Page 47 of The Night We Became Strangers

Alicia

I had done everything to make this marriage work.

From being the most indulgent wife—always looking my very best, cooking Agustín’s favorite meals, waiting for him with a glass of whiskey after a long workday, listening to his tedious political talk—all the way to casting spells and rituals carefully crafted by a renowned witch to help me keep his love.

Not to mention the small detail that I had given him his one and only son, Matías, the heir and hope for his family’s publishing business.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t been enough.

Something had been amiss for months.

The mysterious phone calls that invariably resulted in silence at the other end of the line; the unaccounted-for jewelry receipt; Agustín’s unexplained absences accompanied by what I was certain were lies; and, of course, that expensive fountain pen that had appeared out of nowhere and he couldn’t explain.

Folded inside his old Chevrolet sedan, I searched in the glove compartment and under the front and back seats for any evidence to confirm my suspicions—suspicions that had been tormenting me at all hours of the day and night, making it impossible for me to sleep or live my daily life in peace.

My nerves were in shambles, and I was drinking more vodka than anyone ought to, but it was the only way to suppress the tremor in my hands and legs.

As usual, Agustín had walked to work since the newspaper was only a few blocks away from home.

In addition, our house didn’t have a garage, so he paid a monthly fee to leave his sedan at this parking structure.

Most people who lived in downtown Quito and owned an automobile did.

This old colonial area where houses were stacked like domino pieces didn’t have room for garages or carports.

Thus, it had been relatively easy for me to rummage inside his car while he was at work. And then, my careful planning and effort had paid off as soon as I spotted the wing of a dove in a powder blue scarf carelessly lying under his back seat.

The most unexpected sensation took over me: relief .

The satisfaction of a job well done.

I wasn’t crazy. I wasn’t just seeing things, like Agustín had said. I was right .

But this feeling was short-lived and quickly replaced by a deep ache in my chest. He had another woman . I wasn’t enough. I had never been. Even more heartbreaking was to make the ultimate connection, the realization of who this furtive mistress was.

This scarf had come into my life on one of those Sundays when Marisa and I had skipped mass together and gone to the marketplace instead.

I spotted it immediately among a dozen others.

But this had to be it. I’d seen one just like it around the neck of a ravishing movie star in a film the previous night and I’d fallen in love with the look.

I wrapped it around my neck and wore it as my only adornment for the next few days.

On occasion, I’d used it as a headscarf.

It made me feel worldly, glamorous. And everyone complimented me on it.

After Marisa had her baby—Valeria—she was never the same again.

Something dark clicked inside of her. Instead of the bliss I’d experienced with Matías’s birth, Marisa lost the energy and drive she’d always had.

It was as if she’d given up on life and would spend her days in bed.

Leopoldo had to hire a nanny—Ada—to take care of Valeria.

In an effort to cheer Marisa up, I gave her the powder blue scarf with its stylized doves. She’d always liked it, and when I bought it, she searched all day for one like it at the bazaar without any luck. She kept looking in the following weeks, but never found another. It was one of a kind.

I handed it to her in a box wrapped with a red bow on top. She smiled behind teary, swollen eyes, and had even made an effort to remove it from the box.

“Let me do it,” I said, and wrapped it around her neck in a stylish knot. “Beautiful. Now all you need is a little lipstick and rouge and you’ll be ready to go out.”

“Thanks,” she said, undoing the knot, “but I don’t want to go out.”

“Marisa, you haven’t left your house in weeks! Valeria is two months already.”

She shook her head and pulled the covers over her again.

No matter what I said, or in what tone, it didn’t change the fact that Marisa was not the same girl I knew.

Now I finally knew why. Marisa, my childhood friend, nearly my sister, was having an affair with my husband.

This item only confirmed what I had been fearing for weeks.

Had she been in love with Agustín all along?

She’d cried at my wedding—I remembered as much.

But I’d thought it was the emotion of losing her best friend so soon.

I’d barely turned nineteen, but was already expecting Matías, so I had no choice in the matter.

We both knew things would never be the same now that I was going to be a married woman and a mother. Had there been more to her sorrow?

After my wedding—or during the party—she’d finally accepted Leopoldo, who’d been smitten with her for the past two years, but she didn’t marry him for another two years.

Those early years of marriage had been ideal.

