Page 33 of The Night We Became Strangers

Marisa

I was finally going to have a talk with Alicia.

I had waited long enough, and things were getting out of hand.

If it wasn’t Alicia pressuring Agustín to spend time with her, then it was her father or grandmother.

Agustín had been too polite to decline their dinner invitation, but even a blind person would’ve realized how uncomfortable he was with their attention.

I myself didn’t have the heart to accept his offer to drive me home after seeing how upset Alicia had been during her late mother’s mass.

But now I needed to save him from their claws.

He had made his preference known when he kissed me on my birthday.

Besides, he’d been leaving me notes with poems at work with the question, “Who wrote this?” on top.

I would then write the name of the poet, or finish the verse, and send him the note back in a sealed envelope to be delivered by the messenger boy.

I had been planning to tell Alicia about our kiss the same afternoon when she’d come over to bring me a gift for my birthday, but there hadn’t been an opportunity as we were never alone.

Since meeting when we were twelve years old, Alicia and I had celebrated every one of our birthdays together.

What started with handmade cards and drawings evolved into more elaborate gifts.

Her grandmother taught her to knit, so Alicia would make cozy blankets and hats—I had several of her creations.

Personally, I had no ability with crafts, as much as the nuns at school—and later Alicia—had tried to teach me.

Today we were supposed to go to mass together, but as usual we were at the bazaar because Alicia wanted to get more wool for a sweater she was knitting for her dad.

I sometimes envied how close the two of them were and wished my father would be a little like hers.

As we walked between vendor stands, she gushed over some colorful fabrics.

I was hearing her without listening. Instead, I was trying to come up with the perfect words to tell her about my feelings for Agustín.

With the tips of my fingers, I felt a corner of the tawny organza she was showing me. “So how was dinner last night with Agustín?” I asked.

“Oh, absolutely wonderful. He’s so charming. My dad and my grandma loved him. Amiga, I’m in love. It’s finally happened!” She reached out for a translucid white fabric and placed it over her head, as though it were a veil. “What do you think? Does it suit me?”

I was speechless. Somehow, I found my voice. “Nice.” I forced a smile. “And how does he feel about you? Has he—has he said anything?”

“Oh, he adores me. I’m sure about that. He’s always staring and, you know when a man is flirting. It’s obvious.”

“Have you … kissed yet?”

She let out a giddy laugh but kept walking without answering my question. I followed her at a distance as she made her way through fabrics and undergarments. Wait, what did that mean? Had they or had they not kissed? Her laughter and the shine in her eyes told me they had.

As many boyfriends as Alicia had before, I’d never seen her this enthusiastic about anybody.

She would usually lose interest in whatever boy she was seeing within a few days.

But with Agustín it was different. I had underestimated the situation.

I had waited too long. I stood there watching her in her cloud of bliss, bargaining with vendors, trying on scarves, and I had the gloomy realization that it might be too late for me.

As much as I delayed my climb up the stairs of the Crónicas building, waiting to run into Agustín again, I hadn’t seen him in days.

The main problem was that we worked different schedules: My workday started late in the afternoon and went well into the evening, whereas he had regular working hours.

Even so, I continued to answer his daily notes with poems that got more obscure and intricate with time.

I had to ask co-workers if they knew who wrote them.

Once, I even asked Leopoldo Anzures if he knew the poet in question—whom, of course, he identified immediately.

I’d also been taking careful attention to my appearance—wearing my newer outfits and even the gardenia dress he liked.

Who knew if he would work late one of these days or if he would come to the radio station again?

What I didn’t do was go into the second floor.

I didn’t dare. I didn’t want him to think I was looking for him—that would’ve been unseemly.

At work, I was thriving. If I got a smile or two from Leopoldo Anzures during a performance, it meant I’d done a good job.

A nod was enough to get me through a scene.

I lived for those minimal signs of approval.

I had seen him lose his temper with an actor who arrived late or if someone skipped a line or missed their spot when reading.

But so far, he had never directed his anger toward me.

He called me Senorita del Valle and was always respectful when he made suggestions.

He was hard to read, but a genius—I had no doubt in my mind.

He directed the radionovela with scientific precision, knowing when someone should pause, when a sound should come forward, how exactly to bring out the best from his actors.

His creativity never ceased to amaze me, especially when it came down to sound effects.

He and the sound technician, Tobías, would go over the required effects an hour before the show started.

Leopoldo would make suggestions on how to re-create a sound.

For example, they would use empty coconut shells against a table to mimic horses’ hooves or speak behind drinking glasses to pretend they were talking on the telephone.

There was a lot to keep track of and coordinate.

In so many ways, radio theater reminded me of my father’s orchestra: there was a tempo to it, a group of performers working together in harmony, and someone on the other side synchronizing the whole production.

My dad, however, did not see it my way. In fact, he had made disparaging comments when I’d drawn parallels between my work and his.

“How could you compare that lowbrow melodrama to a symphonic orchestra? That’s entertainment for the masses,” he would say, scoffing. “The storylines are so banal and overdramatic.”

This was the first time he’d admitted to hearing my work. It filled me with shame to know that instead of feeling pride at having a successful daughter, he had been secretly mocking me.

“I know,” I would say, trying to be agreeable, but in all truth, his comment had hurt me.

