A woman in her forties, obese, her flashing teeth garishly inlaid with gold, asked the question. She was sitting in a small wooden chair with her skirts spilling out around her, smoking a long cigarette rolled in yellow paper. She had spoken in Tzotzil. Marcela’s eyes shone with gratitude.

“Pitchers,” she answered.

“And are they well made, your pitchers?”

The Indian girl nodded vehemently as she set down her bundle so the woman could judge their quality for herself.

“They won’t crack on me, will they? They’re not going to break right away?”

Marcela said no in a tone that was almost anguished. This seemed to satisfy the buyer, who began to examine the clay pitchers one by one.

Marcela remained standing, motionless, desperately trying not to make any noise when she breathed. Sweat ran down her face.

She was in a large room. The door to the street stood wide open, while the back door, leading into the house, was only ajar. A rickety counter and a display case with four shelves were there to give the impression that the room was a shop. But the scantiness of the stock (a few half-empty packages of brown sugar, three bottles of a sedative, some bunches of fragrant herbs) bore witness to the business’s lack of prosperity.

“Sit down, merchant girl. It provokes me to see you standing there.”

The Ladina’s words were veiled in the smoke from her cigarette. Disconcerted by the friendliness of the suggestion, Marcela changed position but remained standing. The woman insisted. “Sit down. Don’t worry. You’re not tired from walking?”

Marcela gave a vague smile.

“At your age, though, you have strength for that and more. I remember how I was . . . You must be around fourteen now, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, patrona. My nana never told me when I was born.”

“You still live with your nana? They haven’t given you to a man?”

“Not yet, patrona.”

The Ladina took a last pull at her cigarette and her chest purred with pleasure. She looked Marcela over attentively. Then, as if to conclude a lengthy reflection, she said, “You’re not bad.”

Marcela had finally sat down on the ground. Eyes lowered, she was drawing lines on the brick floor. Her ears reddened at the praise.

“You never had a husband?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“My nana doesn’t want to send me away.”

“That’s because you’re old enough now to help her with the work.”

“That’s why.”

“So you’re worth something. For you, I’m going to ask for a big bottle of aguardiente.”

A harsh laugh, glittering with gold, shook the Ladina’s abundant breasts. Marcela felt an indefinable unease, a distant shiver of alarm. The woman changed the subject.

“Well, girl, how much do you want for your pitchers?”

“Twelve reales, patrona.”