Juan directed the flashlight on to one of his own hands, and Mercedes started to babble and beg for mercy. She tried to run out the door, but Juan willed it sealed hermetically. She was alone in the tunnel with the golden god, the lord of the gate.

“You know where this tunnel went?” he asked her. “It didn’t go from one house to the other in a straight line. The builders had to skirt round some underground lakes, because it’s very close to the river. And in one stretch, several meters past the beginning of the collapse, it reaches the Place of Power. See?”

His illuminated hand was now surrounded by black light.

“Female mediums are much more powerful,” he went on. “They have the power to summon anywhere, they just have to figure out the particular conditions needed for concentration, or else, the ritual can be performed on them. Men depend on Places of Power. There are many. Some mediums simply run into them, others learn to find them. I know how to find them. I also know the radius of the power they emanate. Far from those places, we are almost normal. Although I have natural talent, it takes a lot of energy to use it. Far from the Place of Power, Mercedes, you and I aren’t so different. Close to it, however . . .”

His hand radiated that dark, sharp light, a blade of shadow. He brought it close to her face.

“Luckily for you, this god is bored and only wants to know if you killed Rosario. If you killed your daughter. I want you to admit it, Mercedes, because this hand won’t leave any skin over your bones. I don’t respect the blood. I don’t know what that means.”

Mercedes was trembling. Juan put his fingers between the bars of the cage next to her and with a slight movement beheaded the imbunche child, who barely moved. His hot blood-soaked Mercedes’ shoes.

The other children, crazed by the salty smell, bellowed.

“What else, let’s see . . . Who carried it out? I went to see the bus driver who hit her. He doesn’t even remember the accident. He was sent. You’re capable of doing that, with help, of course. Why? What did she say to you?”

Mercedes’ sobbing surprised Juan. It was convulsive and sad, somewhat desperate.

“She was planning to kill me. Did you know? Didn’t she tell you? I had to defend myself.”

Juan pictured Rosario and her silver bracelets, the white band in her hair, speaking Guaraní with a fluency that astonished everyone. Rosario with her expensive perfumes and her pen between her teeth when she read, placing the fan behind her so it would blow on her-back instead of her face. Rosario with her lists and her fingers covered in ink, or in chalk.