The closest hotel, as it turned out, was across from the brothel and it wasn’t a lot nicer than Carmela’s room. I’d barely been able to get any sleep in that squeaky, old bed and discolored sheets. The only fortunate outcome from my insomnia was that the dark circles under my eyes had intensified, which made me look less feminine—I needed all the help I could get.

The receptionist gave me directions to Banco Agrícola y Ganadero and I left the hotel as soon as the sun rose.

“Don Cristóbal!”

¡Por los clavos de Cristo!

I looked over my shoulder. Tucking his striped shirt inside his trousers, Martin strode in my direction.

“Here you are!” He patted my back. “I was wondering where you went. Did you have a good time with Carmela last night?”

He was smiling like a child opening a present. I was about to tell him that I was in mourning and hadn’t touched Carmela (and never, ever would), but why give him any explanations? It might just give him a reason to doubt my masculinity—if he wasn’t suspicious of me already.

I nodded, nonchalant, and kept walking.

His perception of me seemed to have changed. He was more relaxed, friendlier. Apparently, I’d been accepted into the male clan after drinking and visiting prostitutes without any objections. How different expectations for men were. If a woman had spent the night outside her home, in a hotel such as this one, she would’ve been shunned by society. But a man received praise and approval from his peers.

He shoved his hands inside his pockets. “And here I thought you were, you know . . .”

“I was, what?”

He was silent for a moment. But I knew what he meant. This was the second person who thought I was an effeminate man, one who indulges in forbidden pleasures with other men.

I frowned.

“Never mind,” he said. “Are you ready to go back to the hacienda?”

“You go on without me, Don Martin. I need to go to the bank to exchange some money.”

I didn’t wait for an answer. I crossed the street and followed the receptionist’s instructions to the bank, which was five blocks away.

It was odd how as a woman, I’d always been considered slightly masculine. My mother never understood why I wasn’t like other girls my age and she was cross at me for months after Cristóbal and I opened the chocolate shop. She always said women belonged in their homes, not in the workplace, and why couldn’t I just be a little more feminine?

But now, disguised as a man, all my femininity—so eclipsed in my normal life—seemed to come through.