Page 37 of The Night We Became Strangers

Valeria

E ight years had passed since I’d seen this house.

And yet, it was still etched clearly in my memory, particularly the terrace on the rooftop, where Matías and I would look at the stars and the astounding city view while our parents danced downstairs—no end to the celebration in sight.

Oblivious to the sacred history of this house, the new owners had painted the outside wall in a tasteless ochre. I still remembered it in vanilla.

At times, the cool Quito air did its best to remind you that you had bones in your body—bones that ached as the relentless chill seeped under your skirt, ignoring that you had gone to great lengths to put on a pair of your finest nylon stockings or you had carefully chosen your best-fitting pencil skirt, just for looks, weather be damned.

But who cared about the cool temperature when the love of your life stood in front of you?

As soon as I spotted Matías crossing the street with his confident stride and sandy hair billowing with the wind, something lit inside my core, and I forgot all about my earlier discomfort.

“ Hola ,” he said, approaching with a faint smile.

“Hi. Thanks for coming.”

“You want to tell me what we’re doing here?” He stared at the house where I’d spent most of my childhood years.

“I need you to help me retrieve something.”

Mati dug his hands inside his pockets.

“I know it’s a long shot,” I said, before he could tell me how far-fetched my plan was, “but the day my mom died, I saw her hiding a tin box in a small compartment under the staircase. I meant to see what it was the next morning, but with the fire and all, I completely forgot. Shortly after, I moved away.”

He was quiet for a perturbing moment. “Well,”—he rubbed his forehead—“at this point, that’s all we have. My mom flat-out refuses to say anything about that night.”

I exhaled in relief.

“But how do you plan to go inside?” he said.

“That’s where you come in. Do you have your press badge?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. I’ll do the talking. All you have to do is distract whoever opens the door.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

Before he could change his mind, I held his hand and crossed the street. “You’ll think of something.”

Standing in front of the familiar ornate door, I removed the camera from my bag and hung it over my neck. Then, I rang the doorbell. An old lady opened the door. Her hair was mostly white and oddly reminiscent of a bird’s nest.

“Hello, donita ,” I said. “My name is Valeria Anzures, and this is my … colleague, Matías Montero. We work for Crónicas newspaper and we’re doing a report on historic homes in colonial Quito.”

“A reward?” she said.

“A report . As in an article? I was wondering if we could come inside to take some pictures of your house and ask you some questions.”

Matías flashed his press badge in case she needed extra convincing.

She looked at me, then at Mati’s nonplussed expression.

“May we come in?” I asked.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Valeria.” I refrained from repeating my last name as she might recognize it as that of the previous homeowners.

“What newspaper?”

“ Crónicas, ” Mati said with a smile.

“Oh, yes, that’s only a few blocks away.”

Undoubtedly, she was thinking of the old, burnt building.

I cleared my throat. “I can bring you a copy of the paper when the article comes out.” I hated lying like this, but it wasn’t like I was going to steal from her. Technically, that tin box belonged to me , as it had been my late mother’s.

“I’d like that,” she said, finally opening the door for us. “You know that a count lived here?”

A count? Certainly not my dad.

“Really?” Matías said, following the thin woman who surprisingly had generous hips in spite of her bony structure. “Tell me about it.”

The smell in the foyer was different than I remembered.

More pine and more lemon. I couldn’t recall the previous scent, but I knew it wasn’t this.

The parlor was smaller, too, and the interior courtyard, where my dad’s bar used to be, was now covered with planters and bird cages—several parrots talked in unison, upset with our unannounced presence.

The staircase where my mother had hidden her tin box was inside her room. It led to a small loft where I loved to sneak away to and draw for hours on end.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to start taking photos while Matías interviews you,” I said, but the woman was no longer concerned with me.

She was leading Mati into a floral loveseat where the two of them fit cozily together.

Matías looked up imploringly as the woman placed her hand on his knee and talked nonstop about the mysterious “count.”

