I couldn’t imagine on what planet it would be fun to play with Alberto. All he ever did was pretend his corks were soldiers immersed in gruesome battles, which involved spitting sounds and rolling around on the ground. You would think Angélica would want to play with me. I was her only sister and nearly ten. But Angélica would rather sit in the presence of adults, looking as stiff as one of her precious dolls, while they engaged in those boring, never-ending conversations. I’d rather watch hair grow than listen to them. The only sign that Angélica was still alive was that every few minutes she would stand and offer roasted peanuts and olives to my father.

Elisa, on the other hand, was like a fireball. She always knew where the fun was (it usually involved an activity that was forbidden to us kids) like climbing on rooftops blindfolded (it was a test of trust, she would say, as you were supposed to let the other person guide you when you were on top), jumping off the highest branch of a tree (and not crying, even if you had a painful landing with scrapes and blood), or standing on the back of a horse while he strolled. The one time Alberto had joined us, Elisa had insisted we play the hold your breath under the water game, but there was a twist. She was the one who decided how long my brother’s head would remain inside the pond. She held him down for almost a minute, even though he was flapping his arms and kicking the ground. When she finally let him go, he cursed her (“¡Maldita!”). I’d never heard him say the Forbidden Word before, my mother would’ve been aghast if she knew. Alberto had darted off swearing that he would never play with her (or me) again. In response, Elisa had laughed and called him a baby.

The other thing that was fascinating about Elisa was that nobody knew where she lived or how she’d arrived at the hacienda. One day, she was just sitting there on a rock by the pond and no explanations were given. When I asked her who her parents were or where her house was, she pointed at the sky and said she lived on one of the clouds.

“Which one? That one?” I said pointing at the fattest one.

“No! The one behind it!”

“The grayish one with the shape of a pear?”

“No, silly! The one next to it.”

“Oh,” I said, though I couldn’t be exactly sure of which one she meant—they were all moving. “Are you an angel then?” I asked, but honestly, I doubted it—she seemed a little too dirty to be one, but I had to ask.

Her sole answer was a smirk.