Page 52 of The Night We Became Strangers

Matías

V aleria was getting married tomorrow, and I failed to do anything about it.

The truth was that I liked her. A lot. But that didn’t mean I was ready to make any kind of commitment to her, especially with all the animosity between our families.

I needed to find her father. Only he could stop this nonsense.

He had more power over her life than her uncle.

All afternoon, I’d being going from hostel to hostel asking about him, but it was nearly impossible to find someone when you didn’t know his alias.

All I had was a newspaper clipping of what he looked like eight years ago—when other newspapers were reporting the burning of the building and the police search for Leopoldo Anzures.

The people at the reception desk thought I was crazy when I showed them the blurry photo of Valeria’s dad and asked them if this man was staying here. Why had I waited so long to do this?

I supposed I didn’t really believe Valeria would marry that pelele , Félix Recalde. She didn’t seem happy with the engagement, at least not when she was kissing me. But she never wanted to talk about the subject.

Deep down, I’d been hoping she would call the whole thing off.

So far, she hadn’t. Now it was up to me to do something.

I’d been to every hostel in the downtown area without any luck.

The last option was Hotel Majestic, but I doubted Anzures would be staying at such an expensive place. Nonetheless, I went inside.

This was the first time in years I’d stepped into this lobby.

I’d been avoiding this building since that dreadful night, when someone jumped off one of the balconies and that woman was about to deliver her baby.

The reception area was more elegant than I remembered, with its shiny checkered floors, the cherry wood furniture, and an ostentatious red rose arrangement in the center.

At the front desk, I gave my usual speech about trying to find a long-lost uncle and flashed the photo of Leopoldo Anzures.

The curt man behind the counter said guest information was confidential, and he had customers behind me to tend to.

I migrated toward the bar area, where I could keep an eye on the people coming and going.

I ordered a whiskey on the rocks with mineral water—this place was much too classy for a simple puro .

Next to me was a young man sporting sunglasses—inside?

—and drinking the same thing I was just being served.

I lifted my glass to him and took a sip.

He did the same.

There was something familiar about the shape of his jaw, but his tilted hat covered his eyebrows and forehead.

“Who are you looking for?” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear you.”

I showed him Anzures’s photo. He grabbed the paper and looked through the article.

“Have you seen him around here?” I asked him.

He shook his head and read the paper I handed him in silence. “I had no idea about this. Were you here that night?”

He was not from Quito—his accent told me as much—but something about him inspired my trust, or maybe it was the whiskey since I wasn’t used to hard liquor.

I went on to tell him all about The War of the Worlds and Valeria and our parents.

He bought me another whiskey and casually removed his sunglasses.

And then I recognized him. “Aren’t you?”

He nodded, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

In front of me was none other than Alejandro Toledo.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “I thought you were sort of a recluse.”

“Sometimes I like to mingle with regular people to feel normal again.”

I realized then that in one of the tables behind us were his two bodyguards.

“I thought you were staying at … a different hotel,” I said.

“I change places frequently to throw off the fans and the press. Tonight, I felt like coming downstairs for a drink.” He swallowed his whiskey, pensively.

“You know, that story you told me about the radio broadcast, would make a great movie. But in the end, of course, you have to win the girl.” He winked at me.

“Well, I think you could help me with that.”

I still didn’t know what I was going to tell Valeria, but I was hoping that she would be excited to see her beloved camera again.

When I’d told Alejandro Toledo that his bodyguard took her camera at the airport when she tried to take his photo—since she was such a big fan (no need to share her true intentions), he’d ordered them to give it back to me immediately.

So, one of them had begrudgingly gone to his room and brought it downstairs while Alejandro and I had one last drink together.

Valeria would be thrilled to hear the story of Alejandro Toledo at the hotel bar. After we had chased him relentlessly, he had showed up when I’d least expected it.

I rang the doorbell to her uncle’s house. I didn’t care what Bolívar Anzures had to say. I had a good reason for being here. I had something that belonged to Valeria, and I wouldn’t leave until I saw her.

Her cousin Germán opened the door. I vaguely remembered him as a small child from occasional get-togethers between the families. He glared at me from head to toe—apparently the hostility transcended generations.

“Is Valeria home?” I said before he threw the door at me. “I have to return something of hers.”

