Very soon the little morsels were no longer enough and the ladies stayed until it was time for lunch or dinner. They had to be invited to a properly laden table, from which they rose hurriedly to go as soon as they had finished eating.

Alone again, Julia weighed her efforts against the results. She was spending sums of money that Cifuentes found increasingly excessive and absurd. She neglected all her other duties and pleasures to ensure the success of her daily salons. And still she remained an outsider, from whom the other women didn’t even bother to conceal their distrust. Was it worth making any further attempt to penetrate a world that was so closed, to ascend into a hierarchy that was so inaccessible?

I’m just having an attack of nerves, she decided abruptly. The current situation was not so much critical as incomprehensible. It couldn’t go on like that much longer.

And as if to speed its denouement, she ordered the servants to clear away what was left and straighten up the parlors. Then, when things were in their places once more and order was producing the illusion of security, she locked herself in her room and drank a sedative in order to sleep.

She slept deeply, smiling at pleasurable dreams. The long rest strengthened her resolve to conquer, to dominate (and no longer only to be the equal of) these Coleta women who were now taking advantage of her.

La Alazana’s imitation of their manners and behavior was becoming more and more spontaneous and fluent. She stopped asking questions and arranged her features in the self-sufficient expression of one who is in on the secret. Discreetly, expertly, she observed the reactions of others in order not to deviate from them. She was upset when it was appropriate, as it was appropriate, and to the appropriate degree. With enthusiasm, she celebrated anything that was amusing.

As she worked the pump of conversation, she became aware of how few subjects there were to fuel her guests’ comments, secrets, memories, projects, hostilities and ambitions.

Men. The first one I knew was my father, they would say. The father, to whose will they were subject and from whom they inherited a family name, a place in life, a standard of conduct.

The father, that distant daily god whose flashes of lightning illuminated the home’s monotonous sky and whose thunderbolts were hurled down, striking no one knew how, no one knew when, no one knew why.

The father, in whose presence children fell silent with terror and adults with respect. The father, who takes off his leather belt to punish, to tilt out the stream of golden coins onto the table.

The father, who pronounces a blessing at the table and at bedtime, who stretches out his hand so his kinsmen can kiss it in greeting and in taking their leave.