Before she could change her mind or someone else showed up, I rushed toward the stairs, as my parents’ bedroom had been on the second floor.

The beige wallpaper in leaf motif was still there, but it had faded considerably in the last eight years.

It brought me comfort to see it intact—not every memory of my family had been wiped out by time and tragedy.

I took a picture of the hanging chandelier and the old wallpaper, as a souvenir.

When I reached the second story, a balloon seemed to expand inside my chest. In the back of the family room, where my parents had read the newspaper daily or listened to the radio, was a built-in concrete planter I hadn’t thought about in years.

As soon as I saw it, a memory sprang through my mind.

I’d barely turned eight when my dad had called me from this very same room and asked me to help him plant three small ivies, “one for each one of us,” he’d said.

My father had always loved gardening. He’d been the one to fill the upstairs terrace with pots and flowers.

I wondered now if, like this planter, they were still here.

“Plants often outlive us,” he’d said. “These ivies in particular are very resilient. They require little care. Let’s see which one outlives the other.”

The three plants had been tiny then. Now the three of them were entangled and overflowed the planter where they dwelled. My eyes filled with tears. I still remember the smell of moist soil as I dug my fingers inside the dirt to make a hole for the plants’ roots.

“Just like that,” he’d said, even though he had to dig with his own shovel after me to make an appropriately sized hole.

I could almost hear his perfect enunciation and low baritone in that lojano accent of his. He had been a patient man who rarely raised his voice. I’d never seen him lose his temper with anyone, but my uncle Gabo had once said those were the kind of people you should fear the most.

“When they finally lose their temper, brace yourself,” my uncle had said.

I rushed past the humble furniture toward the planter and touched the ivy’s dripping leaves. They were so long now they touched the parquet floor. They had recently been watered as a few drops wet the wood.

For years, I refused to think about my parents.

Of course, I had a natural curiosity to know what exactly happened to them—a question that my uncle and Dona Amparito had dismissed every time—but alone in my bed, during those endless nights at the boarding school when memories of my family would populate my mind and my thoughts would grow dark, I’d choose to ignore them.

I would immediately switch my thoughts to my grand plans once I graduated, or what I would tell Mati when I saw him again (in my plans, I didn’t become a mute like I did in real life).

I would be eloquent and cultured—a cosmopolitan, modern woman who engages in the most fascinating subjects: art, history, politics.

If the insomnia was too bad, I’d resort to the cherished recollections of our times together: how we would sit on the terrace, legs dangling from the banister, and laugh at the drunkards who stumbled out of the cantina at the end of the street.

Sometimes they would sing at the top of their lungs; at other times they would quarrel with whoever happened to look at them funny.

When the night was quiet, Mati would point to the constellations and planets—a series of bright dots swimming in the black sky— and tell me their names.

But this often happened at the end of the evening, when we were done playing card games, dominoes, and hide-and-go-seek.

Since my house consisted of many levels and had several additions, it was easy to find new hiding spots every time.

It had been easy to get lost in those memories and ignore any unpleasant thoughts about my parents. But now, confronted with the place where they’d spent a big part of their lives, it was impossible not to think about them.

How had they died?

Had their bodies calcinated to ashes while still alive?

But if so, why did Mati’s mom—my very own godmother —resent them so much?

Shouldn’t she feel compassion for them instead?

What had caused the drift between two friends who’d loved each other like sisters since childhood—the two comadres , as they often referred to one another.

And why in the name of everything holy had my father decided to broadcast that sinister show?

The old woman downstairs was still talking, though I could barely make out what she was saying, and yet, her voice was getting louder.

Had she decided to give Matías a tour of the house herself?

I had no more time to waste—I needed to find my mom’s box immediately.

I rushed to my parents’ bedroom, which now housed a different canopy bed, a disjointed choice as it didn’t match the pearl dresser or the cherry night tables.