“No,” he said.

Was he lying? I checked my watch. It was 8:00 p.m.—strange that she’d be out so late—especially the night before her wedding.

“Do you know where she went?”

“No. She left with Graciela and my dad.”

Even more odd.

“But you can leave whatever it is with me,” he said.

“No.” I tapped the pocket of my jacket where I kept her camera. “I’ll give it to her in person.”

I waited outside her house for about thirty minutes, but there was no sign of Valeria.

The light of the room she shared with her cousin was off, so Germán hadn’t been lying.

After a while, I decided to head to the radio station.

It was the only place where she could be that made any sense.

Unless they were invited to her fiancé’s house?

But Germán had not mentioned his parents , only his dad.

If there was a dinner or something of the sort, Valeria’s aunt would’ve been invited, too.

There was a long line outside the station’s building. I so hated to come here. But the crowd indicated there might be a special event. Valeria was probably here then, like the night she’d kissed that moron in front of me.

The man at the door was handing out numbers and I took one.

I followed the line of men and women up the stairs and into the third floor.

Maybe someone big was performing, like Julio Jaramillo or the duet Benitez y Valencia, who’d grown in fame in the last few years.

Maybe even another foreign singer. If that was the case, though, I would’ve heard about the event at the newspaper, wouldn’t I?

I entered the auditorium, where we were to sit in order of entrance.

I looked around, trying to find Valeria or her family, but I didn’t recognize a single face.

There was no band onstage, just a microphone at the center with a long cable that went to the ceiling and all the way to the back of the seats, where some sort of radio equipment was, including a recording device.

We were given directions. This was not a presentation; this was a live contest to find the next big radio announcer—obviously an attempt by the radio station to raise their low ratings.

I couldn’t think of anything worse. Normally, I would’ve walked out, but the two and a half whiskeys I downed (I hadn’t quite finished the third one) made me numb and uncaring.

They were handing out typed scripts with information about the songs and artists we were to present, but improvisation was encouraged.

That was, if we knew a tidbit of information that would be of interest to the audience.

The whole thing was amusing. There were some good voices in there, and I already had my favorites.

It took me a moment to realize the announcer—Reinaldo-something—was looking at me and apparently waiting for me to come onstage.

“ Senor, pase por favor, ” he repeated.

He was telling me to go? Everyone was looking at me, but my reflexes had significantly slowed down, together with my balance. Everyone’s voices sounded like they were coming from the end of a tunnel.

“Sometimes nerves get the best of people,” Reinaldo was saying as I slowly made my way to the three steps that led to the stage (or were there four?).

“I would know, I was discovered through a radio contest twenty-five years ago.” He extended his arm to welcome me.

“Well, he made it—our next contestant. Please state your name first.”

With the paper loosely held in my hand, I gripped the microphone pole. “Wow, it’s larger than I thought.”

“Your name, please,” Reinaldo hissed.

“Matías,” I said. “Matías Montero.”

“And the song you’re going to announce?”

I skimmed through the cheat sheet in my hand and cleared my throat.

“I’m sure you all know our next ballad by a young singer who rose to fame last year.

Originally written by the Puerto Rican composer Benito de Jesús and turned into a bolero by Rosalino Quintero, “Nuestro Juramento” has become an anthem to lovers of all ages, and its singer, Julio Jaramillo, one of the most important singers in our country, thanks to his golden voice.

” I stopped reading and looked around the packed room.

Reinaldo loosened his bow tie a bit. A man in the front row dried the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. I could see the horror in the faces across from me. Most people weren’t comfortable with silence, or public embarrassment.

I finally spoke. “I, myself, would like to take a moment to express my own feelings and dedicate this song to Valeria, who’s getting married tomorrow to a full-time idiot, but I hope with all my heart that she’s listening and doesn’t go through with it.

Vale, I should have told you earlier how much—”

The strings of a guitar started as the first notes of “Nuestro Juramento” interrupted my impromptu speech, right before I could express my undying love. Reinaldo, sweaty and hot, pointed at the other end of the stage for me to get out.

As I stumbled down the steps, a woman grabbed me by the arm, breaking my fall.

“That was beautiful!” she said. “I hope Valeria was listening.”