“Give alms to this poor woman,” the bishop ordered his companion.

Manuel attempted to place a coin in the girl’s hand. But the hand was limp and let the coin fall to the ground.

Don Alfonso’s eyebrows, already gray, drew together in a frown of incredulous amazement. It was the first time he had seen anyone so indifferent to money. This could only be for a very serious reason.

“Ask what is wrong with her, whether she’s ill.”

“I do not know how to speak the language, Su Ilustrísima.”

“Neither do I. I would have the excuse of not being from here if I hadn’t lived in Ciudad Real for more years than you have existed.”

Don Alfonso asked to lean on his companion’s arm; he liked to exaggerate his weakness. They continued on their way, their voluminous dark capes fluttering around them.

Each at his or her own time, the other townspeople went by with slow, processional steps. The woman who delivered bread from house to house, the pious lady going out to attend vespers, the apprentice leaving his work, the dressmaker who had just locked up her workshop with several turns of the key. Gentlemen with gold-handled canes, out for a stroll between daylight and darkness, whistling to hide their intentions.

Marcela shook herself and stood up mechanically. She looked around in amazement. Who brought her here? How much time had she spent in this place? Why? She did not succeed in understanding; she did not remember. She had one thought in her head: to return to Chamula. She began to walk quickly, often losing her way, until she came to a halt in the market. There, seated on the steps, were the Tzotzil women. Waiting for Marcela. They fell silent as they watched her approach.

Marcela stood in front of them. Silent herself. Her eyes floated in turbulent, unsoundable waters.

From among the assembled women a voice rose, rebuking her.

“Why did you take so long? Soon the sun will set. Because of you we will have to go back in the dark.”

It was her right to speak. She was Felipa, Marcela’s mother. But Marcela did not respond. Her muteness irritated her mother. In a fragile, absurd screech, she demanded, “Answer!”

What answer could Marcela give? She had entered an unknown house: she had offered her pitchers to an unknown buyer.

“Where is the payment?” Felipa held out her hand to receive it. But Marcela had nothing to give.

“Where is the payment?”

Felipa stood up straight. Her cheeks were purple with rage.

The other women witnessed the scene, astounded. Some of them turned their heads away because it is not good to look upon disobedience.

Felipa came down the stairs, threatening.

“You are going to give me that money, you bitch, you cabrona.”