Page 25 of The Night We Became Strangers

Alicia

T aking advantage of my father’s distraction, I poured a splash of vodka into my blackberry soda.

A friend of his had brought him three bottles from one of his trips around the world, and I’d discovered that this liquor was magical.

It could take on any other flavor while giving you a kick.

And I needed something to relax me as I’d been dreading this party for weeks.

Not that I didn’t like celebrations. On the contrary, I loved to dance and meet people—especially guys—just not under my father’s watchful eye.

For weeks, he’d been planning the launch of a brand-new soda flavor, blackberry, to add to his successful brand, Naranjada, which consisted exclusively of an orange soda.

But he’d been talking about adding a new line of flavors for years, and the first success was here, in the form of this purplish drink that perfectly hid the vodka I’d poured inside.

For this momentous occasion, he’d invited members of the written press and the many radio stations he was affiliated with for advertising purposes.

So many of them, I could barely keep track.

Not that I wanted to anyway. Most of them were older men and utterly boring, but at least I’d been allowed to invite Marisa to keep me company during this torturous evening.

I handed her a drink of her own with the same magical liquor mixed inside.

“What is this?” she said, after the first taste, bringing the glass to her eyes so she could examine it.

“My dad’s new soda, Morada.” I couldn’t hide a smile.

“Hum.” She gave it another taste, then studied her drink again. “This is not just mora . I know you, Alicia—you put something else in it.”

My answer came in the form of laughter. “Well, we have to get through this evening somehow.”

“Oh, here you are.” My grandmother startled both of us. As usual, she was the most elegant woman at the party. With an ankle-length silk gown in deep burgundy, her silver mane styled in her characteristic chignon, and two strands of pearls around her neck, she looked stunning—even at her age.

“Girls, you should mingle, especially you, Marisa, as you’re going to be the star of the radio theater in no time,” my grandmother said, keeping her back very straight and holding a wineglass filled with Morada soda.

It was so strange to see her drinking soda instead of champagne, (“too sweet for my taste,” she would say), but at least she’d insisted on having the soda served in a wineglass.

I’d forgotten that my friend Marisa was rising in status.

For the last three years, she’d been doing live commercials for Radio Cantuna, but someone from Radio La Voz had just hired her to do radionovelas .

It was a fresh new concept emerging in the world of communications, and everyone was excited about it.

“Yes, you go,” I told her, feeling a pang of sorrow.

Marisa had already dropped out of school, as her commitments with the radio station and the theater group she belonged to were taking too much of her time, but now I was going to lose her to stardom.

Things were rapidly changing for us. For one, Marisa’s mother had left, and I strongly suspected it had to do with another man.

Marisa, however, had said her mom wanted to “see the world” and find inspiration for her art, whatever that meant.

The other change was how interested adults were in my friend now.

For years, I’d been the center of attention, especially at the parties we attended—but now that she’d been discovered as the owner of a prodigious voice, everyone wanted to talk to her.

Her talent represented ratings and thus, money.

As Marisa approached a heavy-set man who had been popping mint candy into his mouth all night, I spotted what could only be described as a Michelangelo sculpture come to life—with clothes on, that was. And not just any clothes: a tuxedo.

He nodded at me from across the room, holding a glass of soda in his hand. It was almost comical to see so much sophistication while drinking soda.

My dad approached the podium. He was a natural behind the microphone.

With a glass bottle of Morada in his hand, a black bow tie, and a few silver hairs flying above his ears—the only sign that he was aging—he thanked all the guests for coming and announced this was just one of the many flavors he would be adding to the fruity collection of his soda company.

A waiter dashed in front of me with a tray filled with purple glasses.

“Since I founded this company twenty years ago, I knew we would make strides in this country. This is just our next logical step. I urge you to give it a try, my friends, and tell me what you think,” my dad said.

Those who weren’t holding a glass of Morada grabbed one from nearby waiters and prepared themselves for the sugary toast.

