The hours passed slowly. The shadow on the sundial in the center of the plaza barely moved one, two millimeters. Fernando stared at it as if each minute had the power to make what he most desired a reality: the arrival of Pedro González Winiktón.

César had picked up some hazelnuts and was playing with them distractedly. He smiled.

“Do you know what I’m thinking? What would happen if federal troops showed up right now?”

Fernando had also considered that possibility.

“It would be a bloodbath. Very few of them have weapons. Almost all of them are drunk by now.”

“And on top of that they don’t have a leader.”

“If Pedro spoke to them he might be able to get them to disperse.”

Among the Indians who came to Doña Mercedes’ stand were some whose faces were familiar to Ulloa. But he didn’t dare address them for fear of being mistaken.

“Do you speak Tzotzil, César?”

César’s first reaction to this question was defensive. Then two reflections came to calm him: he was with a man whose criteria were the opposite of those of the ranchers. And even the ranchers, despite their disdain for everything that had to do with the Indians, generally mastered the language of their serfs, who weren’t allowed to speak Spanish.

“I understand it a little.”

Fernando made an impatient motion.

“That’s not enough.”

César kept playing with the hazelnuts. The sundial looked exactly the same.

“Isn’t that Winiktón, that man over there?”

Fernando had stood up and was pointing to a distant spot. They couldn’t see the faces clearly.

“Let’s go over there before we lose him.”

César deposited the hazelnuts in a basket and dusted himself off. Doña Mercedes watched his effort to get up off the ground with suspicion.

“Is anything wrong, patróns? Why do you want to go?”

“We’re just going to stretch our legs a little, shopkeeper.” They set out, threading their way among the little groups. The Indians’ attitude was neither cordial nor indifferent as it had been at first. They seemed menacing. They were beginning to be drunk.

The men swayed, leaning against each other and watching the outsiders with a stupid fixity. The women, seated on the ground, did not raise their eyelids. They moved their heads as they suckled their children. Other women gave their children small sips of liquor from a flask or squeezed a rag soaked with posh between their lips. The children grimaced with disgust but then stopped resisting.

“Pedro, we’ve been looking for you.”

Ulloa accompanied the words with a friendly pat on the shoulder. The Indian quickly turned his head. Catalina stood up, pulling little Domingo to her. Lorenzo and Marcela gave no more than a brief, incurious glance at the newcomers.