Page 5 of The Night We Became Strangers

Valeria

I would always think of the first week at my uncle’s house as a different time, a period of wondrous youth, of innocence. I still believed I could achieve all my professional dreams while having the family I’d always longed for.

How mistaken I was.

The day after the dinner party with the Recaldes, I’d showed Tío Bolívar my photographs and I asked him to introduce me to the owners of Crónicas.

“I don’t know,” he’d said, noncommittally. “Since they moved locations, we haven’t been in touch.”

That made sense. The newspaper had once shared the same building with my family’s radio station, La Voz, but after the tragedy, the station had closed for two years and Crónicas relocated.

From Amparito, I had heard that my godmother, the widow of the newspaper’s owner, had remarried her husband’s first cousin, so the newspaper remained in the Montero family.

What wasn’t clear to me was who exactly was running the company now.

Maybe Matías?

The thought of seeing him again, after so many years, was exhilarating.

I waited a few days for Tío Bolívar to say something about the job at the newspaper.

Had he talked to them? All I wanted was a job interview.

I knew I could charm my way into a photographer position.

But he never said a word. Because I had, if anything, an impatient nature—my teachers had even called me reckless, which to me had been a compliment—I decided to take matters into my own hands.

The previous day, Graciela had taken me around town.

She’d shown me several churches in Quito, an amazing assortment of impressive and distinct architecture—all in close proximity to one another.

She had also pointed at the new building of Crónicas newspaper.

To my delight, it wasn’t that far from my uncle’s house.

She hadn’t said anything else, and I knew better than to ask.

I was already used to those awkward silences from Dona Amparito and Tío Bolívar whenever I mentioned that institution or anything related to my parents.

But I had taken note of the street and the landmarks around the building.

Today I was going there.

I’d carefully prepared my outfit: a flower-print taffeta dress with a tucked bodice and a full pleated skirt. A matching headband was the final touch. Dona Amparito had sewn this dress for my birthday, and I’d been waiting for the perfect opportunity to useit.

Today was the day.

I didn’t want to give any explanations to my family, so I waited for my aunt to rush to seven o’clock mass, for my uncle to go to work, the boys to school, and Graciela down to the bakery to get the daily bread.

I donned my gloves and camera bag, which also held my precious photographs, and sneaked outside.

After a fifteen-minute walk, I was standing in front of the Crónicas building, a solid brick structure that looked nothing like the ornamental building that had originally housed them.

I wondered if it had been on purpose. I greeted the guard at the entrance and asked to speak to Senor or Senora Montero.

He was hesitant to let me in without an appointment, but I insisted.

I said I was a family friend and wanted to surprise them.

For good measure, I even added that I was a close friend of Matías’s, though that might be a stretch.

The guard squinted a bit, assessing me shyly from head to toe, his chubby cheeks sweaty.

“Senora Montero is going to be thrilled when she sees me,” I reassured him. “She’s my godmother.”

“I’m really not supposed to.”

I tightened the hold of my bag against my side and produced a smile as a last resource.

“But I guess I’ll make an exception for you.”

I knew the dress would work.

He pointed at an elevator behind me and told me to go to the fourth floor and ask the receptionist for Mrs. Montero.

My first time inside an elevator! The day was going to be momentous in more ways than one. The ride upstairs took a minute, at most. I barely had time to retouch my lipstick, but everything had to be just right. As I pushed the door open, I could barely conceal the tremor in my hands.

The fourth floor was hectic. People coming in and out of offices, phones ringing, laughter coming from a hall. I kept my eye out for Matías, clammy hands inside my gloves. Would I recognize him? Would he know who I was?

I approached the receptionist and said I had an appointment with Mrs. Montero. The girl was so busy answering phone calls and taking notes, she simply pointed at an office in the back.

I took a deep breath and headed there before anybody could stop me.

There was a label on the door that read Executive Editor.

I was about to knock when I heard a man’s raised voice.

It would be imprudent for me to interrupt, so I stood there for a moment, smiling shyly at a couple of men who walked past me but seemed too busy to care about who I was or what I was doing there.

I couldn’t wait to start working here. Now I could hear a woman speaking. That must be her!

Her voice was measured and somewhat conciliatory.

She was just how I imagined her to be: a magnanimous leader who would, no doubt, give a fellow woman an opportunity.

I was in awe of women who worked, especially in this kind of environment, where I’d only seen men and only one female, the receptionist.

As the male voice sounded closer, I took a long, deep breath, perfecting in my mind what I was going to say. The door opened abruptly, and a young man—about a head taller than me—stood in front of me, his thin black tie swaying as his chest heaved up and down. I slowly glanced up.

Holy Mother, it was him .

He looked at me as though I was an apparition of the Virgin.

I took in the rich, earthy fragrance of his cologne.

I couldn’t formulate a single word, much less a coherent sentence.

The shine in his eyes was the same. The Roman nose that somehow fitted his face harmoniously was different.

So was the sharpness of his jawline and the greenish stubble.

But his hair still had that sandy brown shade I’d loved.

He was more virile than I’d pictured in all my imaginings. After an endless silence, I finally spoke—barely. “Matías?”

He frowned, trying to place me perhaps.

“It’s Valeria. Remember me?”

He seemed taken aback, as if he hadn’t thought of me in a hundred years. Or maybe he didn’t remember me at all. How embarrassing.

Not knowing what else to do, I extended my hand, and he took it—briefly.

“Excuse me,” he said, and walked past me.

He didn’t remember me, whereas I’d been thinking about him constantly for the last eight years.

Mortified, I recalled all the times I’d signed “Valeria de Montero” on random pieces of paper and how incessantly I’d talked about him to my girlfriends at the boarding school since the day I arrived.

“Who’s there?” the woman behind the cherry desk said.

I stood up straight and entered the office.

Mrs. Montero had hardly aged. If anything she seemed more sophisticated, more beautiful.

But she must be near forty already. I made my way inside the spacious room.

If I hadn’t been so nervous, I would’ve surely appreciated the lovely sitting area preceding the desk, with its leather chairs and orchid arrangements, the paintings of horses plastering the walls, the view of the city behind her.

“ ?Madrina? ”

She was wearing a chocolate two-piece suit, pearls around her neck, and medium-length curls over her shoulders. As I got near her, recognition seemed to sink in. I had pictured hugs and a lot of catching up, not the grave expression that set on her face.

“I’m Valeria Anzures.”

“I know who you are,” she said, her tone definitely hostile.

“What are you doing here?”

Where had my masterful speech gone?

“Well, I … I just got back. I graduated from high school, and I thought …”

She was standing up, showing off her chic pencil skirt, her shapely legs as she approached me. A jasmine scent accompanied her. “Who let you in here?”

“I’m sorry, I thought …” It was now or never. “I just wanted to show you my photographs. I—I want to be a photojournalist, and since you and my mom were such great friends, I thought—”

Her laughter was anything but joyful. It was bitter, filled with a hatred I never thought possible.

“Do me a favor, ninita , get out of here and don’t you ever come back.

” She opened the door, without touching me, though for a second I thought she was going to slap me.

Her amber eyes, so lovely, looked murderous.

I stepped outside as fast as I could, only to hear the door slam behind me.