Page 43 of The Night We Became Strangers

Matías

A ttending the symphony with my mother was dreadful, and not because I didn’t enjoy the music.

It had everything to do with her behavior and how furious she’d made me.

I almost didn’t come tonight. But why should I sacrifice?

I’d been looking forward to this concert for weeks.

The orchestra had flown all the way from Berlin.

But I could certainly identify with strong emotions, particularly the pure and unadulterated rage I’d been experiencing for the last five days.

I needed this outing.

We were in the ample foyer of Teatro Sucre, waiting for the concert to begin.

I stood by my mother and stepfather as they greeted friends and acquaintances.

When nobody was watching, she straightened her husband’s bow tie and attempted to fix my pompadour, but I pulled away. I wanted nothing to do with her.

Even though my mother didn’t go out much anymore, she’d been quite popular as a young woman, so people appeared excited to see her.

She and my father had been a power couple in the Quito society, and she’d become sort of a mythic creature—the beautiful young widow who ran the largest newspaper in the capital.

“Your coverage of Tomasín Escobar was fabulous,” a heavy-set woman with carrot hair—whom I had no recollection of but apparently had met as a child—said. “What a pity. So young.”

Part of my frustration tonight had to do precisely with the matador , who hadn’t made it.

He hadn’t reached twenty years old yet and had been considered a child prodigy in the world of tauromachy.

I’d been rooting for him to survive and stayed at the hospital overnight to be the first to know the results of his surgery.

After the doctor had notified the media of his passing—at dawn the next day—I’d rushed back to the paper to write the article on no sleep.

Upon arrival, I’d been confronted with the appalling news that my mother had been looking for me in the newsroom the previous day and had run into Tato Paredes, holding the contact sheet of Valeria’s photos against his chest. As much as Tato had attempted to hide the sheet, my mother had gotten a hold of it.

I can only imagine how mysterious and nervous Tato must have behaved.

My mother could be so perceptive. You couldn’t hide anything from her.

Seeing the gold mine in front of her, she’d forced Tato to print Alejandro Toledo’s photo and had one of the other reporters type a few words about it as the entertainment cover story of the day.

I was sure the photo would get reprinted in most Latin American major newspapers, as he was famous internationally.

Of course I’d given my mother a piece of my mind. “For your information, Valeria Anzures took that photo, not Tato!” I’d told her. “You need to pay her, at the very least, since you gave credit to someone else.”

At first, she’d shrugged. “Tato never said he didn’t take the photos.” Her shamelessness knew no bounds. “But what were you doing with that girl’s film anyway? I told you I didn’t want you anywhere near her.”

“You must print a correction and give credit to Valeria for the photo,” I’d said, and my mother knew better than to contradict me, but I had yet to see the correction printed.

Immediately after the encounter with my mother, I’d tried to call Valeria at her uncle’s house to explain what happened, but she was out.

I continued calling, even after I saw her kissing that idiot in the middle of the street the other night, but they kept saying she wasn’t home.

Hence, my current, enhanced state of irritation. I hadn’t spoken to my mother since, but I was making an exception tonight, in front of her friends anyway.

“Did you hear the latest?” the woman with the carrot hair continued.

“The Recalde’s boy, Félix, is getting married to Leopoldo Anzures’s daughter!

You know, the girl they sent away for years?

Well, apparently, she’s back—and such a lagarta, she’s already snagged the richest bachelor she could find. ”

My mom threw a quick glance at me. Inside the pockets of my trousers my hands balled into tight fists. Valeria engaged? No wonder she’d kissed that fool the other night. I’d been trying not to think about that and pretend it didn’t bother me.

“Not only that, the Recaldes are throwing an engagement party tonight—out of the blue—and they had the gall not to invite us, right, Pepe?” she elbowed her husband, a thin old man with an eagle nose, who answered with a “ what? ” and then a “ who? ”

“Alfonso and Caridad Recalde! I told you about their party this afternoon. If you’d only listen to me once in a while!”

The man, chewing on a toothpick, winked at me.

