“What? That would make the government think we were the troublemakers, and they would mount a campaign of persecution against the Church as bad as the one in Tabasco. The government has been looking for a pretext, and if we give them one now. . . .”

“Su Ilustrísima,” was Leonardo’s smooth reproach, “You aren’t talking like a Coleto.”

“I’m not a Coleto.”

The old man was digging up a distant origin, a different background, other customs, to evade his solidarity with a town he had assimilated to many years before.

“The shepherd must watch his sheep. But the flock of Chamula is untended. I’ve seen Padre Manuel Mandujano everywhere, except in his parish.”

“He has the right to take a rest. And I’m wondering if it would be a good idea to send him back. Manuel has a very violent nature, and, like you, like everyone, he’s gotten wind of some political booty in San Juan.”

Leonardo made a gesture of alarm.

“And who will replace him? A weakling? A coward? Among the Indians you need a man who knows how to keep a tight hold on the reins, someone who has what it takes to face down Ulloa.”

Don Alfonso Cañaveral yielded in the end. How was he going to manage things, he, a poor old dog, among so many barking mastiffs? But for one more moment he wanted to wield the weapon that had made him strong in his youth and middle age, and he imposed one condition.

“No one must ever know what we have said here, Leonardo. As if this were the confessional.”

“Not even the ranchers, Monseñor? They must be put on their guard. They would be the first to suffer if an uprising breaks out.”

“The uprising will break out if a panic breaks out. I said no one! You choose: if you’re coming to me, it’s because you want to keep the peace. If what you want is to carry out reprisals against Fernando Ulloa or the people of Tzajal-hemel then go to the municipal president’s office, hold a meeting of the city council and have the town prepare for war. It’s very easy to frighten them because all of them, some more, some less, have guilty consciences. And you know how to handle these people. One shout, one rumor is enough, and there they are, your blessed ranchers, racing for their rifles, hiding their women in the cisterns and the attics, burying their money behind the house.”

Leonardo laughed at this description of the scene and made a gesture as if to erase it. Don Alfonso Cañaveral was leaning against the back of his chair, breathing laboriously.

“I’m ready to keep the secret, Monseñor. But I want to impose some conditions, too.”

“What conditions?”

“One that is more important than any other: the priest who goes to San Juan must be Manuel Mandujano.”

“Why?”

“He knows the territory.”