Page 38 of The Night We Became Strangers

However, I had no time for design observations.

I turned to the staircase by the door, which led to the loft of my youth—where I’d loved to hide from Mati during our games.

There, underneath one of the stairs, in the precise corner where the steps turned, was a compartment that would hold all kinds of treasures.

I inserted my hand underneath the wood and felt the space for the tin box, my heart beating like a drum.

Where on earth was it? I looked inside the dim area, collecting spider webs. It was completely empty. Had this woman found my mom’s precious box and disposed of it?

How dare she?

The palm of my hand filled with dust as I felt for the box again and again.

“And right around the corner is my bedroom,” the woman said. “The same quarters where the count had slept in.”

Right when I was about to give up, I felt something with the tip of my finger, something that happened to move further back.

Matías coughed as the woman’s voice approached. “Wow, these ceilings are so high,” he said with a voice louder than usual. “Look at those vigas !”

I had seconds before they came into the room, but I couldn’t give up so easily. I extended my arm as far as it would go and again, felt something solid with the tips of my fingers. I searched for a tool around the room. The only thing that could remotely help was a comb with a long handle.

“Oh, yes, it’s oak,” she said.

With the comb in my hands, I stretched out my arm underneath the step, hoping I wouldn’t push the box further. Then I softly tapped it toward me until the box came into view at the same time as the woman entered her bedroom.

I straightened up and hid the comb behind my back.

“Oh, here you are,” the woman said.

Upon seeing me, Matías pointed at a painting above the bed. “That’s an enchanting landscape,” he said, “who’s the artist?”

The woman faced the other side of the room. “My cousin Federico,” she said, beaming with pride.

I carefully set the comb back on the dresser. Then, I pointed at said painting with my camera—though there was nothing special about that plain landscape—and took a picture. Discreetly, I took another one of Matías’s profile staring at the hideous painting as I didn’t have a single photo of him.

“There’s an attic upstairs,” the old woman said, “Do you want to see it?”

I shook my head at Matías.

“Maybe later?” he said. “I’m eager to see the terrace you mentioned with the spectacular views.”

“Oh, yes, the terrace.”

As they left the room, I got hold of the tin box and inserted it inside my purse, my fingers barely able to shut the clasp. Then, I casually followed them for the rest of the tour, shooting as many photos as I could in an attempt to take every single corner of the house with me.

The terrace— our terrace—hadn’t changed at all.

“You were right,” Matías told the lady, but looked at me as he spoke, “it’s a breathtaking view.”

My father’s flowerpots graced the front of the balustrade facing the street. His roses had also grown substantially under the unforgiving Quito sun. I teared up again while the woman spoke endlessly about the neighbors across the street, people who, according to her, had noble lineage.

My attention, however, was on this moment, on this place, on Matías.

I wanted to go back in time, I wanted to have my parents dancing downstairs and having drinks with their compadres .

Matías nodded at me from above the woman’s head, as if he felt the same way.

This was not just any place. This had been the framework of our childhood.

Later, when we’d thanked the talkative lady and left the house, Matías held my hand and led me to a nearby park. “Did you get it?” he said, his voice raspy.

I nodded, because if I spoke, I might cry.

We sat on a bench, side by side, and I removed the tin box.

Inside were several pieces of papers—notes.

I pulled one out. At the very top it said: Who wrote this?

, followed by a poem. On the bottom of the page—in my mom’s handwriting—was the name of the author.

Some were fragments of poems, completed with different penmanship.

“My mom wrote this,” I said, pointing at the bottom half of a poem.

Mati pursed his lips. Then brought one of the notes close to his eyes. “This could be my dad’s writing.”

We exchanged a silent look. My expression must have been as puzzled as his. He searched through the rest of the contents in the box. There were dozens of notes, folded in halves, with poems in them. Like they had written them together? Or maybe one was quizzing the other?

“Do you think that”—he cleared his throat—“Do you think my dad and your mom were … involved?”

“This could be anything,” I said. “A game of some sort. It doesn’t mean they had a—what?—an affair ?”

He gave me a pensive look. Even I knew how na?ve I sounded. Why would they write poems to each other when they were both married to other people ?

“If it didn’t mean anything,” he said, “then why did she keep the notes and hide them?”

I took a deep breath. This was too much to process.

I tried to recall anything unusual about our parents’ get-togethers.

I didn’t remember anything strange about my mom and Don Agustín’s behaviors.

Had they sat together during dinner? Or stared at each other?

Or whispered to each other in one of the hallways?

Nothing came to mind.

Other than my mom’s bursts of melancholy, where she would stay in bed all day, there had been no indication that she’d lived an unhappy life with my dad. I’d always thought it had to do with the fact that she couldn’t have any more babies after I was born.

“Did you ever notice anything unusual about them?” I asked Matías.

He shook his head, but he didn’t look me in the eye.

Does he know something else?

“Let me give this some thought,” he said.

“I hope it’s not true,” I said.

He turned to me, a crease between his eyebrows. His eyes softened and he held my hand, giving me goosebumps. “I’m sorry.”

“Mati, it’s not your fault. Whatever they did—”

“No. I’m sorry about not contacting you after what happened to them. You must have gone through a lot.”

My eyes started to burn.

“I think I was in a state of shock after everything,” he said, wiping my tear with his fingertips. “But if it’s any consolation, I thought about you. A lot.”

“I get it. You were a kid, too.”

“I always felt guilty about not writing you. I just didn’t know what to say. I was inside the building that night, you know?”

The other night, he’d only told me about the hysteria across town—not that he’d gone inside. “Did you see my parents?”

“No, I barely made it inside the building. I found my mom unconscious and I had to take her outside before the flames got to her.” He absently rubbed my hand with his thumb. “Everything was so chaotic. Nothing made sense. I’ve blamed myself for years for not going back in there and saving my dad.”

“How could you? You were only thirteen.”

He nodded, but his expression told me my argument wasn’t convincing enough.

“What was your mom doing there?” I said.

“She doesn’t want to tell me.” He looked at me, giving me a soft smile. “Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out.”

“Did you go to your dad’s funeral?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“They didn’t let me go to my parents’. They said funerals weren’t for children.”

He shook his head. “They were your parents.” He grabbed my hand and gave it a soft kiss. “I’m sorry, Vale.”

When he let go of my hand, I was parched. He held my gaze for a moment. My face was on fire. I wanted him to kiss me so badly.

“Do you have the roll of film?” he said.

His question took me off guard. The last thing on my mind right now was Alejandro Toledo.

I hesitated. “Well, I …”

He extended his hand, and the way he looked at me disarmed me.

I didn’t want to disappoint him now that he was finally paying attention to me.

My fingers fumbled with my purse’s zipper, still uncertain if I should trust him with my precious film.

Against my instinct, I removed the roll and placed it in his palm.