Page 4 of The Night We Became Strangers

Matías

P andemonium reigned on the streets of Quito.

Not only did I witness Don Jacinto handing out the keys to his Buick to a random passerby, who immediately declined the gift—somewhat offended (“What am I supposed to do with this now ?”), but I also had to dodge a mattress that nearly fell on my head from a four-story building.

People around me ran aimlessly, some still in their pajamas and night robes.

A few were getting into their cars, others on bicycles.

Some carried suitcases, baskets, blankets, knocked on neighbors’ doors relentlessly and shouted that the Martians were coming.

It was like a dream where nothing made sense.

If only I could find my mother, we could navigate this odd trance together.

But she’d been acting so strangely in the last few days.

Tonight’s disappearance was a clear example.

Where on earth was she?

My grandfather’s house was an option, but it would be too long a walk, especially against this torrent of humans around me. Maybe she’d gone to see my father at the club where he played cards?

My friend Benjamin’s older brother, Carlos Cortés, was standing outside Casa Manuela, arms folded across his chest, his back leaning against the white stone wall of the colonial building that housed one of the most popular restaurants in the area.

Next to him was a table and on top of it, a radio conveniently placed outside the restaurant for all to hear the news.

“What’s going on?” I asked him. “Do you believe this shit?”

He brought a finger to his lips, signaling me to be quiet. People stopped their hasty walks and circled the radio to listen.

“We ask our citizens to be alert and attentive to a new official bulletin. At this moment, we are communicating with important government officials and the military. This just in: We have a report from the Mariscal Sucre airbase. The aliens are now in Cotocollao. An armed group from Vencedores Battalion has come to the enemy’s encounter but unfortunately, the Martian attack is so overwhelming they have destroyed everything in their path.

There are many dead—dead and wounded.” A more agitated, urgent voice came through.

“The airbase in Mariscal Sucre has been taken by the enemy and destroyed! They’re exterminating everything ! ”

Around me, people spoke in unison, some more panicked than others.

“Quiet!” Carlos said. “Let us hear!”

Someone on the radio was announcing that the chief of communications from Crónicas was about to speak.

After clearing his throat and stumbling with his first words, the man mentioned the specific locations where the Martians had allegedly landed already.

Familiar names of nearby parishes were listed in scary succession.

“If the data we are receiving is truthful and accurate, we must understand that the mortal enemy has us surrounded. A few more stops and they’ll be in Quito,” he continued in a solemn voice.

“We are not aware of what’s happening in other countries as international news agencies have suspended their broadcasts.

We are also ignorant of the fate of our reporters stationed in Cotocollao and whether or not our army has come into contact with the enemy.

This is all the information we have at the moment. Thank you for your attention.”

A woman’s scream broke the listeners’ unnerved silence. Bringing her hand to her chest, she seemed to be having some sort of fit.

“A doctor! Please! I need a doctor.”

An older gentleman grabbed her by the arm. “Someone call an ambulance!”

Another man guided them toward his car, which was parked by the curb. The rest of the listeners dispersed in all directions.

A man running towards us stopped short. “What’s happening?” he said, eyes wide. “I’ve been running but I don’t even know why.”

“I—I’m not sure,” I said, feeling dumb at the thought of repeating what I had just heard. “Apparently, the aliens are coming?” There had to be a logical explanation for this that didn’t involve extraterrestrial creatures.

Before I could say anything else, the man darted toward the plaza.

“Where’s Benjamin?” I asked Carlos, as he started walking away.

“I don’t know, but I’m going home to die with my family.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking or being serious. Benjamin and I had always looked up to his brother, Carlos, who was almost seventeen. This kind of statement was not what I expected from one of my personal heroes.

A part of me thought this a joke, but another—more visceral—part was starting to worry. Why would the radio station and the newspaper make up such a lie?

I was only a few blocks away from the building that housed my family’s newspaper and Radio La Voz. Maybe I could get some answers there. The porter knew me and would certainly let me in.

One of the bartenders from Casa Manuela stepped outside, carrying a tray with small glasses.

He had removed his jacket, and under his armpits, two puddles of sweat stained his white buttoned-up shirt.

He started calling people in, offering them free drinks.

In his other hand was a full bottle of a transparent liquor.

“ Tomémos, cholitos ,” he was saying, inviting his compatriots to drink with him as he generously poured what looked like puro into the shot glasses.