“To the success of this new magnificent soda and all the things we will do together to promote it! ?Salud! ”

I had no doubt that my drink and Marisa’s were the tastier ones.

A general ?salud! blasted throughout the salon. Immediately following the toast, a duet of musicians resumed their melodious repertoire, one strumming a guitar and the other one playing a pan flute.

Trays filled with tiny empanadas de morocho and shrimp cocktails paraded in front of my eyes, but I was about to finish my soda and was ready for more of my special drink.

I discreetly approached the corner table filled with alcohol bottles that my father had brought along to share with his guests as the night progressed into guarachas and cumbias for dancing.

In passing, I grabbed another glass of soda from one of the waiters. Making sure no one was watching me, I took hold of the closest vodka bottle—a full one, as I didn’t want to make it obvious that someone had been drinking before the allotted time. I quickly poured a splash in my fresh glass.

“That looks like an improvement,” a male voice said behind me.

Startled, I turned to face the Michelangelo smiling at me with straight teeth. I composed myself before speaking.

“It is. Would you like to try?” I asked him.

“Absolutely.”

I poured some vodka into his soda, and he greedily tossed the entire glass.

“I’d never tasted a better soda,” he said. “My congratulations to your father on the new formula.”

How did he know who I was?

“I will let him know.” I sipped my drink. “And who might you be?”

“Agustín,” he said, extending his hand.

I offered mine and he gave it a kiss, followed by a wink.

“I don’t know much about sodas,” he said, “but I’d be happy to offer my services as taster for any other flavors that may come out in the future.”

“Excellent,” I said. I was finding him more attractive with each sip. “And what might your current profession be, when you’re not tasting soda?”

“Something not as exciting as this. I guarantee it.”

Another young man approached us. This one was shorter and swarthy with an air of hedonism.

Agustín patted his back. “Raulito, let me introduce you to”—he turned to me—“Alicia Sotomayor, right?”

I nodded, as I didn’t think I could form coherent sentences anymore. Voices and faces were becoming more distant with time. I had to admit that the last serving of vodka may have been more than just a splash.

By the time the guarachas started, Agustín and I had become more or less acquainted with one another and had even danced a couple of songs.

Inconveniently, a few drops of soda spilled on the front of my white sequin gown.

Holding my hand, Agustín took me to the nearest lavatory and the two of us, giggling, got into the tiny room.

Grabbing a towel with ornate vine embroidery along the hem, he wet it under the sink and helped me wipe the stain from my dress before my father, or worse yet, my grandmother, would see it.

As he worked, I stared at the close proximity of his hand to one of my breasts, but at that point, I was incapable of cleaning the gown myself as I had no coordination left whatsoever.

“Has anyone told you how striking your eyes are?” he said.

“Sure.” I laughed. They were unusually green, an anomaly in this part of the world. “But thank you.”

Marisa was waiting outside the bathroom and seemed taken aback upon finding me with the handsome stranger. “I’ve been looking for you all over,” she said.

“Marisa, my dear, let me introduce you to Agustín-no-lastname.” I sounded perfect to my own ears, but Marisa grimaced, eyeing the drink in my hand.

“How many of those have you had?”

“I apologize,” Agustín said. “I should’ve stopped her. Listen, I can take her home before her dad or her grandmother notice her state.”

“And what do I tell them?” Marisa said.

“Just say she was feeling sick and a friend of hers took her home.”

“And how do I know you’re not going to attack or kidnap her? She is the heiress of a soda empire, after all,” she said, but I wasn’t sure if she was joking or being serious.

“Then you must come with us,” he said, humoring her. “Just go tell Dona Azucena we’re leaving.”

“All right,” she said, obediently.

I was surprised that Marisa had agreed so easily as she was usually wary of strangers. Then again, Agustín had a certain quality very few people had of making everyone feel immediately comfortable in his presence.

I had little recollection of the rest of the evening. All I knew was that after kissing so many frogs, I had finally found my prince.