Page 48 of The Night We Became Strangers

Marisa

A s I hurtled toward the third floor of the Crónicas building, I nearly bumped into Alicia. She was coming downstairs in as much haste as I was going up. She must have been looking for me at the station.

“Oh, hi,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

She didn’t bother answering, but simply continued her way down the stairs.

Had I not been so late for the show, I would’ve followed her and demanded an explanation for her rudeness.

Since when did she not greet me—her so-called best friend in the entire world ?

Maybe something bad had happened. I would have to visit her later.

At La Voz, it was chaos as usual. I went directly to Polo’s office to grab my script. Today we were starting Gloria , a radionovela from a local writer where I was the protagonist. The manuscript was not in his office. Neither was my husband.

I found him in the conference room, where he was heading some kind of meeting I knew nothing about.

At first, I thought it might be a sales meeting, but all the actors were there and also Piero Zambrano, the producer.

Why had Polo not told me about this? It was not the time for impromptu meetings, either.

In less than twenty minutes transmission would start.

He didn’t even look at me when I entered the room, but everyone else did. They each had a booklet in their hands.

Without a second’s pause, Polo continued giving instructions to Reinaldo and Fermín. “Reinaldo, do you think you can play the minister of government?”

He read from the script in front of him. “Unfortunately, compatriots”—his voice became more nasal—“I suspect our weapons do not have the mechanical capacities to counter those of the colossal enemy.”

Everyone laughed.

“Excellent,” Polo said.

I looked at the title of one of the scripts. The War of the Worlds ?

What on earth? I knew Fermín had been trying to push this Spanish adaptation of the famous novel on us for weeks, but Polo had always said no. In fact, he’d told me last night he was fed up with Fermín bringing it up all the time.

For a split second, Polo glanced at me, but quickly turned toward one of my colleagues. “And Gonzalo, you will be the mayor of Quito.”

Immediately Gonzalo read his line. “People of Quito, allow us to defend our city. Our women and children should go to the high surrounding areas in order to leave the men free for action and combat.”

Everyone applauded. It was a masterful impersonation of our mayor.

I hadn’t seen this much energy coming from our group in years.

My understudy, Beatriz Lara, was there, too.

I turned to my husband, indignant, but he was oblivious to my presence—or so it seemed.

I knew better than to interrupt him when he was giving directions.

I prided myself on keeping things professional at work.

It had always been that way for us. In fact, it had taken two years of working together and an exorbitant amount of aguardiente for him to tell me how he felt.

Alicia and Agustín’s wedding had been the last push I needed to let go of my unrequited love.

If not emotionally, at least physically.

Seeing Alicia in Agustín’s arms all night in that gorgeous pearl headband and her long, fluted moiré silk wedding gown had been too much.

It had been natural to accept that first dance with Polo.

Up until then, he had never even hinted that he had a romantic interest in me, but sometimes I would catch him staring at me for too long during our performances or when I spoke to someone else.

When I turned in his direction, he would immediately return to his script as if nothing had happened.

That first bolero had led to many others and a declaration of love by the end of the night.

Polo Anzures was not a bad-looking man, but he was closer to thirty than twenty, and I had just turned eighteen.

With Agustín, I’d always been more at ease; not only because he was younger, but also because he was approachable and fond of telling jokes.

Polo, for the most part, was a quiet man—except when he was directing.

He had a lot to say then. The other, little problem in this burgeoning relationship was that he was my boss.

It had been a slow courtship with awkward hand holding, prolonged silences, shy smiles, and secretive outings. “Nobody at the radio station can find out,” he would say, though I didn’t fully understand why. We were both single and he’d hired me long before our relationship started.

I would shrug and follow along. What I really wanted was to forget Agustín once and for all—not an easy task since we worked at the same building, and he was married to my best friend.

Not to mention the minor detail that he was going to be a father to my future godson in a few months.

Alicia and I had made a pact years ago that we would be comadres one day, each godmothers to our future children.

When Alicia had told me that she was expecting—barely a month prior to the wedding—I would’ve rather had the roof collapse on top of my head. I’d considered that Agustín and Alicia might have been intimate, but it had been nothing but a suspicion. Her current reality confirmed it.

Deep down, I’d been hoping he would come back to me, choose me instead of her.

He hadn’t. As soon as Agustín found out about the baby, he proposed.