“The nerve of those people!” she said. “We invited them to the weddings of both of our girls, and these are the thanks we get?”

My mother shook her head in solidarity.

An elongated woman, with an embroidered blouse that came all the way to her chin and spectacles at the tip of her nose, rang a small bell by my ear, signaling that the show was getting ready to start and we should take our seats—praise the Lord.

I sat through the first half of the concert.

It was mesmerizing, electrifying, more than I would have anticipated.

And yet, I couldn’t stay there one more second.

I got up, still in the dark, and made my way to the end of the aisle—not a word to my mother, but I could hear her hissing my name.

I strode out of the auditorium, rushed through the foyer, and out to the misty street.

It had been raining earlier, and the cobblestone was still wet.

I didn’t need directions. I knew exactly where to go.

Lifting my lapels and digging my hands inside the pockets of my jacket, I hurtled down the street without looking up.

I couldn’t believe Valeria had gotten engaged .

She was much too young. And why had she not told me?

It couldn’t be true. I had to see it with my own eyes .

A car honked at me as I crossed the street without looking.

What had come over me, anyway? Why did I care about what this girl did?

She’d been away for years, and I had barely thought of her during that time.

If I did, it would always be with pity. Poor Valeria this, poor Valeria that.

But seeing her as an adult, a grown woman, had shaken me to the core.

I reached the parking lot where we kept my dad’s sedan—even after all these years—and I unlocked the driver’s door. I always carried the key with me, since I often had to drive around town to find my stories, unless I was too far from the lot, in which case I would take a cab.

Of course, everyone in the media knew who the Recaldes were and where they lived, me included, but unlike the carrot-haired woman, I wasn’t surprised that they hadn’t invited us.

Valeria’s uncle couldn’t stand us, and she probably despised me now as well, so that may have had something to do with the slight.

I drove fast, checking my watch from time to time.

The party would be in full swing by now.

From a distance, I could make out the shape of the Recaldes’ neocolonial villa.

They had a mansion, unequivocally: an old castle that had belonged to a marquis or a count of some sort during the last century.

Not a lot of people knew there were actual castles in Quito.

In the last twenty years, they had been building many of them in the district known as La Mariscal, where the city’s aristocracy had been moving to get away from the ever more crowded downtown area.

Some were impressive displays of architecture, while others stuck out like sore thumbs next to the colonial and modern buildings emerging near them.

I had heard there were several, and I’d intended to write a series of articles about them.

The visit to Valeria’s old home had rekindled this desire.

There had been some talk about moving into this area in my family, also.

The construction in front of me was an eclectic blend of Renaissance finials, symmetrical lines, and colonial details in the form of wooden window frames and balconies.

Adding to this ensemble was a large palm tree flanked by a handful of smaller ones inside the property.

Bright lights pointed at the balcony archways spread throughout the second story, and two towers crowned with jade pitched roofs gave it the look of a European castle.

I imagined Valeria locked inside one of those towers if she married into this family, her photojournalism dreams tossed into the nearest trash can.

I parked half a block away and, fiddling with my keys, followed the voices and laughter to the front metal gate, which was wide open.

I let myself into the property, walking past an immaculate garden and a large stone fountain.

There was a small cluster of people in the garden, enjoying drinks and so distracted that none of them seemed to notice me.

Conveniently, I was wearing a tuxedo, so I blended in well with the elegant guests.

As I stepped into the crowded foyer with its saffron walls and spiral staircase in the back, I kept my eyes open for Valeria; so far, I hadn’t seen her.

I’d better find her before her uncle kicked me out, so I couldn’t be too brazen about my presence here.

On the fly, I grabbed a glass of champagne from a stiff waiter carrying a tray full of drinks, and I slowly migrated from the spacious foyer into a grand salon surrounded by tall windows and a candelabra chandelier hanging from a carefully carved ceiling resembling a geometric maze.

In the corner of the room, a quartet of strings played Vivaldi. The room was packed as people mingled and laughed—and there, guarded by her many cousins, stood a very serious Valeria.

In black?

