Page 29 of The Night We Became Strangers

Marisa

M icrophones had a peculiar smell. Something about them always reminded me of that particular blend of alcohol and yeast that emanated from my father’s beer bottles—an aroma he found irresistible.

Microphones could be intimidating when you used them for the first time, as they commanded the attention of an entire room.

Adults listened. People couldn’t ignore you, even if they tried.

So, you’d better have something important to say, as everyone had their eyes and ears on you.

I still remember the first time I used one during a declamation festival.

The sight of the tall metallic stand in the middle of the stage and the microphone angled in my direction had made my palms sweat.

So did the sight of over thirty people looking at me and waiting for me to speak.

When I did, though, I was elated, beside myself.

I not only got through my speech, which had been my goal, but also earned the audience’s applause.

This minor success gave me the confidence to do it a second and third time, but the nerves were always there.

Something changed when I started working at Radio Cantuna.

The sight of the microphone, which had once tied my stomach in knots and made me want to pee every five minutes, now gave me a thrill.

Soon, the nerves turned into excitement, and later, eagerness.

I longed to stand behind the microphone every day.

It was my vice. Microphones helped me find my voice. And my voice became my power.

When I was doing commercials or making announcements, nothing else mattered.

Not my father’s anger, nor my mom’s disappearance.

Certainly not my sister’s strange behavior.

But I couldn’t deny I was thinking about Agustín when I met my fellow actors that Monday morning and stood behind the microphone with the script of La Intrusa in my hands.

We were about to rehearse before my debut that evening.

Zambrano introduced me to four actors and the technical director, who was in charge of the sound effects.

I was the only actress—for now—according to the producer.

I didn’t mind being the only woman in the room.

I’d always felt comfortable around men, perhaps because my first and closest playmate had been my older brother.

The truth was I’d never been close or fully comfortable around women.

My relationship with my mother had always been distant, and I couldn’t understand my sister’s mind at all.

My only female friend was Alicia, so I clung to our friendship in spite of the annoyances and frustrations, like yesterday’s incident with Agustín.

When I delivered my first line, my voice came out a little bit broken. I was still shaken after my pilgrimage up the staircase. I’d been hoping to run into Agustín again and had paid special attention to my grooming and clothes that morning.

My choice for my debut as an actress was a cotton voile floral dress with short, flowy sleeves.

To complement the gardenia print, I wore white gloves, which contrasted nicely with the navy base of the fabric.

I’d even styled my hair. I curled the tips of my bob and wore a detachable braid across the top of my head.

Alicia had given me the braid months ago, but this was the first time I’d worn it.

Alicia said it was “chic” and American movie stars like Bette Davis wore braids and curls all the time—I’d yet to find out who that actress was.

All that effort for nothing.

In the last couple of years, Radio La Voz had become one of the most popular radio stations in the country. Doing a radionovela was a dream come true, as it combined two of my greatest passions: radio and acting.

“Excuse my tardiness,” a man, who must have been thirty or close to it, said.

He removed his beige gabardine and handed his briefcase to a secretary who had been staring at our performance, wide-mouthed, for a couple of minutes.

I hadn’t caught her name, but she’d shown up with a tray full of espressos.

I had one myself even though I’d never had coffee without milk before.

“You must be Marisa del Valle,” the man in the trench coat said.

“Yes?” I said, uncertain about who I was talking to.

“Well, I’m glad you agreed to join us. I’m Leopoldo Anzures, the artistic director.”

He gave me a few instructions regarding my character and how he envisioned my performance.

I nodded at everything he said, eager to impress him and my co-workers, since I was the newest and youngest actress in the group.

Halfway through the rehearsal, Anzures removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves.

Holding the folded script in his hands, he leaned on a desk facing us while the five of us stood around the microphone reading our lines.

He didn’t miss a beat. If anyone made the slightest mistake, he caught it immediately.

He interrupted us to make recommendations regarding our tone and delivery and with his free hand, he directed the sounds effect technician behind us.

