Page 23 of The Night We Became Strangers

Alicia

M arisa was always scheming something exciting and unexpected for our amusement.

So here we were, in the midst of a declamation contest at a brand-new radio station, Radio Cantuna.

Marisa was the youngest, surrounded by adult women and men in their best garments, practicing their speeches to themselves.

Having just turned fifteen, Marisa looked significantly older.

Most people thought she was nineteen or twenty.

I also looked older and took advantage of it: free bus rides, invitations to the ice cream parlor from older guys, cigarettes galore.

Men, especially, treated young women more kindly than they did children, and I loved this newfound power.

Something had recently clicked inside me, stirred by all the attention men were giving me and my grandmother’s careful guidance on how to look my best. I’d grown more confident than I’d ever been.

Today, I’d gotten hold of my grandmother’s powder and lipstick—which Marisa and I were both wearing—as we sat stiffly on our chairs, waiting for Marisa’s turn to speak.

We would have to make sure to remove any trace of cosmetic before Marisa’s dad saw her and slapped the lipstick off her mouth.

My father was the exact opposite. I’d grown up spoiled by him and cuddled by my grandmother, who’d moved in with us shortly after Mamá passed away.

When I wore rouge, my dad pretended not to notice, or even better, he complimented me, saying something like, “you look especially pretty this morning.” If he’d been working long hours at his soda factory, he would give me money to buy myself something nice.

I supposed that was the only advantage of having lost a mother at such a young age: Nobody denied me anything.

A man in a gray suit opened the door to the hallway where we were sitting, clipboard in hand. “Marisa Vallejo?” he said, reading the name from a list.

Marisa stood up immediately, smoothing the back of her black wool skirt. She was wearing her mom’s white shantung blouse—unbeknownst to her mom—and the effect was professional yet stylish.

“Good luck,” I said, winking at her.

“Do you want to watch?” the man said, assessing me from head to toe.

I didn’t have to be asked twice. I darted behind my friend, both of us giggling, into a dark auditorium.

I joined the people in the audience while Marisa ambled toward the stage, climbed three steps, and settled behind a tall microphone.

Another one hung from the ceiling and connected to some device in the back of the auditorium.

Sitting on a cushioned maroon chair in front of her, I interlocked my fingers together over my lap until they stopped shaking. I was more nervous than if I had been the one onstage.

Marisa straightened her back, cleared her throat, and started reciting.

I had heard my friend speak in public before, but never behind a microphone.

The effect was mesmerizing. Her voice was soothing, yet powerful.

It made me think of caramel, honey, and warm chamomile.

She knew exactly when to pause, when to prolong a word, when to raise her voice for emphasis and when to talk in a whisper—all according to the content of her sentences.

Sometimes, when girls at school recited, I sunk in my chair—cringing—and my cheeks warmed as if their shame was my own.

With Marisa, I felt no shame. I sat up excitedly, holding back applause.

Marisa recited a poem of love and loss, one that was decidedly too adult for a girl her age, who should be talking about first kisses and holding hands, or flowers and blushing cheeks, not despair and heartbreak.

Still, she delivered. I could see that the audience was just as enthralled as I was.

I could feel the emotion in my own throat, a mix of pride and sorrow.

I pitied the scorned woman in Marisa’s poem.

Marisa stopped being Marisa, and she became a grown woman who’d just found out about her husband’s betrayal, someone who’d lost the man of her dreams to another woman and was left with nothing.

The final thrust to the heart was Marisa’s voice breaking in the last sentence, and the last word delivered with a barely audible whisper.

When she was done, there was silence.

I was afraid to look around, lest the audience would boo her. Perhaps I was getting emotional because Marisa was my friend, and I assessed her with loving eyes. I turned to see the teary woman behind me with a handkerchief pressed against her nose.

In unison, the audience applauded, cheered her, some men even stood up, cigarettes dangling from their lips, hats being waved around.

Marisa smiled, and her face lit up. Her nose wrinkled a tiny bit, and dimples appeared in both of her cheeks and by her eyes.

Only when the dimples appeared, I knew she was truly happy.

She won second place.

The first-place winner was a twenty-three-year-old man named Reinaldo, with a tenor voice that was at the same time raspy and deep.

