Page 24 of The Night We Became Strangers

Marisa

M y first day at Radio La Voz, and I was running late.

My insomnia was taking a toll on me. I couldn’t sleep at night, and I paid for it the next day.

Just an hour before sunrise, I would finally doze off, but then it was nearly impossible to wake up.

I didn’t even hear my alarm clock. If it hadn’t been for my sister Tatiana, I wouldn’t have made it to the station at all.

I was familiar with the five-story building on Chile Street, but I’d never been inside. All I knew was that the radio station was on the third floor, while the newspaper took the basement and the first and second stories.

The producer of Radio La Voz, Piero Zambrano, had heard me at Radio Cantuna and had come to see me, which was an unexpected honor for a girl my age.

He’d asked if I had any theatrical training and I said yes, I’d been taking lessons for years at La Casa del Arte, where my father worked as an orchestra director.

“Wonderful!” he said and repeated the same praise throughout our conversation.

Wonderful this, wonderful that.

He said now that they were going to start airing radionovelas , they needed a female voice and had been looking for an actress.

What better than one person who could do several voices?

He’d heard me perform as a child, as an adult, as an old woman.

“Is there anything you can’t do?” he said, winking.

I said that in the last two years of doing commercials, I’d learned how to modulate my voice and do all kinds of wonderful things with it.

He’d slipped a business card into my hand and instructed me to come punctually at 8:00 a.m. the next day.

But I was already five minutes late, according to my wristwatch.

From one of the first-story windows, I spotted an upright metallic contraption with a keyboard and what looked like large metal above it.

I rushed toward the front door and pulled it open.

Inside the building was a small vestibule, painted white, where a man rested on his elbows behind a counter, reading the newspaper.

“ Buenos días ,” I said in haste. “I have an appointment with Mr. Zambrano.”

He barely looked up. “Third floor.”

The staircase curled behind him. I rushed upstairs as fast as my heels allowed me, but as I was about to reach the second story, a man coming down with my same sense of urgency slammed against me. The papers in his hand flew all over the stairs.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding me by the shoulders to prevent me from falling.

I’d never seen a more imposing specimen, even with the thin moustache above his lip. His spotless gray suit, the hat covering the edge of his eyebrows slightly tilted, and the handkerchief poking out of his front pocket completed the perfect package.

“Are you all right?” he said, picking up my hat from the floor. “I apologize. I was distracted.”

“I’m fine,” I said, bending over to pick up his papers.

“You don’t have to do that. You’re in a hurry.”

“Oh, I’m already late.”

“Are you going to the station upstairs?” He squatted to collect papers.

“Yes, I’m meeting Don Piero Zambrano.”

“Ah, you must be an artist then.” He smirked.

Me? “No, that’s my mom. I’m just a performer. I read scripts, that’s all.”

“Well, I’d love to hear you one day.”

I smiled. “And you work here, at the paper?”

“Yes, unfortunately. But I won’t bore you with that. You should go. Zambrano is a stickler for punctuality.”

I was torn. I really wanted the job, but I also wanted to keep talking to this gorgeous man.

He finished picking up his papers. “Nice meeting you, and good luck!” he said, resuming his descent.

I stuttered. I wanted to know more about him—his name for starters, but I barely managed a “thank you” before heading to the third floor.

Zambrano pointed out that I was fifteen minutes late, and he let me know that if I was going to work here, I’d better be on time.

People expected the show to start as soon as they turned their radios on—not one, five, or fifteen minutes later.

I barely listened. My mind kept going back to the man on the staircase and the feel of his hands on my shoulders.

I’d never been in love, and I was curious about men.

Unlike Alicia, who was always surrounded by admirers, I’d never had a boyfriend or anything close to one.

Not only because I kept so busy with my acting lessons and the job at Radio Cantuna, but also because my dad kept an eagle eye on me.

He’d always been strict and short-tempered, but ever since my mom left him for some vagabond artist, as my dad called him, he’d fortified his guard on me.

He often said I was “just like my mother,” so he expected a transgression any second.

If only he would pay as much attention to my other siblings, but Gabo was a man, so he had a free pass to do as he pleased, and Tatiana was the mellowest child. So studious and religious. She didn’t have my rebellious streak, as my dad called it.

“It won’t happen again,” I told Zambrano, offering no excuse or explanation for my tardiness.

The truth was I was excited about the prospect of working on radionovelas at La Voz. They were going to be pioneers in the industry, as none of the other radio stations in Ecuador were doing radio drama yet.

He took me on a tour of the station, and I felt a little thrill as I saw the studio behind glass windows, the large microphones, the encyclopedia-size manuscripts resting on the desk. The scripts were sent directly from Cuba, he said, where most radionovelas were written.

Zambrano was a short, stocky man who must be using some special soles on the bottom of his heels to look taller.

The wood scratched the floor with every step.

A permanent layer of sweat made his cheeks and forehead shiny, and some kind of greasy product kept his hair stiffly in place.

Around his neck was a gray scarf that he kept touching as he spoke.

He frequently cleared his throat, and every so often, he would remove a mint from his trousers and insert it in his mouth.

On one occasion, he offered me one. He said it did wonders for the voice.

I took it.

This station was much larger than Radio Cantuna. It even had a small library and an auditorium with a grand piano. I was told that there was also a cafeteria on the fourth floor.

I couldn’t wait to start.

“What about the salary?” I asked shyly, knowing that only if they paid fairly, my dad would allow me to work here.

“How old are you?” he said as an answer, the green candy exploring every cavity of his mouth.

“Almost eighteen,” I said. “But I’ve been working since I was fifteen.”

He assessed me from head to toe. “We’ll match whatever Cantuna pays you and add another ten percent.”

“Fair enough.”

“When can you start?”

“Now.”

“Excellent. The rest of the actors should be here any moment. Come, I’ll show you the script of La Intrusa .

” He led me into the booth. “One more thing,” he said, turning abruptly toward me.

The mint showed up again, significantly smaller.

He tapped his chin with his index finger.

“I don’t think ‘Marisa Vallejo’ will do.

We will go with Marisa del Valle. It sounds more artistic, more lyrical. ”

I was astounded that someone I’d known for less than an hour had already decided to change my name, but I didn’t dare argue with the producer. That was only the beginning of people making decisions for me.