Page 3 of The Night We Became Strangers

I lowered the window to breathe in the city air.

There was noise all around: vendors announcing to the world that they had plenty of oranges and tangerines at cheap prices, cars honking, the brakes of an old bus behind us, construction workers whistling at an attractive woman sauntering down the street, a crowd laughing.

Quito was alive. And I felt invigorated by it.

Tío Bolívar lived in an old two-story house a few blocks away from the infamous radio station that, according to hearsay, was slowly regaining the credibility of its listeners.

As we entered the dim vestibule, my heels clacked against the mosaic tile.

A warm, yeasty aroma permeating the air left no doubt that something tasty was in the oven.

It also made me realize how hungry I was. But it was way past lunch time.

“Marga!” Tío Bolívar said, calling his wife.

I had a vague recollection of Tía Marga.

She’d been pregnant when I left, that much I remembered, because I’d been fascinated by how enormous a human belly could grow.

She’d had little to say back then, at least to me, but had been a pleasant woman with big brown eyes.

Last I heard, she’d had a son, Joselito.

It was a shock to see Tía Marga now.

She’d lost all the pregnancy weight and then some.

A life of hardship reflected on her face with bulging cheekbones and brownish blemishes across her skin.

Her eyes, which in her youth had been the focal point of her face, now looked muted and somber.

Her mane, held in a tight bun, was more gray than black.

How could that be when Tío Bolívar looked so youthful?

“Look who’s here,” he said in a cheerful tone that came out forced. He set my luggage by the staircase as his wife came toward us.

“Hola, Valeria ,” she said, extending a weak hand for me to shake. “Forgive my appearance, but I was in the kitchen.” She was wearing an apron splattered with flour. “Goodness, I didn’t remember you having so many freckles!”

I did my best not to touch my nose, which in summer months became covered in freckles due to my long hikes, mostly to get the perfect shot. I owed my fair skin and toasted caramel hair to my mom, but I was not about to ruin the mood by mentioning her.

“Did you tell Valeria about tonight?” Tía Marga asked her husband.

“Not yet.”

“What about tonight?” I asked.

Discretion was not my forte.

“Oh, we’re having some friends over for dinner,” he said. “To welcome you back.”

“The Monteros?” I asked, barely able to hold my excitement. These city people took advantage of every moment to celebrate.

He avoided my eager gaze. “No, not them. Other friends I want you to meet.” He picked up my suitcases. “Is Graciela upstairs?”

“Yes, she’s getting the room ready,” my aunt said.

As we started our climb up the stairs, a boy came running down and nearly bumped against Tío Bolívar and me.

“Hey, watch it!” Tío Bolívar scolded. “Why don’t you behave like a gentleman for once and say hi to your cousin?”

“Hi, cousin,” he said with a quick, dismissive bow. His long bangs nearly covered his eyes.

“Her name is Valeria,” Tío Bolívar said, maneuvering my two valises as his young son attempted to rush past him down the stairs and reached the bottom with a leap. “And this is Joselito,” he said, with a resigned sigh.

“Hi,” I said.

But Joselito was already running to the front door. All I’d been able to assess was his short tan pants and suspenders. Tío Bolívar and I renewed our climb.

“You will stay in Graciela’s room,” he said. “We only have four bedrooms, and the boys use the other two.”

I had a few memories of Graciela. She’d been taller than me, and her hair had been so straight that the pin curls her mamá worked so hard on creating every morning would wane by the middle of the day.

I looked up to her since she was the cousin closest in age to me.

When I first moved to the boarding school, I’d sent her letters filled with drawings.

She’d answered a couple of them but slowly, and sadly, our correspondence had died.

She was nearly unrecognizable now. For one, she was shorter than me, and the once self-assured child who’d encouraged me to climb rooftops and dared me to eat dirt in order to borrow her bicycle would barely look me in the eye.

Her hair came down to the nape of her neck, held on one side with a rhinestone barrette, and she was still attempting to curl the bottom—with mixed results.

A tailored blouse and a pencil skirt highlighted her small frame.

Her fingers were long, her wrists tiny. So much so that when we shook hands, I was afraid I might break one of her bones.

“Graciela, help her get settled, will you? I have to go back to the radio station for a couple of hours,” my uncle said, bringing my luggage inside the first room to the right.

My cousin nodded. I’d yet to hear her voice.

“Thank you, Tío,” I said as he headed to the stairs, and I followed Graciela into the bedroom.

This had been the girls’ room before—I remembered as much.

It had once been a pink paradise with flower-print curtains and a rosy doll crib that matched my cousins’ furniture.

Well, the room had drastically changed. The wallpaper was more subdued now, with tiny olive leaves spread throughout.

Gone were the two canopy beds from their childhood in lieu of two twin beds with matching sage bedspreads.

A night table with a walnut RCA Victor radio stood between them.

“Oh, you have a radio,” I said, applauding.

Back in the boarding school, we’d only been allowed to listen to an hour of radio a day, after dinner, while we did our needlework.

I always picked the station, and invariably, I chose a radionovela , as I was enthralled with the stories of unrequited love and betrayal.

But if there was still time, we’d listen to a Colombian radio station that featured live bands playing boleros and guarachas .

“Do you like radionovelas ?” I asked her.

She started to smile, but as she did, she immediately covered her mouth with her hand. She nodded.

