Juan changed a little when his mother died. He would sit on the wooden floor near the window, and sometimes I’d have the feeling that we were meeting in a desolate place. From the balcony, we could look out on to the avenue’s jacaranda trees. He was sad and very distant: I spent all day thinking about how to entertain him, what kind of stories would satisfy the young rajah. When I realized my family had gotten Juan’s parents out of the picture so they could keep him, I wanted to know more. This wasn’t just about Uncle Jorge’s career. I confronted my grandfather: I have a right to know, I said. And he told me without much beating around the bush. We believe the boy could be the medium the Order is looking for. Your uncle had a revelation when he operated on him, which has not been repeated. That’s why sometimes, when we take him to the hospital, we visit the operating room. We want to see if he manifests again. It hasn’t happened yet, but I think we have to give it time. He’s too young.

It’s a good thing he told me. Otherwise, when Juan did manifest, I would have been in danger. That day, my grandfather saved me from the Darkness.

That was the year Tali, my half-sister, came to Buenos Aires to study. It was a violent, difficult time. Tali couldn’t stand the city and she cried, pleaded for her mother, pulled out her hair. Mercedes beat her; if I intervened, I was in for it too. We tried to run away once, with Juan. Our plan was discovered, and we had to go without dinner for a month.

Mercedes hated Tali because she hated her mother, Leandra. She never cared that my father had lovers; plus, in the Order that kind of possessive jealousy was and still is considered shameful. But Tali’s mother was competition for something other than my father’s erotic attention. She was a healer, and she had her own temple to San La Muerte in Corrientes. And she was a beauty; I don’t know if I ever again saw a woman so naturally magnificent and alluring. My father spent a lot of time in the north with Leandra, and whenever he could, he took me with him. Tali and I would run along the dirt roads and shake the lemon trees to make white flowers rain down on us. Leandra received the faithful in her temple; Tali and I would clean the effigies of San La Muerte while we listened to the sobs of the pilgrims. The heat was suffocating: Tali always wore her hair down, and when she perspired a lot she would jump into the river. I never learned to swim like her. The Paraná has whirlpools: it’s said they’re made by the dead who live under the water and long for company, so they produce those swirls of water to drown swimmers. Leandra taught us how to avoid them, and she kissed my father on the beach. I understood why Tali didn’t want to stay in Buenos Aires: I wouldn’t have stayed either. The city, especially our apartment, was an opiate. The only bad thing was that my uncle wouldn’t let Juan come with us to the north, saying he was in no condition to go so far away. Juan, however, listened to our adventures enthusiastically.