The Stranger on My Terrace and My Wife’s Diary

Esteban Tomás held his breath as he read the first line. He read it twice over, just in case his eyes were betraying him, and then let the air out in a rush. His wife wasn’t sick. She was just exhausted and, apparently, as broken on the inside as he was now.

“April 19, 2024.

Dear diary:

I’m back, yes, I know I hadn’t opened you in months. I took advantage of the fact that I moved my rest shift forward onboard. I closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep. I’ve spent hours turning over what’s waiting for me when we land, so I’d rather tell you in writing, so I don’t explode.

We’re crossing the Atlantic. The girls on the crew are looking at me funny. I asked for a swap on the last flight and I’d never done that before. Lorena has already asked me twice if I’m pregnant. I told her no with a smile, but I don’t know if she believed me. I swear I’m not, little guy. It would be the height of it to add that to the mess I’m already in.”

Esteban Tomás closed his eyes for a moment. Lorena. That uninhibited flight attendant who had worked with his wife for years, who went to her birthdays and hugged her like an old friend. A possible informant, without knowing it. He filed the name away and kept reading.

“I’ve thought a thousand times about how I’m going to sit down in front of Esteban and drop all of this on him. I’ll appeal to his good judgment, right? That’s it. I’ll tell him calmly. I’ll explain the circumstances, I’ll tell him the fault is mine alone, that I didn’t fail him because something was missing in me, but because my past was too much.

I’ll tell him I was walking down one of the airport corridors, in a hurry, looking for the rest of the crew. That among all those unfamiliar faces, one caught my attention for no apparent reason. That I stopped. That he stopped too. That time folded in on itself like an old cloth and, all of a sudden, we were no longer the two strangers in the airport, but the two kids from the neighborhood who promised each other what they later didn’t keep.”

That, at least, wasn’t a lie. Esteban Tomás knew it now. The meeting had been by chance. Carolina hadn’t planned it. On that, she had been honest. On everything else, no.

“We had a quick coffee. Brief, hear me? Innocent. I swear. We said goodbye with two kisses and the usual exchange of numbers. He promised me this time he’d come looking for me. The same promise from twenty years ago, the one that broke my heart when we were practically teenagers.”

“But you showed up, my little monkey, to put me back together. To heal me without even realizing it. So it didn’t matter if he failed me again.”

It didn’t matter. Until it stopped not mattering. Esteban Tomás squeezed the paper between his fingers. The following lines described, without any shame, how this time she had been the one to look for him. The photos on social media. The wife of that man: white, green eyes, short black hair. A son who looked like his father. A happy life on the outside and, evidently, rotten on the inside.

“We were chatting in secret, beautiful little monkey, always behind your back, just like he did with his wife. We met several times. Coffees in public places at first. Lunches in hidden restaurants later. Aguardiente in bars for singles. And to change the taste of that first coffee, one night we ordered vodka shots in Madrid, in February, to celebrate my birthday two months late.”

“Son of a bitch,” Esteban Tomás thought. He was married. He was also lying to his wife. He clenched his jaw and kept reading, because he couldn’t stop now.

“Until it happened, Esteban. We toasted with French champagne on a fancy terrace, with the sun dropping over the sea of seven colors and a band playing reggae in the distance. On the table were leftovers of red snapper, crab empanadas, and a rundown stew that he let me taste off his fork. Then we walked barefoot on the sand. We drank rum with Coke in a bar far from the beach. And that night, already with tired feet and a pleasant buzz, we ended up in my hotel room.”

Cartagena. The September trip. Carolina had come home with sunburned skin and a smile that Esteban Tomás had read as happiness at being back. What an idiot he had been.

***

The sound of sneakers dragging over the kitchen tile snapped him out of it. Esteban Tomás folded the pages quickly and shoved them into the back pocket of his pants. When he lifted his head, his face was already composed.

—Man, I was starting to think you’d gone to sleep and left me hanging. Where’d you get to? —Sebastián appeared in the patio doorway, glass in hand and an easy smile on his lips.

—I was checking that the patio door was locked. If Cleopatra gets loose on me, tomorrow I’ve got another problem on top of the one I already have —he replied dryly. Then, almost by inertia, he added—: Does that call mean we’re done talking?

—Not at all, man. They were just worried because I was still around here. —Sebastián went back to his chair on the terrace, not noticing the change in tone.

Just as Esteban Tomás was sitting down, his cellphone rang. The name on the screen made him stand up again.

—Excuse me —he said to the guest, and walked away toward the fireplace.

—Hello, Nati —he answered in a low voice.

—Bro-in-law. Are you okay? Sofía told me you had an unexpected visit. Caro’s friend, supposedly.

—Yeah, I’ve got him here. He’s a colleague of hers. Sebastián. Sebastián… something. With this head I didn’t catch his last name. Does the name ring a bell?

—No, not at all. Pilot?

