NIGHT AMONG THE Indians. A smell of burnt resin, a rustling of brittle leaves, a distant howl. Fernando Ulloa shivered. Weren’t there other kinds of night in thé world? Brightly lit streets, clean interiors, conversations, laughter? For how long had all of that been nothing but a dream? Why was it coming back to him now with the sadness of something irrecuperable? Because it had belonged to his youth, because he foresaw that he was going to die?

A dog barked furiously at the new arrivals. Then it ran quickly and dolefully away, as if it had been kicked.

There was no light in the huts of San Juan Chamula. The doors of the Cabildo were shut from the outside with enormous padlocks. A large crossbar lay over the front portal of the church.

Fernando and César exchanged questioning glances.

“They’re in hiding. They’re afraid the troops might suddenly come down on them.”

“There are spies in the hills. By now they must know we’re here.”

They dismounted and, with the help of a small lantern, went to the parish house stable. There, two old and tired beasts of burden were gravely munching their fodder.

“It looks like we’re not the only ones here.”

A tempting smell of food being cooked drew them to the kitchen.

“Ave María!” said an obese woman, getting to her feet. Her companion, a sinister-looking mule driver, clutched the hip from which his weapon was hanging. Fernando and César stopped in the doorway.

“Come in, come in. Arriving on time is better than being invited, as the saying goes. Look how fate makes things turn out! Who would ever have thought that a swank gentleman like Fernando Ulloa would be my guest!”

In order to wield the cooking utensils more easily she took off the shawl that was protecting her from the cold and Fernando recognized the features of Doña Mercedes Solórzano. He answered her cordiality with a smile.

“What are you doing here?”

“What a poor person does everywhere: struggling to make a living. It’s good business to sell salt around here at Holy Week.”

“But you’re fixed up nicely down in Ciudad Real,” César observed, not without malice.

“Damned if I am! Buried in debts! There was nothing left for me but to take to the mountains.”

“The woman has guts,” the mule driver put in.

“Shut your mouth, you, and help me serve these gentlemen who must be half-starved.”

“We have food with us. It just needs to be heated up, that’s all.”

“Don’t offend me, ingeniero. Are you going to turn me down because I can only offer you very little? A bowl of hot broth, a piece of chicken, a tortilla rolled up with salt. Don’t take it for what it is, but for the good will it’s offered with. I would have wanted to have given you a feast!”