Our husbands were good friends, and so were we.

Plus the three of them worked in the same building.

It had come natural for us to raise our kids together.

Despite the three years’ difference in age, Matías and Valeria had practically grown up together.

Matías had always been so protective of her.

It would break their hearts to know about Marisa and Agustín’s betrayal.

But I didn’t have the fortitude to think about them now or about any of the implications of my discovery.

What I really wanted was to slash all his tires, break every window of his precious car, yell at them, hit them, and make them suffer as much as I did.

Holding the scarf in my hands, I knew exactly what I had to do.

When I arrived at the Crónicas building, my legs were shaking so much I had to hold on to the rail to climb up the stairs. I tensed up as I walked past the second story. I didn’t want to see Agustín. Not yet. I would have a word with him later.

Could she be there with him—shamelessly conducting their affair in his office? I ought to just go in there and make a scene. I paused halfway up the staircase, staring at the door leading to the second floor. No, it would be better to talk to Leopoldo first. He would know what to do.

The radio station was busy, as usual. People excused themselves as they walked past me.

I knew many of them, as I used to visit Marisa here while she performed, but I barely answered their greetings.

Marisa might be here already, and not with Agustín, as I had imagined.

What would I tell her then? Throwing the scarf at her face was the only course of action I could think of.

I caught Leopoldo in his office speaking in a rather agitated tone with Fermín Alcazar, a Chilean actor who’d been working at La Voz for a few months now.

“That would be irresponsible, Fermín! I said no already.”

“But Polito, it would draw more of an audience than this silly love story.” He waved a thick manuscript in his hand.

“We’ve made dozens of them! People are ready for something new, something groundbreaking.

The competition between radioteatros is pretty steep nowadays.

Look, I even made copies of the script.”

“Don’t you remember what happened in the United States with Orson Welles?”

He waved a hand. “We did it in Chile and there were no mishaps whatsoever.”

“I heard someone had a heart attack.”

“A coincidence. The truth of the matter, Polito, is that it was a very successful show with great ratings. We’ll just make sure to tell people at the beginning that it’s a novel and we’ll mention our sponsor frequently. I doubt anybody would be so dumb or gullible to believe it’s true.”

“No. We’re doing Gloria , and that’s my final word.”

Leopoldo saw me then, and his nose scrunched a little. Years ago, he’d had a thing for me, but it was short-lived. Marisa, with her unassuming charm and her angelic voice had a way of winning people over. Unfortunately, it had worked on my husband, too.

“Alicia, what a surprise,” he said. “Marisa isn’t here yet. You know how she is.”

I knew all about her habitual tardiness. “Actually, I need to speak to you.”

He got up from his desk as Fermín walked past me with a nod. Always the gentleman, Leopoldo pulled out a chair in front of his desk for me, but I was too shaken to sit down. I didn’t even know what I was going to tell him yet.

I gripped the back of the chair.

“Is something the matter?”

“Yes.”

He assumed his most solemn stance, the way he did when he was directing actors during a performance—so different from the relaxed tight-lipped smile he displayed during our get-togethers, once he had a few drinks inside him.

He’d grown a mustache in the last few years, which made his demeanor even more grave.

He closed the door while I took quick breaths, gathering the courage to speak and shatter his world, just like mine had been. There was no way to say this in a subtle way, especially not at this time. Any minute, Marisa would show up and they would have to start the radionovela .

“I have reason to believe Marisa and Agustín are having an affair.”

At first, he looked like he might smile—as if he didn’t understand or believe what I was saying. He tilted his head just so, and his eyes narrowed as he scrutinized my face.

“What are your reasons to believe this?”

I removed the scarf from my purse and placed it on the desk.

“Recognize this?”

“It looks familiar.”

“I gave it to Marisa years ago. I found it today in Agustín’s car. But there’s more: he’s been acting strange lately, he’s rarely home, and he shows no interest in me. Also …”

“What?”

“At Gabo’s funeral, didn’t you see the way they hugged, how they looked at each other?”

He paled, the vein in his temple beating. “It’s understandable,” he said, stumbling over his words. “Gabo and Agustín were very close.”

“You can believe me or not, but I’m a hundred percent sure of what I’m telling you. I could go through a long list of irregularities, but we don’t have the time right now. The question is: What are we going to do about it?”