On cue, the two of them started playing. Their strings vibrated in flawless harmony to the sounds of Strauss, Chopin, and Debussy. Halfway through the recital, Catalina stood, holding her violin and performing with such concentration she seemed to have forgotten that half of the town was watching her. I’d never seen her more focused and unrestrained than tonight.

The master of ceremonies, a slender man with an overgrown white mustache that perfectly matched his bow tie and vest, announced that there would be a poetry reading in honor of President Alfredo Baquerizo Moreno, a poet himself. People applauded and cheered the absent president, whom Laurent seemed to have a lot of respect for and branded as a “liberal.”

When the poetry readings began, several audience members started to yawn. I, myself, had a hard time keeping my eyes open, but I was certain that my Cristóbal would’ve enjoyed this evening of arts and culture. My eyes watered. I longed to see him again.

After the recital ended, I met Catalina and Angélica backstage. I congratulated both and candidly hugged them for the first time.

When we arrived at the party, the parlor was already full. Busy waiters in black tuxedos carried trays of appetizers and French wine. Cradling a glass of champagne, I observed the people around me. Flushed and invigorated from the performance, Catalina attempted to talk to a cluster of women who had greeted her with side kisses and forced smiles.

Much like on Bingo Night, Angélica was more comfortable than ever. She thrived among this type of crowd: the elegant, the tall, the beautiful. She always had the right compliment and the perfect anecdote. People swarmed around her, especially men, and Laurent didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he gravitated toward a young man I’d seen that evening at the hacienda and he engaged in a conversation that seemed to be continued from another encounter. I recalled the silence in his bedroom while I hid under the bed and the close distance between the two pairs of shoes. I involuntarily glanced at Laurent’s new slippers.

When I looked up, I met a face I was not expecting to see tonight: Martin’s.

He raised his glass to me and I followed suit. The room turned warmer. He was one of those men who grew more attractive the longer you knew him. To me, he seemed the most striking in the group—not because of his looks, but by the way he carried himself. He moved across the room with a self-assurance that demanded attention. I took a long sip of champagne as he approached me.

But before he could reach me, I sensed a change in the atmosphere. The room became quieter, all laughter ceased. There was a tension I couldn’t quite pinpoint. My first thought was that Don Fernando del Río had arrived, but I didn’t see him anywhere.