The priests encountered the greatest resistance in the parish of San Diego, whose residents were by tradition practitioners of witchcraft. Without daring to overturn the profane altars, the priests energetically cast opprobrium upon the conduct of those who worshipped at them. They said High Masses in all the parishes and delivered sermons charged with fanaticism, and the tension appeared to move into other channels. But already the devout ladies refused to return to the poorer districts and the distribution of clothing and foodstuffs, which grew more scanty each day, had to be entrusted to the troops.

Ciudad Real was dirty, and no one was worried about sweeping it clean. Every night the families from the outskirts of town bundled up their household goods and slept all together in a heap under the arches of the Ayuntamiento. They left behind an accumulation of garbage and rinds and a smell of sour milk—there were so many babies!—stole sweat, and old wool that was replenished before it had time to fade.

The smell didn’t bother the authorities because their deliberations were no longer held there. They had chosen the home of Leonardo Cifuentes as their general headquarters. After having been spurned for so long, its threshold was now crossed by the most prestigious merchants, the ranchers of the most ancient lineage, the most influential prelates. Among the ladies, La Alazana was never absent, wishing to demonstrate her solidarity with the decent people of Ciudad Real and to hush up the murmurs that were going around about Fernando Ulloa.

At every occasion—whether opportune or inopportune—Julia brought up Fernando’s trip to Tuxtla, to explain it away with reasons no one accepted. Her listeners nodded disbelievingly, and she was left clinging to the shelter of Leonardo’s passion and Idolina’s submission.

How much longer would the waiting go on? What were they waiting for? Many of them had already forgotten. Others passed along the rumors, without conviction or enthusiasm. Telegrams had been sent, they said, to the president of the Republic and the state governor, requesting their protection in order to defend Ciudad Real against the Indian threat. But the telegrams had ended up in the office of some subaltern and from there were sent on the slow, routine and labyrinthine path of bureaucracy. No one in Mexico could imagine how pressing the danger was, and in Tuxtla they were delighted by their neighbors’ misfortune.

The auxiliary troops that were given such a warm welcome when they arrived from Comitán and Guatemala turned out to be counterproductive. Their presence weighed heavily on the impoverished, paralyzed town and they calmed their impatience for action by doing a little stealing. It was nothing of any significance, but nevertheless it offended and alarmed the Coletos.

And through it all, still no sign of Doña Mercedes Solórzano.

“Maybe the Chamulas killed her?”

“The bad seed never dies,” Leonardo answered. “She’ll be back soon. And with good news.”