Capítulo 1
Prologue
My name is Elina; I could have changed it or invented others, but I preferred to keep it, because a name can also be an act of resistance. Elina means “light,” “shining,” “torch” in Greek. Although I have spent most of my life in the shadows, I cling to the idea that some of that light is still within me. Perhaps not to illuminate others, but to remind myself of who I was, to keep my own flame alive.
I am writing these memoirs at the end of March 2025, in the final days of a strange summer, from my home in Santa Clara del Mar, Argentina. The sun burns hotter than before, the sky seems more worn out, and the sea, although it echoes with the same murmur as always, looks duller, as if it too were tired of carrying waves to the shore.
When you have lived so long, memory begins to betray you, becoming liquid and blurring. Before I forget myself, I want to leave something that will remain, even when I am no longer here.
I decided that the only way to tell my story is through words. I choose to write this in Spanish. A Spanish that, I know, is tinged with the Rioplatense dialect, as it is the one that adopted me when I needed it most. I traveled across the borders of the Americas and Spain, taking off and putting on languages or accents like someone changing clothes, but it was that Argentine echo that stitched itself to my skin. That is why I speak to you in this accent, which imposed itself over all the others.
My way of writing might seem strange to you: a little old, a little modern. Sometimes I use words that do not belong to me, that come from distant centuries. I am made of many versions of myself, of ruins, of forgotten songs, of extinct languages, and of kisses that changed the course of too many lives.
I wrote on loose sheets of paper, on the back of a train ticket, on napkins, in the margin of a passport. I gathered them together the way life is gathered: with patches, with silences, with memories one does not always want to remember.
Each chapter of these memoirs bears the title of a song, and I am sure that some will resonate in your head when you read them. It is not a decorative device, but the key to each story—songs from the last few decades, tracks that are still listened to, and others that are more recent.
Music was always my other voice. When I could not speak, I let a song do it for me. Some remind me of distant cities, others of men who left too soon, and others simply of the echo of my own loneliness. I wanted each title to be a nod to the reader, because these songs exist and belong to us all.
CHAPTER 1
Wind of Change
Scorpions
Greece. Centuries ago.
I do not remember the exact day and year when everything changed. What I do keep in my memory is the sun that Helios carried in his chariot across the sky, so golden and persistent. Its light slipped through the branches, bathing the leaves, the ground, and my skin.
The forest was my sanctuary. I walked barefoot on the warm earth, a tapestry of dry leaves, roots, and stones polished by time. Under the soles of my feet, I felt that soft pulse, that mineral heartbeat born from the bowels of Gaia, the Mother Earth. I never wore sandals; I did not like them. I wanted no barriers between my feet and the earth; I wanted to feel nature with every part of my being.
I used to wear a thin, white linen dress, a fabric boundary I resisted using. My only desire was complete nakedness: for the air to be the only truth between the world and my body, for the sun to embrace me in every fold of my skin, for every pore to feel the slightest change in the surroundings. But pure perception is always an offense to those who only know of rules and garments.
I liked to adorn my hair with flowers: wild violets, small daisies, jasmine. Not for beauty, but out of habit. It was my way of melting into the environment and feeling the scent of flowers with every step.
I would bite into apples, the red, sweet, and fleshy ones that grow by the side of the roads. The juice would slide down my chin, but I did not care. I laughed alone, like a mischievous girl, while stealing honey from the bees. I never cared about looking wild; I just wanted to be free and enjoy what nature offered me. Back then, I believed that freedom was the only thing I needed to be happy.
I climbed a tree, confident that some sap ran through my veins. From the highest canopy, I could see how the sunset bathed everything in golden hues. Then I shouted:
“Freedom!”
The forest answered me, the wind enveloped me like an embrace, and the leaves danced as if celebrating with me. The echo of my voice bounced between the trees and returned carrying something I did not understand. I did not know if anyone was listening to me, but I felt a presence. It was a vibration in the air, a soft electricity, barely perceptible. The wind ceased, not out of calm but out of reverence, and in that suspended instant, I heard that voice: neither of man nor beast, but of something older. Someone was whispering my name. It seemed to me that someone, or something, was holding its breath near me. It spoke clearly:
“It is not only her body that ignites my desire, that fragile shell that time wears away, but her soul. A soul of fire, free, pure nature in its wildest and most untamable form. I want her for myself, not as mortals expect; I want her like someone who longs for what seems unattainable. I am not made to wait, and she, it seems, was not made to obey. But I want her for myself, and I do not mind defying the eternal laws to have her by my side.”
They say the gods do not feel, that their eternity makes them cold, distant, indifferent to the whims of mortals. But, from the shadow of an immense oak tree, one of them was watching me. I did not see him, but I felt him.
