ambassador in Ecuador. Last week, the ambassador had a private dinner for Toledo, Juliana Isabel, and Ernesto Albán. Ever since, it’s been rumored that she’s been visiting him, taking advantage of the fact that her parents are out of town, of course.”

My photos just rose in value. An ambassador’s daughter!

“I followed her here, and she came directly to Toledo’s room,” Matías said. “I was hoping to see them stepping out or something.”

“You silly man, don’t you know that Toledo never leaves his suite? He dines inside every night.”

“I guess I didn’t know.” Examining me from head to toe, he said. “What’s with the look?”

I felt suddenly self-conscious. Here I was, finally in close proximity to the man I had hero-worshiped since childhood, and he was seeing me in this ill-fitting outfit and covered in sweat? And God only knew what my hair was doing.

“I had to borrow this in order to enter his room.”

“Very clever. Did you get any good shots?”

“Of course. Do you want to buy them?”

“No, but my mother might.”

“But she hates me.”

He didn’t have an answer to that, which only confirmed my fears. “I think it’s safe to go out again,” he said, turning the knob. “Shit, it’s broken.” The doorknob kept turning without releasing the latch bolt.

“Let me try,” I said with the same results. The door was, in fact, jammed.

He smacked it.

“Shhh,” I said.

We attempted to open it for several minutes. He turned toward the bottles of cleaning supplies. “We need some kind of tool, something sharp, like a knife or a screwdriver.”

I helped him look, but there was nothing usable.

“Move out of the way,” he said, lifting his leg.

“Wait! What are you going to do?”

“Kick the door open. What else?”

“But if you break it, someone might hear us and call the police. Or maybe Toledo’s bodyguards will catch us and take my camera. I don’t want to lose this one, too.”

He lowered his leg. “What do you mean?”

“They took my other camera that day at the airport.”

“Are you serious?” he said, indignant on my behalf. “They can’t do that. That’s robbery. You should press charges, so they returnit.”

I hadn’t even thought of the possibility. “That’s not a bad idea. I was very fond of that camera.”

He was still studying the door, hands on his hips. “The hinges are on the outside so we can’t remove them.” He tried the doorknob again uselessly.

“Or we could just wait it out until everyone falls asleep and then you kick the door open? By the time they get out of their rooms, we’ll be in the elevator or the stairs. Nobody will ever know what happened.”

I was in no hurry to leave Mati’s side, though I was nervous that Tío Bolívar or Tía Marga might have discovered that I wasn’t in my bed.

I also felt a little guilty that my cousin might be worried about me.

Just not guilty enough to leave Matías. Who knew when we would have another opportunity to be alone again.

Seeing as things had progressed between us, probably never.

He looked at his wristwatch. “It’s almost nine. At what time do you think people will go to bed?”

“I don’t know … midnight?”

“What about your family, won’t they worry about you?”

I chewed on my bottom lip.

“What?” he said.

“They think I’m asleep. Graciela is covering for me.”

There it was again, that faint smile of his. So adorable. He removed his suit jacket and placed it on the floor. “Here, have a seat,” he said, pointing at his jacket as though it were some luxurious couch. Fortunately, the trash bin was empty, so the smell wasn’t too bad.

I sat down and leaned my back against the wall. He sat in front of me with his legs crossed.

“Can I ask you something?” I said.

“I don’t know. Can you?”

“Why does your mom hate me?”

He avoided my eyes and sighed. “You really don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“She blames your father for what happened—for my father’s death.”

“But that doesn’t explain the hatred for my mom. As far as I knew, they were great friends.”

“I don’t know exactly what happened between them,” he said. “I’ve asked her many times, but she won’t tell me.”

“You remember that night?”

“How could I forget?” he stared at a crack on the wall.

“My uncle took me to see the building the day after the fire,” I said. “I’ll never forget the floor on the first story. It looked like a steel mirror. My uncle explained it was molten lead from the printing press. And the typewriters on the floor … they were all warped.”

He looked at me as if wanting to say something.

“The stench of smoke was so strong, even then,” I said, swallowing my tears into a painful lump.

It happened every time I thought about my parents’ last minutes inside that building.

“Will you tell me about that night? I want to know everything.” Only if I figured out what had been going on with our parents would I be able to move on with my life.

Until then, I lived in a perpetual limbo, where most people despised my mom and dad—and me, by extension—but I didn’t know why.

He ran his fingers through his hair. “There’s very little I know about that night, other than the chaos in the streets of Quito. I’ve been wanting to know for a long time myself, but my mother is inscrutable.”

“In that case,” I said, more resolute than ever, “there’s only one thing to do.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“We must investigate what really happened.”