In these skirmishes, they were playing against each other to establish their position, the dominance each one wanted to have over the vanquished adversary. The man’s experience was winning; the woman’s vulnerable nature was losing. But a chance event neither of them had foreseen determined the final outcome of the match.

“What about the shawl I gave you?” Leonardo asked. “Why don’t you ever wear it? Don’t you like it?”

“There’s never a place to wear it. I never go out. And when I’m here I need something warmer. I’d catch cold if I wore your shawl.”

The pretext was valid. But to Cifuentes it smelled of something false, something thought up on the spot. A few days later he asked again. “And the shawl? Don’t tell me it’s too cold today. The heat in the courtyard is enough to suffocate anyone.”

“You’re right,” Julia answered vaguely. “It’s a beautiful day. In Tepic they must be roasting right now.”

She began to evoke her house in Tepic, the events of her stay there, the people she had known. The nostalgia in her voice irritated Leonardo. So she wasn’t happy here? What more could a woman like Julia ask for? Suddenly he interrupted her. “Slow down a little, Julia. We were talking about the shawl.”

“What about the shawl! What do you want me to do with it, frame it and hang it on the wall?”

“I want you to wear it, to make me happy.”

“Listen, I’m not going to play the fool for anybody. If what you want is a woman who’ll be your puppet then you can look for her somewhere else because as far as I’m concerned you’re in the wrong place.”

She looked beautiful like that, her face flushed with anger. A fierce scowl erased the hint of fleshiness that so badly suited her type of woman. Cifuentes was excited enough to plunge into the fray. “Careful what you say to me! Don’t make me angry . . .”

“And if I do make you angry, what then? Are you going to tell me you’ll find another querida? Go ahead, hurry up. You’re only standing in my way here.”

“I know what you’re looking for, you cunning sow. you’re trying to find any reason to show your disrespect for me.”

“I don’t owe you any respect.”

“Who do you respect then? Poor Fernando?”

In an instant, the veneer of good manners Julia had acquired with such difficulty, maintained so carefully, was stripped off. Hands on her hips, she retorted, “Look who’s talking! If Fernando is ‘poor Fernando’ then it’s because of you!”

“Just like Isabel when I mention Isidoro. . , .”

“What does Isabel have to do with this? We’re talking about me here, and only me.”