Catalina Díaz Puiljá stopped and crossed herself. Her followers imitated her. Then, with whispers and quick, skillful movements, they redistributed the goods they were carrying. Some women were given all the weight they could bear. Others pretended to stagger under an excessive load, and they went to the front of the line.

Silent, as if they neither saw nor heard, as if they were not expecting anything to happen, the Tzotzil women moved forward.

As they came around the first corner it happened, and although it was expected, habitual, it was never any less fearsome or repellent. Five Ladinas of the poorest class, barefoot, dressed in rags, threw themselves onto Catalina and her companions. Without saying a single threatening word, without working themselves up with insults or excusing themselves with reasons, the Ladinas fought for possession of the bags full of eggs, the clay pots, the fabrics that the Indian women defended in brave, mute furor. But in the flurry of their gestures, both parties to the struggle took care not to damage or break the objects they were contending over.

In the confusion of the first moments, several of the Indian women managed to slip away and hurried toward the center of Ciudad Real. Meanwhile, those left behind opened their bleeding hands, leaving the goods to the attackers who snatched up their booty in triumph. Then, to give an appearance of legality to her violence, the enemy threw down a handful of copper coins that the other woman picked from the dust, weeping.

II

CHAPTER II

MARCELA GÓMEZ OSO was one of those who succeeded in escaping. With furtive, rapid movements, like an animal accustomed to pursuit and danger, Marcela crept through the stone streets of Ciudad Real. She went with her load on her back, walking in the gutter because people of her race were not allowed to use the sidewalks. Confused by the crowd, bewildered by the strange language that pounded at her ears without touching her mind, Marcela moved on, ungainly and amazed. She did not want to go toward the market and turned onto the side streets instead. These were peaceful neighborhoods. The bare feet of the poor hardly disturbed the silence that was scratched by ranchers’ gleaming spurs and broken by animals’ heavy hoofs.

Marcela leaned into the open passageways and pitched her wares in a high and uncertain voice, carefully pronouncing the only Spanish words she had mastered. From beyond the lush courtyards, from inside invisible bedrooms, came the response, an impatient or halfhearted “No,” an impersonal and anonymous rejection. Sometimes the servants took her to their quarters. Then there were cruel jokes, an unbearable dickering that Marcela barely understood but that flustered her and made her tremble like a trapped bird. When the maids tired of the game they let her go.

“What are you selling, merchant girl?”