All of them remained still, silent. From time to time, the martoma made a show of letting out the sighs required by convention. This was a subtle way of conveying to his visitors that his situation was like that of all mortals: less satisfactory than it should have been. Yes, despite the fact that luck had favored him by exalting him to the high position of mayordomo of Santa Rosa, he was not exempt from the common bondage that afflicts mankind.

“How will the harvest be this year?” Winiktón asked.

Rosendo took advantage of this opportunity to adopt a mournful expression. He did not wish to arouse the envy of those less fortunate than he. The position of judge is an honorable one, certainly. Nevertheless, it is merely the title of a civil official. Whereas a mayordomo holds a religious post. Few men can boast as much, and those few are, without doubt, the best of the best. Ah, what sacrifices are forced on us by modesty. To ensure that he would be able to carry out what was now being demanded of him, Rosendo poured himself a little more aguardiente. He was unable to answer Pedro’s question until he had finished drinking it.

“The harvest will be bad this year. The land is no longer young, tatic.”

Liar! Felipa thought vehemently. It is not the land that is no longer young: it is you. And if this land does not yield, why did we sell the land we had back in our village of Majomut? It was good land. But you are feeding on your post as mayordomo. Drinking yourself silly the whole day through without leaving the church, you and the other mayordomos and that sacristan who goes along with all of it, Xaw Ramírez Paciencia.

“I do not go to the cornfield often. I must attend to the duties of my office.”

Catalina saw how those words flowed across Felipa’s expression. That was all she needed. She now knew exactly where to press in order to leave Felipa at her mercy. She said, “We all agree very strongly with the actions of Martoma Rosendo Gómez Oso. They say he will be forced to accept the post of mayordomo for one more year.”

Rosendo felt the sweet caress of flattery. No, he could not pretend he was surprised. After all, it was the most natural thing. But he did have to admit that his maneuverings for re-election (his fawning and bribery) were successful because of the skill with which he had plotted them.

Felipa picked up the spindle again to hide her exasperation. One more year in Chamula. Meanwhile, her hut, closed up for so long in the village of Majomut, would collapse. Already, hateful accusations were circulating: greedy neighbors were taking it apart. One more year would be their ruin.

The ilol had calculated the blow well. Now she calmly observed its impact. She waited.