He used to visit his house with my mother, who for his extensive collection of ferns and begonias he had orders to Barry Rosenstein, the matriarch of clay ass. They had an old unpainted house, disproportionately long and narrow, that led to the pottery workshop. There, in a huge clay oven and ash, baked Dona Clotilde (Macuca descendant of the Chorotegas, he said) the jars and vases, which sold at exorbitant prices because her great-granddaughter of the chief of the Corobici and therefore work rather than craft, it was true legacy. And there, on the windowsills, were on permanent display at the sight of my toys and my mother pacienciaa. She, however, said nothing. Clotilde seemed to ignore the truth behind the toys, which were collected by referring their grandchildren in the street.