Several passersby obediently took a glass, or two, and gulped the liquor, which I had only tried once—much to my regret. I was certainly not going to try it again tonight.

As I walked past La Iglesia del Sagrario, a strange vision came into view.

A priest—standing in front of the church’s gigantic double doors, arms lifted toward the sky—was surrounded by a small crowd who knelt in front of him.

He was speaking in Latin, in that solemn tone priests always used during mass.

But instead of listening in silence, the parishioners were responding indistinctively, all at the same time.

I approached them so I could make out their words.

“Bless me Father for I have sinned,” a man said, in tears. “It’s been two years since my last confession.”

Wait, were they all confessing ? In a group? Out loud?

Another man was ahead in his confession.

“… with the neighbor’s wife. I had too much to drink, Heavenly Father, but it only happened once. Please forgive me, Diosito lindo .”

Words like stealing , lying , cheating , blasphemy , and a whole list of sins and regrets—many involving carnal transgressions—were uttered at the same time while the priest made the sign of the cross in a gesture of mass absolution.

I resisted the temptation of confessing my own bad thoughts and continued toward Plaza Grande. A couple, holding hands, nearly bumped into me. I recognized Guillermo Salas and his fiancée, Rosa-something. He had been at my school but graduated last year.

“We’re getting married, Mati,” he said.

“But I thought your wedding was planned for July.”

“No time, my friend, no time.”

The two of them rushed toward El Sagrario without more than a goodbye wave.

When I reached the large independence square, I was shocked to see so many people gathered there this late at night.

Quito was normally a quiet, peaceful town, and most people went home after dark.

This plaza was perhaps the most important site in the entire country as four significant buildings surrounded it.

First and foremost, the presidential residence, El Palacio de Carondelet, with its long row of Tuscan columns in the front.

I looked up at one of the second-story windows wondering, for a second, if the president was aware of the chaos taking over our capital.

Was he watching? Come to think of it, my father had mentioned in the morning that President Galo Plaza was out of town for some important event.

South of the presidential palace was one of the most important churches in Quito and a true landmark, La Iglesia de la Catedral with its infamous gallito on top of one of its domes.

The gallito was an iconic iron rooster who happened to be the protagonist of a famous legend that all children learned about in school.

Currently, a crowd rushed toward the dozen stone steps that led to the front entrance. I could already see that many were desperately knocking on its carved double doors to be let inside. As most believers, they probably thought they wouldn’t be safer anywhere else.

Two more buildings surrounded the tall monument in the center of the plaza built in honor of the country’s independence. One was known as the Palacio Arzobispal—the archdiocese’s headquarters—and the other one was the Palacio Municipal, which harbored the mayor’s offices.

Where were these illustrious citizens now? Hiding underneath a table? Begging God to forgive their sins? Or laughing at all of us from behind one of those dark windows?

Perhaps one of the oddest things about the desperate quitenos around me was that once they reached the plaza, they didn’t just settle there. Instead, they grabbed their luggage or mattress once again and took off running—destination unknown.

Diagonal to the government palace was Hotel Majestic, where another group stood in a line that went all the way inside the Renaissance building.

This was the first house built during the founding of the city in the sixteenth century.

My guess was that these individuals might be waiting to use the telephone—as it was one of the few places in the area that had one.

It wouldn’t be too far-fetched to assume they wanted to call their loved ones to say goodbye, or maybe to warn them about our imminent apocalypse?

The doorman had taken it upon himself to remove a large mahogany radio so everyone could keep updated on the Martians’ progress.

“It is now nine thirteen, courtesy of our favorite orange refreshment, Naranjada. Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please, all of us here at the station would like to extend our gratitude for your undivided attention as we follow these unprecedented and tragic events. Friendly listeners, we ask you not to leave our side. Radio La Voz will continue to provide the latest news about the Martian invasion. We pledge to continue until the moment that—God forbid—we might fall, unequivocally, in the hands of the military supremacy of our raiders from outer space.”

After that dramatic outburst, the announcer introduced a government official, Minister Díaz Granados. “Citizens, as minister of defense, I ask the citizens of Quito to remain calm. We’re organizing the defense and evacuation of the city.”

Evacuation?

I didn’t even know where my parents were.

How was I expected to leave the city? Something fell from one of the top floors of the hotel and shattered at my feet.

It was a ceramic piggy bank containing someone’s life savings.

I stared at the broken object, trying to make sense of this upside-down world.