Page 28 of The Night We Became Strangers

Marisa

I hesitantly followed Alicia up the stairs of the Crónicas building.

The guard downstairs had told us we could find Agustín in the newsroom on the second floor.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the moment he and I had met here on the stairs, just a few days ago: how our hands had briefly touched when I helped him pick up his papers, how our eyes had met, the smile, the conversation.

Now Alicia was desecrating my memories of him with her loud steps and incessant chatting.

He couldn’t have forgotten me so easily.

If he was, in fact, here today, I hoped he would pay attention to me and not her.

Why wouldn’t he? He’d been so kind yesterday when he’d dropped me off.

Alicia had made a fool of herself with how much she drank.

Despite my misgivings, I was somewhat excited to see him again.

Perhaps I wouldn’t have to tell Alicia that I liked him, after all.

Perhaps he would show his preference for me.

I straightened my back and entered the second floor.

The newsroom took most of the floor, which had a small reception area that was empty.

Over a dozen desks were scattered around the room with no rhyme or reason, a typewriter on almost every desk.

I could only imagine the chaos of this room during weekdays.

Today, there were only a couple of reporters, and in the back, Agustín, wearing a pair of glasses, working on a Sunday morning, speaking to a guy of around his own age.

We approached them, and Alicia was the first one to greet Agustín, claiming “we were in the neighborhood” and wanted to drop him these pastries as a sign of gratitude for taking care of us last night.

He gave us that debonair smile of his. Those glasses made him look even more attractive. “You remember my friend Raúl Cortés?” he said to no one in particular.

We both greeted him, and Agustín explained his friend was one of the editors of the newspaper.

I didn’t quite catch what Agustín did—upset as I was to see Alicia using her best tactics of flirtation.

I had seen her use these strategies hundreds of times.

First, something happened to her voice. Her tone got lower, more sensual.

Then, she got giddy and laughed at anything the boy in question said.

Throughout this conquest process, she fiddled with her hair.

Her last weapon was sitting on one of the desks and crossing her legs, which gave Agustín the opportunity to see her perfectly shaped calves.

Alicia knew exactly what she was doing when she changed her trousers into a pencil skirt and striped buttoned blouse, which was tight enough to enhance her full bosom. I glanced down at my minimal chest. I stood no chance.

She mentioned something about her dad’s soda factory, and both men expressed an interest in visiting the facility.

Exuding enthusiasm, Alicia offered to take us on a tour herself.

It was settled then that we would all go next weekend—given that my father had a concert, which I was almost certain he did.

But this cozy arrangement didn’t sit well with me.

I didn’t find “Raulito” attractive at all. He was nice, but that was about it.

He was too short—nearly my same height—and the dark circles under his eyes reminded me of a raccoon.

His only grace was that he had straight, pearly white teeth.

Agustín went along with Alicia’s plans and seemed to perk up at the idea of visiting the factory.

I didn’t know if it was because he liked her or because Naranjada was a potential advertiser for his newspaper.

“It’s going to be so much fun,” she said, applauding childishly.

Normally the plan would’ve interested me—I’d always been curious about the process and the factory, as I had grown up drinking the famous orange soda—but not when I was so unenthusiastic about my date.

I also found it telling and odd that all the years that I’d known Alicia, she’d never invited me to the soda plant, but she had been prompt to invite Agustín after knowing him for about five minutes.

A couple of times, Agustín’s eyes met mine and he smiled. But he was so hard to read! Who did he like? Was he interested in Alicia because of her father’s business? Had I read too much into things when I perceived some sort of chemistry between us the two times we’d been alone?

“Well, ladies, thank you so much for these delicious treats,” he said, abruptly, and smiled at Alicia. “I look forward to seeing you on Saturday.”

“Same here,” Alicia said.

I nodded, without wanting to. Inside my jacket’s pockets, my hands were closed in tight fists, but I tried not to give his smile any importance.

I told myself that Alicia had been the one who extended the invitation to the soda factory and who had done all the talking while the three of us just watched her with uncertain smiles. Agustín was just being gracious.