—Private pilot. Russian oil tankers, he says. Nothing to do with the airline.

—Hmm. That’s weird, Esteban. Caro never mentioned him to me. But listen: Sofía told me that guy was bringing her an errand from Felipe. Maybe they met when Felipe was in Buenos Aires. Ask him.

—Yeah, it’s odd. That’s why I’m talking to him. Take care, and please keep an eye on Sofía. Don’t let her overdo it with the drinks. Love you.

—Love you more. Bye, bro-in-law.

***

When Esteban Tomás returned to the terrace, Sebastián already had a cigarette between his fingers, unlit, waiting for him. The host’s blue gaze went over him from head to toe, silently scrutinizing him, and the guest felt uneasy. He suspected that something had been brewing in the man’s head during that call. He took a deep breath and tried to steer the night back toward the pending conversation.

—Everything all right? Shall we continue?

—My sister-in-law checking in. My daughter’s already on her way home. Going to smoke?

—Might as well now, yes. Later I don’t think they’ll let me. —Sebastián lit the Pall Mall and the lighter’s flame illuminated his face for an instant—. Your wife has a strong character. Decisive, rational. Has Carolina always been like that?

—In character, yes. In everything else, now I don’t know her.

—In everything else?

—Liar. Manipulative. Betrayer. Unfaithful. Am I forgetting anything?

Sebastián held the glass at chest height. He hadn’t expected the other man to be so direct. It took him two seconds to answer.

—I understand, man. It’s only logical that you’d see her that way now. But before, before all this, what was she like with you?

—Carolina always put passion into everything she did. Her work absorbs her. She enjoys the little things. She’s self-assured, loves simple things. She’s a reader, she loves mango biche with salt, listens to salsa even when no one else can hear it. And when she loves, she does it without a fuss. Slow caresses. Measured words. More feeling than promise.

—Hmm. Interesting, the slow caresses part.

Esteban Tomás raised an eyebrow. Sebastián, without taking his eyes off him, took a long drag and went on, as if the phrase hadn’t fallen between them like a stone to the bottom of a well.

—And her clothes. Has the way she dresses changed much? I almost always see her in uniform.

—More sophisticated now. Deep colors, soft fabrics. She never buys on impulse.

—Details, Esteban. Little details that say a lot. When you notice them, of course.

The silence hung there between them for a moment. The record had finished spinning inside. Sebastián stood up, poured more aguardiente into the host’s glass, and went over to the sound system to change the cassette. Esteban Tomás took advantage of the guest’s back to pull another sheet from his pocket. His hands were trembling a little.

“December 4, 2022.

Hello, little witch. I opened you again to tell you what happened to me a few days ago. I was just about to take a nap after lunch with the girl when I got a message and the sleep left me.

Yeah, you know. It was him. Ese Ese. And I got nervous like a teenage girl. A thirty-eight-year-old woman, about to turn one more, and trembling like a little idiot as I read every word. I don’t know what’s being awakened in me, little witch. It’s a… a delicious fear. All good.

And Esteban? Yes, I know, I know. But I didn’t do anything wrong. I answered his greeting, like friends. Is that betrayal? Maybe a little. That’s why, when I read his proposal to celebrate my birthday in Madrid or Lisbon, I got chills and closed the screen. I shouldn’t have told him I’d be traveling to Europe soon.”

The sound of applause pulled him out of the page.

—No way, man, what relics you’ve got in this house! Cassette tapes! It’s been ages since I handled one. —Sebastián came back to the terrace with a full glass and a wide smile.

Esteban Tomás tucked the pages away discreetly and gave him a half-grimace in return. In his head, though, two letters were spinning around like a fly against glass: Ese, Ese. The initials of his wife’s lover. The initials of the man sitting across from him.

For a second, he let the idea settle. Sebastián Sosa. Sebastián Soto. Sebastián Salinas. Any of the possible surnames fit the empty box too well.

He thought about asking him straight out, no detours. “What’s your last name, Sebastián?” But after reading what he’d read, he didn’t want to give the other man time to assemble a lie. Better keep pulling his chain, keep him comfortable, keep him believing that he knew nothing.

—Esteban… Esteban?

—What? Sorry. I was somewhere else.

—I was asking about the cassettes. But it’s not important. Better keep going. Where were we?

—You were telling me that you hadn’t brought me the lemonade.

—That. Exactly that. And instead, she herself came down with two plastic cups, full of room-temperature borojó juice. She stood in front of me, waiting for me to take the first sip. I eyed it suspiciously, until with that almost military command voice we already knew, she dared me.

Sebastián laughed. Esteban Tomás did not. He played along with a faint smile, while inside, under the table, his hand tightened the bundle of folded papers against his thigh.

The name. He needed the name. And that man drinking vodka on his terrace, smiling as if nothing were wrong, was going to give it to him. Whether he wanted to or not.

To be continued…