So Julia faced Leonardo. This is a fight, not a trap, she recited to herself in the early days of their affair, to give herself courage. She was confident in the attractions she knew how to play up, the pleasure she knew how to give. She was sure she could handle herself well enough to keep from losing control of the situation. But she wasn’t counting on Leonardo’s callousness, the masculine complacence accustomed to receiving tributes, not gifts. And her greatest social asset, the fact that she was a foreigner, was eclipsed by a brutal new designation: mistress. She was Leonardo’s mistress, and that fact automatically put her at his mercy.

The lovers’ meetings were not easy. La Alazana prepared for them with great care, in the firm belief that discretion alone would close gossiping mouths. There were no witnesses, but there was plenty of testimony. And since scandals are repeated, not invented, those who took it upon themselves to inform the public needed only to repeat the old story, warmed over once more. The story Leonardo and Julia, who were living it, thought they had originated.

Julia Acevedo was waiting. Her throat was dry, her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth—and this wasn’t even the first time. She strained to hear the faintest sound from the street. She had given the servants the evening off on whatever pretext she could think of (the neighborhood fiesta, because there’s always a fiesta in some neighborhood somewhere), and she was alone in the vast house. Alone and almost in darkness. One candle flickered in a corner of the main room.

Julia clasped her hands together on her chest as if in prayer. Her heart was pounding rapidly. Thank God the sound of its beating was drowned out by the racket in the street: firecrackers, a sudden galloping of hoofs, some drunkards’ stumbling footsteps, tuneless songs. Thank God! But in all that commotion how would she be able to hear the sound she was waiting for, the grating of the key in the lock, the short squeak of the opening door.

Nervous, La Alazana peered into the passageway. The moon’s light projected freakish shadows on the brick pavement. A cold, remote moon. But then, what time was it? Julia had lost all notion of time. This night is eternal. It began centuries ago and will never end.

“What will he think if he sees me like this? I must be calm, control myself. This is a fight, not a trap.”

La Alazana went to the kitchen and revived the fire to warm up a cup of tea. To help strengthen her will, she lit the lamps. When she examined herself in the mirror she was satisfied with what she saw. Her expression was undaunted; an artificial layer of pink concealed the whiteness of her face.