Page 39 of The Night We Became Strangers

Matías

M y mother was sitting behind her desk when I entered the executive editor’s office.

Technically, my stepdad was the publisher and chairman of the newspaper, but for all intents and purposes, my mother was running the operation.

When my dad had died, she had little work experience.

She’d done some bookkeeping for her dad’s business, but didn’t know much about journalism.

So, when she became a widow, she relied heavily on Raúl Cortés, my dad’s editor-in-chief.

She also received business guidance from her own father, and for all legal matters, there had been Julio Montero, her brand-new husband and unconditional ally.

She’d been smart enough to know that nobody would’ve put up with a woman publisher—even if she was Agustín Montero’s widow—so Julio and her had worked as a team ever since.

I greeted her as she was going over some papers, a cup of valeriana for her nerves by her side. As usual, it had probably gotten cold already.

“How is your story coming along?” she asked, referring to my piece about the inauguration of some boring governmental building.

“Fine,” I said.

As she finished signing papers, she sat back in her chair and looked at me, cup in hand. “What is it, son? You never come here without a reason.”

Her tone was soft, like any concerned mother would use, but she was no ordinary woman. However, this might be my one chance to get some vital information from her, though only yesterday she had shut me down. How could I bring up the subject without being greeted with a cup of tea on my forehead?

“Mamá,” I said, “I know this is a sensitive subject, but I really need to know.” I cleared my throat. “Was my father having an affair with Valeria Anzures’s mom?”

The cup flew over my head, thank God.

“Have you any neurons left in your brain or have they all been scorched?” she said. “I thought I made it perfectly clear yesterday that I don’t want to talk about the past!”

I left the office before she was done insulting my mental faculties.

Tato Paredes was what some might call a “yes man.” He was the only photographer in the organization I trusted, as he didn’t have the arrogance and impertinence I’d seen in the others.

He rarely partook in chitchat with his co-workers, and his introverted nature fit well with his profession, as he spent most of his time with his face behind the camera or in that cave he called “his” darkroom.

He was easily startled, which made me wonder if he was some sort of spy or, more likely, if he worked on his own photographs during work hours.

“Tato!” I said, secretly hoping to scare him, as it always gave me a small pleasure.

“ ?Madrecita Santa! ” he said, invoking the Virgin after he hit his head against the amplifier in the darkroom.

“Are you all right?”

He nodded, rubbing his forehead.

“I need an urgent favor,” I said. “Top secret.”

The red light in the room could be deceitful, but I could still make out his raised eyebrows. “What?” he said with the eagerness of a child.

“You have to develop this film and then print me a contact sheet. It’s urgent. Also, don’t let anyone else see it.”

Salivating like a greedy canine, he grabbed the film from my hand.

“Be careful when you develop it. It’s very important.”

“I’m a professional, Matías. I’ve developed hundreds of rolls.”

Tato, like many of the employees, had been here since I was an adolescent, and they hadn’t graduated to call me senor yet.

“Fine,” I said. “Come see me in the newsroom when you’re done.”

The newsroom, it turned out, was in a state of chaos.

A radio news bulletin had just reported that the famous Spanish matador , Tomás Escobar, aka Tomasín, was clinging to life by a thread after being gored by a bull.

Last we heard they were transporting him to the hospital.

Raúl Cortés sent me there to get an exclusive, as one of his secret sources had told him which hospital it was.

This was big news and must be reported in our next edition with no delay.

The opportunity I’d been waiting for to get an important story was finally here—maybe even my own exclusive.

I was tired of reporting car accidents or chasing government officials all over town.

With barely any time to tie my shoelaces, I donned my hat and ran down the stairs, making my way through a mass of people toward the first empty cab I could find.