“Which is your favorite?” I said, and the two of us said in unison. “ ?El derecho de nacer! ”

As she opened her mouth to speak, I realized the source of her shame. Her front teeth were terribly crooked, to the point that one seemed to be climbing on top of the other. As soon as she was done speaking, she covered her mouth again.

Caray, this was a big leap from the poised child she’d once been.

“Come meet my brothers,” she said, heading for the door.

Joselito was not in his room, but his colorful marbles were. So was his train set—pieces scattered all over the floor. This bedroom had once belonged to the oldest son, as I recalled, but he was a married man now and had moved to a house of his own.

We didn’t linger and Graciela opened the next room. A teenage boy raised his head from a book filled with numbers and formulas. On his desk was a strange contraption built with metals and wires in some sort of mysterious circuit.

“Germán, say hi to our cousin Valeria.”

“Hi,” he said, barely moving his chin up and making no attempt to get up to greet me.

While my aunt and her maid killed, plucked, and baked a couple of chickens, Graciela helped me unpack my valise. She was thrilled to have new reading material and peeked through several of my textbooks.

“You can have them,” I said, as I’d already read them.

I showed her my camera and told her about my plans to work at the newspaper. She listened in pensive silence, but didn’t utter an opinion. The one thing that fired her enthusiasm was to help me pick a dress for tonight’s dinner with my uncle’s mysterious friends.

I wanted to look my best, so I chose a black crepe top with a creamy taffeta skirt that Amparito had sewn for me. She had a talent for duplicating any magazine design with cheaper fabrics.

My cousin wore a sky-blue sleeveless dress with a matching flare skirt. She pinned my head up in a twisted bun and I borrowed her blush and lipstick since the nuns didn’t let me buy my own makeup. But that was about to change!

Together we headed down the stairs, where I could hear my uncle’s voice and some laughter. Nothing this exciting had ever happened to me since the days my parents were alive and hosted dinner parties themselves.

The stiff petticoat under my skirt slightly scratched my legs as I descended the stairs. “Your brothers are not joining us?” I asked Graciela.

“No. And trust me, it’s better that way.”

She still covered her mouth when she spoke, but in the afternoon, there had been times when she’d forgotten her problematic teeth.

Tía Marga had changed into a navy dress with lace sleeves. She sported a pair of glasses that were somewhat incongruous with her fine gown, but she looked much better than she had in the afternoon. What a little grooming could do to a woman!

“Here they are!” Tío Bolívar said, opening his arms to welcome Graciela and me as we entered the parlor.

In the muted living room were an older couple and a young man—a redhead. Out of habit, I pinched Graciela’s arm. I couldn’t help it. My friends and I pinched each other whenever we spotted a ginger—that was how rare they were in Riobamba.

She screeched. Then covered her mouth with her gloved hand.

“Sorry,” I said.

The older woman, wrapped in some kind of fur, blatantly stared at me.

Tío Bolívar cleared his throat. “Well, here she is, my niece, Valeria. She just arrived from Riobamba this afternoon.”

The two elders assessed me as if I were bacteria under a microscope. They were older than my aunt and uncle. The man’s hair was mostly white, and his fair skin signaled that his son might have inherited his coloring.

“These are Mr. and Mrs. Recalde,” my uncle said. “And their son, Félix.”

Félix was very slim and somewhat clumsy. He nearly tripped as he extended a hand to greet me. His face was covered with freckles (and to think that my aunt had criticized mine!) but he had nice soft features—a harmonious face with chestnut eyes and reddish eyebrows.

“Nice to meet you,” he said in a barely audible voice.

The portly maid I had met in the afternoon entered the parlor, carrying a tray filled with wine glasses.

“Please, have a drink,” Tío Bolívar said. “Let’s toast for this evening.”

In what could be considered an overexcited move, I reached out for my wineglass first. I’d never tasted alcohol and was eager to try. I took a quick sip as Graciela elbowed me, shaking her head.

“Wait for the toast,” she whispered.

I nodded. What would Senora Flores, my etiquette teacher, say if she’d seen my abrupt indiscretion? Everybody else picked up a glass with the grace that had failed me and waited for Tío Bolívar to speak.

“I’d like to make a toast for our guests of honor”—he raised his glass—“and of course, for my niece, who’s finally back with us. It’s such a joy to have you here.”

He winked at me.

Tía Marga was the first to utter a “ ?Salud! ” followed by everyone else’s.

I loved the drink’s sweet bubbly taste that, based on the empty bottle sitting on the cupboard, was champagne—not white wine, as I’d originally thought. I was shocked at my family’s splendor and extravagance! They must have really missed me.

As we sat around the dining room table to enjoy the two chickens, skillfully paired with parsley potatoes and rice stuffed with green peas, I had the opportunity to quietly observe my uncle’s interactions with his guests.

There was something odd about this encounter.

I had been led to believe that these were close friends who were coming to welcome me, but my uncle treated them with the same deference one treats an authority.

His nervous energy was at its height until two glasses of beer set him at ease, and he started telling jokes and laughing even before delivering the punchline.

The hefty meal was followed by the creamy apple cake my aunt had been baking earlier—she apologized for preparing such a “simple” dessert.

The guests were gracious but left promptly after dinner, which was even stranger because in Quito, invitations were a long affair.

I still remembered the endless nights of drinking and dancing at my parents’ home that I’d peeked at from the upstairs banister when I was a young girl.

It would take a week for me to find out the real reason for the gathering at my uncle’s home.