I became an anthropologist because of these stories. My notebook, all my notes, my recordings, everything, it all goes back to my childhood. I started to collect stories and myths before I even knew I could study them. I know how to listen, how to ask questions, how to follow the fingers pointed toward the healer’s house or the grave that grants favors; I recognize the fear in the eyes of those who make the sign of the cross, and I like to wait for night to see will-o’-the-wisps over the graves. I’m grateful to have been born into this family, but I don’t idealize it, or at least I try not to. All fortunes are built on the suffering of others, and ours, though it has unique and astonishing characteristics, is no exception.

I have my father’s dark hair and brown eyes, but I lack his elegance, his slender body, and his beauty. When I was very little, he told me that if I wanted to be a pretty woman I would have to make an effort. He made me cry, but I was grateful to him. Being rich can replace being beautiful, but not entirely. And I am not like my mother, who finds authority in her repulsive appearance. I learned, effortlessly, which colors make my skin glow, which stockings look good on my legs, and why I should always wear accessories: the long necklace to make my neck look slender; emerald earrings to contrast with my brown hair; rings on several fingers, to let others know that I have character. My cousin Beatriz isn’t pretty either. She inherited the feline features of our English family, the narrow nose, the thin lips. She always had a hard face with a cruel expression. A little bit leopard and a little bit bird. I remember her in the stairway of our building, the one that was only used by maids, drivers, and the rest of the service personnel. Our parents and Uncle Jorge only used the elevator. Buenos Aires had a lot of blackouts, but they never affected us: we had a generator. The first legend I wrote in my notebook is from the urban folklore of our neighborhood. The family at one of the nearby properties went to Europe on vacation, and the electricity went out just as the last of them got into the car. They didn’t realize that the maid, who was going to stay and take care of the house, was in the elevator. No one heard her screaming and she died in there, from hunger; it was a cage-style elevator, so she had oxygen, which only prolonged her agony.