From that bleak day on, they were in a race against time—lest anybody would see her growing stomach.

There had been tricks she’d had to pull, like wearing a corset and keeping a large orchid arrangement close to her midsection during the entire ceremony, but as she waltzed with the man of our dreams, I could see the small bump with Agustín’s child underneath the layers of fabric.

I found my consolation prize in Polo. He was so attentive, so talented.

He went above and beyond to please me. Two kids later (theirs and ours), I learned to live with my buried feelings for Agustín, like a dull molar pain that doesn’t go away.

But ignoring the pain didn’t mean the problem was gone.

With my brother’s untimely death, Agustín and I had grown close again.

It had been inevitable—he’d been the one to deliver the devastating news that my brother had been hit by a bus while riding his bicycle to work.

Gabo, the most talented cartoonist at Crónicas and the only person who knew about my true feelings for Agustín, had died on impact—leaving me alone and more vulnerable than ever.

I couldn’t even count on my sister Tatiana as she’d joined the convent years ago.

Agustín had consoled me that afternoon, offering me a much needed hug.

“Any other questions?” Polo said to the group, interrupting my thoughts with a resonant voice that contrasted with his ordinary even tone.

What had come over him?

Of course I had questions, but I wasn’t dumb enough to ask them aloud. He looked at me defiantly before marching out of the conference room.

The plan, as I understood it, was to start with the variety show instead of the radioteatro and soon after, they were going to interrupt the music and mention the alien invasion in the form of a news bulletin.

This format had been first conceived and adopted by Orson Welles, the now-famous American actor and director.

Fermín Alcázar had claimed this setup was more dynamic and gripping than just reading and performing the novel.

Polo had already gathered a group of performers, who were settling in the auditorium, and the highlight of the evening would be a famous duet, Benitez y Valencia, the most beloved pasillo singers in the country.

I’d known they were coming today, but I doubted they knew what my husband was up to.

It was going to be a sacrilege to interrupt them.

I darted behind my husband as he rushed to the auditorium, papers in hand. I knew better than to bother him when he had an agenda in mind, but I couldn’t help it. He was slighting me in front of the cast, in front of the entire radio station.

“Polo!”

He kept walking. I scurried behind him as quickly as my heels allowed.

“Leopoldo!” This time, I screamed, and several people turned to look at me.

He finally stopped. “What?”

I caught up with him. “What’s going on? You’re doing The War of the Worlds ?”

“How perceptive of you.” He’d never spoken to me with such disdain before.

“Why?” I said. “You said it would be dumb and irresponsible.” “I changed my mind.”

“How come?”

“I really don’t have time for explanations. The show starts in two minutes. Perhaps if you would’ve been on time, you’d understand the change of plans.”

“But what about Gloria ?”

“I’m tired of those stupid love stories.”

“Stupid? They’re the bread and butter of this station.”

He crossed his arms. “Well, no more. A change is much needed.”

“So, am I even going to be in the show? Beatriz Lara is here.”

He shrugged. “You can be one of the people screaming in the background. But frankly, you’re not needed. You may leave if you want.”

What?

He was about to resume his walk, but I grabbed his arm. “Polo, what’s happening?”

For an instant, I recognized the love in his eyes—the affection he’d always had for me—but just as quickly, his expression turned icy, and there was a harshness in his brown eyes I’d never seen before. He remained silent.

“Does this have anything to do with Alicia?” I said, groping for clues. “I just ran into her outside the station, but she didn’t say a word to me.”

“I don’t have time for explanations,” he repeated his mantra. “We’ll talk later.”

He was maniacal, unrecognizable. I’d never seen him this agitated.

It wasn’t only in his speech or his abrupt change of heart; the booklet in his hands shook a little bit, and there were tiny drops of sweat on his forehead.

He’d also removed his jacket and was walking around the office in his white shirt, sleeves rolled up.

It was out of character, as he’d always been so formal, especially at work. Even his tie was loosened.

He let go of my arm and strode into the auditorium, where the voices of Benitez y Valencia boomed while they rehearsed before they went on the air.

I gripped my mother’s aquamarine pendant, which hung from my silver necklace.

She’d left it behind years ago. She used to say that this stone had the power to release fear and give you courage.

But no matter how tightly I held it or how much I tried to rub away the pressure in my chest, I still couldn’t shake off the ominous feeling that something wretched was about to happen.