I took pride in what I did. It was hard work to stand there every night, not only reading my lines but performing —making sure I transmitted the feelings and tone the writer had envisioned for my character while trying to impress the director and please the audience.

How was that different from a musician playing an instrument?

What made one type of artwork more sophisticated or relevant than another?

Ever since we started with La Intrusa , the ratings at the radio station had doubled.

Everyone was talking about Gabriela’s fate and the many tribulations she had to go through—Alicia told me as much.

We’d gotten another actress, Beatriz Lara, who helped me with the female characters, but when she was too nervous, her voice would tremble—she still had a lot to learn.

The biggest surprise, however, had been to run into Reinaldo Cuevas—the young man who had beat me at the declamation contest a few years ago.

“Your voice is impossible to forget,” he had said, as soon as he saw me.

He was one of the announcers at Radio La Voz, not only for our radionovela but also for Canciones del Alma , the evening musical show scheduled three times a week.

Reinaldo and Sandra, the secretary, were the only people I talked to at work, since everybody else was so much older than me and Beatriz kept to herself at all times.

I sensed she was competitive and resented me for being “the star of the show,” as Reinaldo put it.

One evening, when I least expected it, Agustín showed up at my house.

“What are you doing here?” I said, forgetting my good manners. My dad would be home any minute.

“I wanted to see you,” he said. “I went looking for you at the station today.”

I glanced at my wristwatch. It was 7:00 p.m. Normally, I would be working at this time. “We don’t broadcast on Sundays.” I was hesitant to let him in, in case my dad showed up.

“I have good news,” he said. “I talked to Raúl about your brother. He wants him to come in and show him his caricatures.”

I was so excited I gave him a hug, not thinking about what I was doing. When I tried to push back, he held me tight. I left my arms on top of his shoulders, taking in the woody scent of his cologne on his neck. This hug felt right.

“Can I come in?” he said in a soft voice.

It might be better to let him in than to be seen by one of the neighbors hugging a man. There were too many gossipers on this street, and I didn’t want my dad to hear stories about me. As soon as I let Agustín into the foyer, he tried to kiss me.

“No, Agustín, you can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“You can’t kiss me and then ignore me the next day when we’re in front of Alicia.”

He sighed.

I marched into the living room and sat on a sofa with the most hideous flower print repeated all over it—I’d been begging my dad to get rid of this old couch, but he had some kind of sentimental attachment to it.

I crossed my arms and stared at Agustín.

I was mortified when tears filled my eyes. I wiped them with my hand, angrily.

He approached and squatted in front of me, just like he had on my birthday. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I thought—I don’t know—I thought we were just having fun.” He wiped one of my tears with his fingers. “We’re still friends, aren’t we?”

“Friends don’t kiss each other.”

He smiled. “I just can’t resist your beauty.”

I rolled my eyes.

“It’s true.” He grabbed my hands in his and kissed them. “Look, Alicia is gorgeous and full of life. It’s never boring when she’s around, but if you want me to break up with her, I will.”

“So, you admit that you’re going out with her.”

“It’s nothing serious.”

“Just like us, right?” I removed my hands from his. “You’re just having fun ?”

He sat next to me.

“Alicia and I have been best friends for almost six years, Agustín. Do you know that?”

“I feel like a jerk now. I’m sorry. I didn’t think any feelings would get involved.”

I slapped the cushion. “Then you’re an idiot!”

“Yes, I am, but it all happened so fast.” He held my hand. “It’s different with you, though. Alicia is enjoyable to be around, but you … You and me, we have a special connection. You must feel it, too.”

Of course I felt it.

“Look, if you want me to stop seeing her, I will,” he said, looking me straight in the eye. “Just say the word and I’ll leave her.”

There were defining moments in life; moments when one decision, one answer, one action, could change it all.

This was one of them—I could sense it even at my young age.

I could say yes, but that would mean my friendship with Alicia would be over for good.

I knew in my heart she would never forgive me if I took Agustín from her—because that was the way she would see it.

After all, she had claimed him first, and she insisted that she was in love.

As cute and charismatic as Agustín might be, I didn’t know if it would be worth losing my best friend over him.

Raúl had told me he was a womanizer. He said Agustín didn’t want to get serious with anyone, and marriage was the least of his concerns.

His actions with me and Alicia proved Raúl had been speaking the truth.

Agustín had no intention of getting serious with either one of us—and who knew if there were other women in his life?

He clutched my hand, still waiting for my answer.

How could I say no to him, though, when he was looking at me like that?

All I wanted, really, was for him to kiss me again.

But then I remembered all those times Alicia and I had spent together: looking for four-leaf clovers in her garden, reading stories to one another, watching clouds and trying to make out their shapes, braiding each other’s hair, making humitas , talking for hours about what the perfect man would be like.

All of that would be gone for good. All for someone who may leave me for someone else in a few days.

Alicia came across as a strong confident girl, but the truth was that she was a sensitive, sometimes insecure person.

I’d lost count of how many times she’d cried with me over her mom’s passing.

I had still to shed a single tear for my mom’s abandonment.

I despised crying. Today had been a sorry display of weakness in front of Agustín.

“No,” I said, removing my hand from his. “Don’t leave her.” I stood up. “I think it would be best if you left now.”