Her dress tightly hugged all her curves.

It had puffy sleeves and some kind of lace covered the entire fabric.

She was even wearing heels, which enhanced a pair of shapely calves I hadn’t noticed before.

I’d been mistaken to think of her as too young to marry.

There was nothing childlike about this woman.

Not her red lipstick, nor her wavy hair in a sophisticated updo, the glass of champagne in her hand, and certainly not the notorious pearl on her ring.

A mixture of anguish and regret took over me. I needed to talk to her. Immediately.

“Excuse me,” I said to a group standing between us as I squeezed past them toward her.

Her eyes widened upon seeing me and then, that irresistible frown. She held my gaze for a moment until the clicking of glass drew everyone’s attention (except mine) to the back of the room.

A man’s voice over a microphone echoed throughout the salon, welcoming the guests who’d actually been invited to the event, offering a toast to the bride and the groom.

The voice belonged to Alfonso Recalde, an older version of his son Félix, except that he carried the confidence that age and success gave men—something his son was sorely lacking.

If anyone was a child here, it was Félix Recalde, who approached Valeria and stood like a broom by her side.

He was significantly taller than her, but he still had the body of a teenager: long, bony arms and legs, a perky nose, and a face full of freckles.

He didn’t deserve a woman like her.

Valeria’s uncle, Bolívar Anzures, spoke next.

I could tell by his slightly slurred speech that he’d been drinking for a while, perhaps to gather enough courage to talk in public.

A general “ salud ” followed Anzures’s hasty speech, and all drank their champagne.

I had already finished mine but could certainly use another to help my ire subside, if nothing else.

As the guests slowly made their way to the dining room, where I was sure succulent dishes probably awaited—based on the exquisite smell—Valeria drifted away from the group and gravitated toward what I assumed to be the lavatory.

I followed her, and before she could enter the room, I held her arm. “I need to talk to you.”

She dropped mine as if I were a burning pot.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were engaged?”

Looking around, she led the way to another room, which turned out to be a library covered in wooden panels and bookshelves. At its center was a stone chimney with flanking carved statues of pre-Incan tribesmen, who appeared to be glaring at me.

“I didn’t think you would care,” she said. “Not after what you did to me!”

“I’ve been trying to call you for almost a week to explain!”

She crossed her arms.

“I’ve been feeling terrible about what happened, and I know it looks awful, but I promise I didn’t do it on purpose.

It was all a big mistake.” I explained to her the situation with the matador , and how I’d been gone that entire afternoon and night.

“We’re going to pay you for the photos,” I said, “even if I have to do it myself with my own salary.”

She didn’t say anything for a while, but I could see that her rapid breathing was slowing down a bit.

“Am I supposed to be touched by your act of kindness?” she finally said. “I haven’t forgotten that your family owns the newspaper. I didn’t just want the money. I wanted the job!”

I took a step closer to her, but she didn’t budge.

“I know. It looks bad. It may be hard to believe, but my mother and my stepfather are the ones in charge. I have no say in any editorial or administrative decisions. My mom wants me to learn every aspect of the business before I can move up. Once I understand the basics and get good at it, I’ll move up in the organization.

She says she doesn’t believe in nepotism, and she won’t make me director until I have a keen understanding of what it is to work at a newspaper. ”

She let out a sigh. My eyes couldn’t look away from her full lips. When did she become so stunning?

“That’s all very commendable, I suppose,” she said, “but where does that leave me? I still have no job. At least if I had the photo, I could’ve sold it to another publication and perhaps they would’ve hired me.”

“I know, Vale, I’m sorry. But I’ll make it up to you. I promise.” I gently brushed her bare arm. She seemed to be trembling. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

I picked up her hand, unable to avoid glancing at her hideous ring.

“I still don’t understand why you’re here,” she said in a low voice.

“Because I heard you were getting engaged.”

“Yes. And?”

“I can’t let that happen. I won’t let you marry that tarado .”

“Why? What business is it of yours?”

I couldn’t fight it any longer. I held her face with both of my hands and kissed her.