My biggest concern was that he hadn’t mentioned seeing me tomorrow, like he did the night before.

Had he forgotten I now worked in this same building?

Did he not want Alicia to know? I was supposed to be in this building at 9:00 a.m. to meet the other actors and rehearse the script.

It would’ve been common courtesy to acknowledge my presence since we’d met before, but he didn’t.

When we left, Alicia was jubilant, analyzing microscopically every gesture, every smile, and every word Agustín had spoken.

I couldn’t get a single word in. Not that I wanted to.

I was too confused, too frustrated. Agustín didn’t seem invested in me at all.

He had sort of gone along with Alicia’s flirtation and shown politeness and good manners, but not much else.

I reminded myself he had been at work, and even though there were only a couple of reporters nearby, he was the owner’s son—flirting with Alicia or me would’ve been most unprofessional.

“I can’t wait until Saturday,” Alicia said, skipping.

I did my best to hide my annoyance. I’d always been grateful to Alicia because when I first moved to Quito and gone to Colegio La Providencia, she had immediately befriended me—no matter how odd my family had been.

My mother had never quite belonged to the conservative Quito society.

Those ladies in minks and feathered hats, who devoted themselves to charity work, and went to church every Sunday, never gave my mom the time of day.

I knew for a fact Alicia’s grandmother didn’t like her, even though my friend never said a word about it.

Not only was my mom different, because she’d grown up on the coast of Ecuador, which meant that she frequently wore short-sleeve dresses and lighter colors—something that was frowned upon in Sierra society—but also, my mother was an artist, and she saw the world in a unique way.

Societal norms didn’t matter to her as much as creating art.

She had no time for long gossip sessions or gatherings to pray the rosary when she could be painting a portrait or crafting a bust and thus, immortalizing someone’s likeness.

The way she saw it, time was too precious to waste.

Initially, my parents had bonded because of their mutual love for the arts.

My dad introduced my mom to classical music, and she enjoyed attending concerts with him and getting herself lost in renditions of Mozart or Chopin.

My father admired her talent for drawing and painting, and the passion she brought to all her projects.

He often said—when happy or sad—that he’d never met a woman like her before.

But they were too different in their essence.

My dad was neat and meticulous in his appearance and neurotically orderly.

Every object had its place and needed to be cared for and kept clean.

Above all, he valued punctuality. My mother, like many artists, was more concerned with her creations than mundane details, like the upkeep of my father’s precious things, or being on time for a concert.

Those were simply not her priorities. Not when she was “hit by inspiration,” as she called it, and in the middle of creating a potential masterpiece.

As my dad became stricter with his rules, my mom became more relaxed, and the house turned into a battlefield—which ended the day my mom packed her favorite brushes and blank canvases, and left for good.

Alicia had been there for me then. I’d initially been embarrassed to tell her what my mother had done, but she’d figured it out on her own and guarded my secret.

Unfortunately, such a big secret couldn’t last. Soon, the neighbors started commenting that they hadn’t seen my mother at the marketplace or outside our house in a long time.

Rumors that she might be sick spread until my brother put an end to it all and told his friends in the neighborhood the truth.

Gabo had never been one to care what people thought and said, and that gave him a certain measure of freedom most people never had.

Certainly not Tatiana, who was tormented with how others perceived us.

Her refuge became the Church. Every week without fail, she confessed not only her sins but, I suspected, my mother’s as well.

She stopped visiting her friends and locked herself away to pray.

Then, the fasting began. Last week, she said she wanted to join the convent next year, no matter how much I tried to dissuade her.

I normally enjoyed spending time with Alicia on Sunday afternoons, but I didn’t want to listen to her talk about Agustín for hours on end, so I told her I was going home.

“Are you all right?” she said. “You’ve been acting strange all day.”

“I’m just tired after last night’s celebration and want to take a nap.” I didn’t have the energy to tell her how I felt about Agustín, so I just headed home in defeat. Something told me I had lost the battle before it even started.