She was ending a confinement that had lasted many years. Because from the date of her first attack Idolina had not left her room, not even to consult a doctor. The doctors came here, and not only from the farthest reaches of Ciudad Real, but also from Guatemala and even from Mexico, that remote place called Mexico.

The doctors stationed themselves at a prudent distance from the invalid’s bed and it never occurred to them, not even as an evil thought, to ask if they could be permitted to go to her side and examine her. They did ask a lot of questions, pronouncing the technical words in a pretentious tone. Since Idolina didn’t know any of those terms and was ashamed to acknowledge her ignorance to a stranger, her answers were vague and often contradictory. To distract their attention from this defect, Idolina exaggerated her pains with moans and complaints. The doctors looked at one another in perplexity, wiping the lenses of their eyeglasses with silk handkerchiefs.

Afterward they solemnly withdrew from the room to meet in the adjoining one for a buzzing exchange of remarks whose conclusions they never considered it appropriate to communicate to the members of the invalid’s family. With intricate script and a magnanimous flourish they signed the bottom of the sheets from their prescription books and ordered the nearest pharmacy to stock up immediately on the prescribed medication which, in general, was no more than some innocuous substance.

This system of treatment ended by having a definitive influence on the girl’s spirit. Unconsciously, she yielded bit by bit to the conviction that her case was so exceptional that no one would be able to diagnose it. And the more confidence those around her had in a new treatment, the greater the intensity with which Idolina’s symptoms flared up and her pains grew worse: she had made it a point of honor not to allow herself to be cured.

Which did not prevent the eminent foreigners (this was what Mexicans were usually called) and compatriots from charging very large fees for their consultations.

Leonardo’s protests and Isabel’s voice promising to take care of all the expenses reached Idolina’s bed. “Because”—the statement made the sick girl’s face twitch into a sarcastic smile—“a child’s health is something that has no price.” Cifuentes’ irritation grew to the extreme of proclaiming that if his wife was determined to ruin herself by giving in to the whims of an inconsiderate child, she could do so very much on her own and very much with her own money. He, Leonardo Cifuentes, swore by his own name that he would never contribute even one centavo to prolonging this stupid farce.