Groups of Indians, numb with cold, huddle around the fire. Their huts do not provide enough protection against the weather so they seek this brief, fleeting heat, company and conversation. Someone takes out a cane flute, clumsily carved. The music a shepherd uses to make his long solitudes bearable, the stammer of a race that has lost its memory. The others listen for a while. At a distance, the woman who is grinding corn suspends her work, lost in a reverie that frees her for an instant from fatigue and mind-numbing routine.

But at the first gusts of wind heralding the storm, the flute falls silent, the groups disperse, the fire goes out. Only the bell, left to the wind’s caprices, continues to ring meaninglessly.

Quick steps in wide hallways, hands that hurry to close doors, fasten windows shut. A few minutes later the storm howls without witnesses around this massive construction in stone, mortar and iron, the hacienda’s big house.

The horsemen who are making their way through darkness and flashes of lightning enter the space between the group of huts without having their presence given away by the barking of a dog or the vigilance of a guard.

“We were lucky to get to a place where Christian people can receive us, patrón. We can spend the night here.”

Fernando Ulloa made an affirmative gesture. A small gush of water ran off of the brim of his rubberized hat.

“What place is this?”

“San José Chiuptik, Don Leonardo Cifuentes’ finca.”

The speaker, Rubén Martínez, the engineer’s young assistant, spurred his horse on. He knew where to find the lock on the main gate and how to open it. After that, he yielded the lead to his boss.

“Ave María! May we lodge here for the night?”

An Indian leaned out from the kitchen with a pine torch in his hand. He was too far away to hear the question. The horses moved forward, slipping on the flagstones and accompanied by a furious, belated barking.

“It’s best if you get down here, patrón. I’ll take the horses to the stable.”

Fernando Ulloa felt too tired to argue. He obeyed. His waterproof poncho hampered his movements.

The Indian with the light in his hand had reached them. He helped the engineer up the steps of the gallery. They went to the widest door and knocked. When it opened, a familiar silhouette stood out against the lighted doorway.

“But it’s my friend, Don Fernando Ulloa!” Leonardo Cifuentes exclaimed, cordial and surprised. “This way, ingeniero, careful, we don’t want you to trip. Please do me the honor of taking possession of our house.”