The next day, of course, you wake up hung over. Then comes the chicken broth with roasted chilis. The steam dampens your face as you drink it. Between sips, you savor your memories of the night’s revelries. The commotion at the Lochas’ place, which got to the point where shots were fired—only one shot, though, and no one heard it. The oaths of friendship and more than friendship—I’m your brother, your brother!—with your companions. And the hope that the girl I told you about, the one who was sleeping last night, so far away from any sound, while the men set up the marimba outside her balcony, will someday sleep at your side, warm and delicious, you with her, and she with you.

But none of this is for César Santiago. Maybe he can go along on another man’s serenade a few times, if he decides to put up with the ribbing. He has no friends but his enemies and no woman but the “seagulls,” the girls who live in the houses of ill repute and paint their faces like clowns at a town fair. Is César supposed to marry a common, run-of-the-mill girl? That would be just great for his pride and Don Timoteo’s pretensions.

Then what should he do? There’s no way out but to leave Comitán. To travel. Not very far, if the stone is to gather any moss. It’s never good to go too far from home, from your people. Just a little way. To Ciudad Real.

With his parents’ permission, César left. He took with him many illusions, a good enough sum of money, and some luggage that he would augment when he arrived at his destination.

He moved into a boarding house for students. Galleries with blooming flowerpots, a gilded metal bed and spinster landladies. After spending his first few days getting used to his new environment, he went to enroll in the Instituto Superior de Chiapas.

What reason did he have to feel out of sorts here? His classmates were polite and refined. He didn’t miss the Comitico expansiveness, which often comes to seem like vulgarity. The Coletos are very formal; they may well be hypocrites, but their discretion protects others from unpleasant barbs and malicious jokes. Friends? Santiago had no expectation of making any so soon. No late-night revels, because in this climate you have to be careful to stave off pneumonia. No frugal domino matches behind closed doors, under clouds of exhaled smoke. No chasing servant girls down the alleyways of the less frequented neighborhoods; no assaults on Indian women at the outskirts of town, no circling around the local Venuses. Perhaps a walk under the arcade that borders the town square, between one light rain and the next, to stretch the legs; a hot, spiked punch drunk down hurriedly at the counter; and the rest of the day spent studying.