"…God, why did you put me in this predicament?…"
She took up the reins and drove the horse off to the right, knocking down the pilgrims, until the horse whinnied and reared, breaking clay pots, the crates crammed with squawking hens, which fluttered away. The horse kicked the heads of the Indians on the ground, spun completely around, shining with sweat, the nerves in its neck stretched taut and its eyes bulging out of its head: she felt on her body the sweat, the sores, the muted screams, the vermin, the rising stench of the pulque. Standing up, balanced by the weight of her stomach, she snapped the reins over the animal's back. The crowd made way, with tiny shrieks of innocence and shock, arms raised, bodies pressed to the wall of maguey, and she sped home.
"Why have you given me this life in which I must choose? I wasn't born for this…"
Panting, far now from the pilgrims, they headed for the house lost in the reverberating heat, hidden by the swift height of the fruit trees he'd planted.
"I'm a weak woman. All I ever wanted was a quiet life and for others to make choices for me…I can't…I can't…"
The long tables were set up near the shrine right out in the sun. Dense squadrons of flies flew over the pots of beans, the hard tacos piled up on a tablecloth of newspaper. The pitchers of pulque laced with cherries, the dry ears of corn, and the tricolor almond marzipan contrasted sharply with the darkness of the food and the clay pots. The president of the municipality stepped up to the podium, introduced him, praised him to the skies, and he accepted the nomination for the federal congress, arranged months earlier in Puebla and Mexico City with a government that recognized his revolutionary merits, the fact that he'd set a good example by retiring from the army to carry out the mandate of agrarian reform, as well as the excellent service he'd rendered in volunteering to stand in for the not yet reestablished public authority in the region, restoring order at his own cost and risk. The dull, persistent murmur of the pilgrims entering and leaving the shrine was all around them. The pilgrims cried out to their Virgin and their God, they wailed, they listened to the speeches and they drank from the jugs of pulque. Someone shouted. Several shots rang out. The candidate never lost his composure, the Indians chewed tacos, and he yielded the floor to another learned colleague from the area, while the Indian drum saluted him and the sun hid behind the mountains.
"Just as I told you," whispered Ventura when the drops of rain began punctually to pelt his hat. "Don Pizarro's killers were there, taking aim at you as soon as you stepped up to the podium."
Hatless, he slipped the coat of corn leaves over his head. "Where are they now?"
"Pushing up daisies." Ventura smiled. "We had 'em surrounded before the speeches began."
He put his foot in the stirrup. "Make sure Pizarro gets some souvenirs."
He hated her when he walked into the whitewashed, naked house and found her alone, rocking, wrapped in her arms, as if the arrival of the man filled her with an intangible chill, as if the man's breath, the dried sweat on his body, the feared tone of his voice all heralded a frozen wind. Her thin, straight nose trembled: he threw his hat on the table and his spurs scarred the brick floor as he walked.
"They…frightened me…"
He didn't speak. He took off his corn-leaf coat and laid it out near the fireplace. The water hissed, running down the roof tiles. It was the first time she had ever tried to justify herself.
"They asked about my wife. Today was important for me."
"Yes, I know…"
"How can I put it…We all…we all need witnesses of our lives in order to live them…"
"Yes…"
"You…"
"I didn't choose my life!" she shouted, clutching the arms of the rocker. "If you force people to do your bidding, don't demand gratitude, too, or…"
"So you did my bidding against your will? Why do you like it so much, then? Why do you moan for it in bed, when all you do is mope around with a long face afterwards? Who can figure you out?"
"Wretch!"
"Go on, you hypocrite, answer me that, why?"
"It would be the same with any man."
She raised her eyes to face him. She had said it. She preferred to cheapen herself. "What do you know? I close my eyes and give you another face and another name."
"Catalina…I've always loved you…This isn't my fault."
"Leave me alone. I will be in your hands forever. You've got what you wanted. Take what you've got and don't ask for the impossible."
"Why do you reject me? I know you like me when…"
"Leave me alone. Don't touch me. Don't throw my weakness in my face. I swear to you I'll never let myself go with you again…"
"But you are my wife."
"Don't come any closer. I won't deprive you. After all, that belongs to you. It's part of your winnings."
"Yes, and you'll have to put up with it for the rest of your life."
"I know what my consolation is. With God on my side, with my children, I'll never lack for solace…"
"Why should God be on your side, you fraud?"
"Your insults don't matter to me. I know what my consolation is."
"And just why is it you need consolation?"
"Don't walk away. I need consolation for knowing I live with the man who humiliated my father and betrayed my brother."
"You're going to be sorry, Catalina Bernal. You're making me think I ought to remind you of your father and brother every time you spread your legs for me…"
"Nothing you can say can hurt me."
"Don't be so sure."
"Do whatever you like. The truth hurts, doesn't it? You killed my brother."
"Your brother didn't give anyone time to betray him. He wanted to be a martyr. He didn't want to save himself."
"He died and you're here, safe and sound, enjoying his rightful inheritance. That's all I know."
"Well, then, burn. And think about the fact that I'll never give you up, not even when I die, but remember, too, that I know how to humiliate. You're going to be sorry you didn't realize it…"
"Do you think I couldn't see your animal face when you said you loved me?"
"I never wanted you to be separated from me. I wanted you to be part of my life…"
"Don't touch me. That's something you will never be able to buy."
"Forget what's happened today. Remember that we're going to live the rest of our live the rest of our lives together."
"Stay away from me. Yes. I think about that. About all those years ahead of us."
"Forgive me, then. I ask you again."
"Will you forgive me?"
"I have nothing to forgive you for."
"Will you forgive me for not being able to forgive you for the oblivion the other man is consigned to, the man I really loved? If I only could remember his face clearly…If only I'd had that first love, I could say that I'd lived…Try to understand; I hate him more than I hate you, because he let you intimidate him and he never came back…Perhaps I'm telling you this because I can't tell it to him…Yes, tell me that it's cowardly to think this way…I don't know, I…I'm weak…And you, if you want, can love lots of women, but I'm tied to you. If he had taken me by force, I wouldn't have to remember him and hate him today without being able to recall his face. I was left unsatisfied forever, do you understand me?…Listen to me now, don't walk away…Since I don't have the courage to blame myself for everything that's happened, and since I don't have him close by to hate, I blame you for everything, and I hate you, you who are so strong, because you put up with anything…Tell me if you can forgive me that, because I will never forgive you as long as I can't forgive myself and the man who ran away…Such a weakling. But I don't even want to think, I don't want to talk. Let me live in peace and ask God's forgiveness, not yours…"