He reminded me of my father conducting a symphony and directing his musicians with his baton.

Anzures was just as serious as my father, but a couple of times, he smiled to himself when I read a humorous line or when I put enough feeling into one of my lines.

His approval felt good and encouraged me to push myself.

His direction had the strange quality of both infecting me with his commitment to the play and making me focus on the story as if I were there myself.

He made me feel Gabriela, the main character, and even though he was demanding—a perfectionist—his presence relaxed me.

He transmitted the confidence we’d been lacking before he arrived.

He knew exactly what he was doing and what he wanted from us.

I kept glancing at him, waiting for his nods to reassure me.

Later, when he dismissed us, the secretary, who introduced herself as Sandra, told me that Mr. Anzures was not only the artistic director, but also the owner of the radio station.

“But he’s so young,” I said.

“Yes,” she said with a sigh. “His brother works here, too, as an accountant. Leopoldo—I mean, Mr. Anzures—is the older of the two. You’ll probably meet the brother soon.”

Sandra seemed to be the one running the station: she answered the telephone, greeted visitors, talked to advertisers, scheduled musicians and entertainers for the evening show, knew everyone’s names and the names of their spouses (“Say hi to Flor for me!”), and, as if she weren’t busy enough, she made coffee for everyone throughout the entire day.

As I sat next to her with my second tinto , getting the scoop of everyone’s comings and goings, a voice—like thunder—made me nearly choke on my coffee.

“Caminante, no hay camino,

se hace camino al andar.”

I immediately recognized the poem—it spoke about making one’s own path as you walked, instead of taking the existing one.

I’d memorized it for one of my first declamation contests when I was still in elementary school.

The voice behind the poem was Agustín’s, who’d just walked in and was looking at me with a nonchalant smile.

“Antonio Machado,” I said, citing the poet.

“Very good.”

“It’s a wise one,” I said.

I’d always liked this poem—maybe because it went against all the nonsense my mom always spewed about a determined and unmovable fate, which was what she was obediently following right now.

“Doesn’t it contradict the concept of destiny, though?” I said, testing his views.

“That’s why it’s so great. It means you can start a new path every day, if you wish to do so. There are no limits or fixed paths.”

He’d removed his glasses today and his brown eyes were shining. I sat up straight as his gaze traveled over my dress—he’d noticed.

“Good afternoon, Sandra,” he told the secretary, as an afterthought.

She twisted one of her curls. “ Buenas tardes, Senor Montero. ”

Montero. I liked it.

Marisa de Montero. It fit nicely.

“How was rehearsal?” he asked me.

“It went well, I think.”

“Good. I look forward to hearing you tonight.” He then turned to Sandra. “Is Polo available?”

“Yes, sir, I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Agustín’s comment was both exhilarating and terrifying. He was going to listen to me, which meant I had to give a perfect performance—no pressure there. But the thought that he was going to make the effort to find the dial, tune in, and listen to my play filled me with joy.

When Sandra went down the hall to get Polo, whom I assumed to be Leopoldo Anzures, Agustín turned to me. “You look very pretty today.”

I didn’t even know what to say. I’d never been good with flirtation; that was Alicia’s gift. Usually, I was just a pal to men and a chaperone to Alicia on her outings.

“Thanks. So do you.”

Had I just said that out loud ?

He smiled. “Are you staying here all afternoon?”

“No. They said we could go home and just come back at seven for the show.”

“Do you have a ride?”

Of course I didn’t have a ride. I lived only a few blocks away.

“No.”

“Can you wait until I talk to Polo? It’ll only be a few minutes and then I can take you.”

“Sure.”

Sandra reappeared. “Go ahead, Senor Montero.”

He winked at me before heading for the hall.

“Isn’t he handsome?” Sandra said, just as soon as he disappeared. “He’s the best-looking man in this entire building.”

I nodded. How was it that “the best-looking man in the building” was taking me home?