Felipa, the martoma’s wife, greeted the visitors with suspicion. For more than a month her daughter Marcela had been estranged from her, under the ilol’s power, and during that time Felipa had not exchanged a single word with Marcela, not even a glance. Mother and daughter often encountered each other on the path to the spring and passed each other by without a word of greeting, like two strangers. Felipa was afraid, afraid Catalina would harm her if she tried to reclaim what Catalina had singled out as her own. That was how she felt at first. Later, absence showed its good side to Felipa: fewer expenses,, more space, fewer obligations. She quickly resigned herself to losing Marcela. She had not foreseen the possibility of getting her back. She must have done some kind of damage, Felipa thought. Careless as she is. And now they are coming to demand compensation. They will probably want compensation as well for the days they fed and lodged her. But we have nothing to pay with. Look around, search the house. All I earn—so little!—is eaten up by my children. Ay, they are like leeches. Nothing is enough for them, nothing leaves them satisfied. And what is left, when anything is left, is squandered by that man there on his position as mayordomo. I keep nothing. Sadness is drying me out.

“Where are you, Felipa Gómez Oso?”

The woman thus summoned bowed her forehead, offering it to the touch of Catalina’s fingers. Then, at a distance once more, she watched the ilol’s gestures, trying to foresee her intentions.

“You will forgive us for having brought you this gift. Do not accept what it is, but the affection.”

Pedro relinquished the demijohn of aguardiente to the martoma. Rosendo received it with a gesture of gratitude. Courtesy required him to invite his guests to partake of its contents. He placed the demijohn in Felipa’s hands and commanded her to open it and offer some to everyone.

Felipa obeyed in silence. But the corners of her mouth stretched into a sarcastic grimace. Now she was sure: Catalina and Pedro had come to ask for something. The main thing was to keep her guard up, not to yield.

Rosendo’s wife rinsed out a jicara and filled it with liquor. She presented it first to Pedro. He barely wet his lips on the rim before yielding it to the head of the house.

The martoma did not mind drinking. And since the obligations of his post had offered him legitimate occasion to do so with assiduity, his taste for alcohol had grown. So he drank deeply and with evident pleasure. The women would make do with what was left.