There was a kind of spiteful satisfaction in the way Santiago exhibited the evidence, the hard facts. As if demonstrating Ulloa’s own naivete to him were filling his mouth with a pleasant substance. As if he were unaware that following another man’s naïveté was an even more serious mistake, and, ultimately, an even more ridiculous one.

Fernando didn’t answer. By a series of chance circumstances— many of them involuntary and none of them, he now understood, valid—he had been caught in a trap. Bemoaning his lot wouldn’t solve anything. The urgent thing was to find some way out. Because there must be a way out. It wasn’t logical for things to end like that.

Must be . . . logical. . . . I’m incorrigible, in spite of it all, Fernando said to himself. And burst out laughing.

XXXVII

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE PALACIO EPISCOPAL was seething with covert agitation. The servants were making an unsuccessful effort to obey two contradictory orders: not to break the silence and repose of the house in which a sick man lay suffering, and to prepare that house to receive distinguished guests. Brief, minor catastrophes erupted (a broken vase, a stumble, a loud ripping) and were quickly brought to an end by the energetic scolding of Doña Cristina or her right hand, Benita.

The cleanliness of all the rooms (even those the guests would not see) was painstaking. And the consultations on the most appropriate dishes to serve for dinner were prolonged. But fruitful. When the day and the hour arrived, everything flowed with perfect ease.

Padre Balcázar (who would do the honors of the master of the house, since His Excellency’s age and illness made him unable to play the role of host) and other lesser members of the clergy went out to meet the commission. At its head came the governor of the state and Leonardo Cifuentes. Surrounding them and striving to seem close and intimate were the ranchers from the oldest families, the merchants whose capital was most unencumbered, the professionals whose prestige was greatest. And after them, the civil servants of Ciudad Real and Tuxtla, the train on power’s robe.

The salutations—which began at the doorway and concluded in the parlor—were less ceremonious than those the Coletos were used to and more ceremonious than the governor could bear.

They took their seats, not without disputing, with simulated courtesy, the privileged spots. When all of them had made themselves comfortable, a kind of timidity overcame them. Convulsive coughs and clearings of the throat were heard. But not a word. Until Leonardo spoke.

“Why are the decorations still in storage? It’s all over now.”

He indicated the bare walls whose discolorations marked absent crucifixes, mirrors and paintings.

“His Excellency is aware of that. But in old age we repent of the errors of our conduct and sprinkle ashes on our heads; we become austere.”