Not knowing how young we were, he invited us to a celebration at a brand-new dance hall.

They had a wonderful orchestra, he said, and it was bound to become the most popular place in Quito.

But there were limits to the things Marisa and I could get away with. Missing dinner wasn’t one of them.

Generally, Marisa and I would spend afternoons together. Our families always assumed we were at each other’s homes, but we were expected to be back by six or seven—at the latest—and would never be allowed to leave the house after dusk.

We thanked him, without ever bringing up our real age, and left the station, jumping up and down the cobblestone street in excitement with Marisa’s medal and the unexpected invitation from an older, good-looking guy.

Not a week had passed before the radio station director himself called Marisa to invite her to participate in a commercial.

“We are enthralled by your voice,” he said.

Now Marisa had to figure out a way to go without telling her dad.

For the next three months, I was her cover.

She told him I was teaching her how to type and she had to come to my house every afternoon to practice with my typewriter.

It wasn’t hard to believe that Marisa was behind in her typing.

She’d never been the best student, and I frequently had to help her with homework and tests.

Even so, she never missed school. I suspected it had to do with the fact that she hated being at home, though she always refused to tell me why.

One April morning, she didn’t come to school.

At first, I didn’t think anything of it.

Many girls at school were getting colds, but she’d been perfectly fine the previous day—no symptoms whatsoever.

I decided to go to her house and find out what was going on.

She was the one to open the door. Her cheek had a red mark, sanguine and vivid.

She attempted to close the door, but I blocked it with my foot.

Or so I thought. In reality, my toe got squashed.

“ ?Ayayay! ”

“Sorry,” she said, reopening the door. “Are you all right?”

I lifted my hurt foot. “I suppose.”

“Come in,” she said hesitantly.

With her assistance, I hopped inside.

We entered a small parlor that shared its space with the dining table. Pretty curtains with embroidered lace hung in front of the windows, but the highlight of the room was the upright piano—her father’s pride and joy. I’d only been to her house a couple of times. Usually, she came to mine.

I found a rocking chair, where I’d seen Marisa’s dad read the newspaper, and sat down. I removed my oxford shoe. “So, what happened to you?” I said, removing my sock to check the damage.

She crossed her arms over her bosom. “My dad found out I was doing radio spots in the afternoons.”

“ How? ”

“One of his musicians also works at the station and saw me.”

Marisa’s dad was the director of the symphonic orchestra in Quito, which was why they’d moved from Guayaquil five years ago.

“He doesn’t want me to go anymore.”

“Does he know how good you are? All the voices you can make?”

She shrugged.

“What if my dad talks to him?” I said.

“What difference would that make?”

“Then, let’s have the station’s director talk to him.”

She unfolded her arms, sighing. She was such a pretty girl.

It was a pity that she didn’t make more of an effort with her appearance.

I’d tried to pass on my grandmother’s teachings about hair and cosmetics, but Marisa was hopeless.

The world around us absorbed her too much—to the point where she had little time for introspection or her own looks.

It didn’t help that her mom was so neglectful of her own presentation, often wearing her husband’s old collared shirts, with hair flying carelessly from her loose bun.

She was more immersed in her gigantic paintings and sculptures than making sure her children’s clothes were clean and fitted properly.

Marisa had grown up like a wild child, chasing her older brother and his friends across town in fun adventures, while her youngest sister—two years younger than us—spent every waking hour engrossed in a book.

Having a father who was a musical genius but little to no social skills didn’t help my friend.

I’d often wondered if her dad’s firm hand was an attempt to overcompensate for his wife’s lack of attention and discipline toward her daughters.

My dad and grandmother weren’t pleased with our friendship, as they determined that Marisa’s family was chaotic, at best, but I often reminded them that my mother had liked her, and she was the only friend who truly mattered to me.

After thinking about my proposition to ask the radio’s director for help, Marisa finally answered. “I guess it’s worth trying.”

It took some back and forth, but eventually the director at Radio Cantuna made a salary offer generous enough to convince Marisa’s dad to give her his blessings.

However, her becoming a working woman didn’t deter him from getting periodic reports on all of Marisa’s comings and goings.

His stern control also affected me, but the two of us didn’t lack the ingenuity to continue with our occasional outings.

Of course, things got worse after what her mother did.