host of restrictions, but a happy and joyous marriage, where never—and she crossed her fingers to swear to it—did anyone shout, much less show any sign of disrespect: naturally, she never tired of repeating this refrain: You have witnessed our union for many years. I want something similar for you, because if marriage is suffering, it’s not worth getting married. Then she would assert that the bond between her parents had been similarly wonderful, without any signs of emotional to-dos, adding moreover that her mother had given her similar advice when she had reached a marriageable age: she had not drawn up a list, but she did abound in similar verbal inculcations, because likewise she had an exemplary relationship and because, turning to the grandparents, great-grandparents, great-great-grandparents, and beyond, she knew they had all been entirely happy: this her duty, to be thus perennially, or even better, emotional security without any ups and downs. All of Sacramento was like that—unscathed?: almost-almost: unique customs, as discreet as they were grandiose. And now to the particulars: the first daughter, Mercedes, followed the script to the letter and triumphed, though—was she still triumphant out there in La Terquedad, that hamlet in Coahuila where she lived?; the second daughter, Ernestina, the same; the third daughter, Glendelia, the same; but the fourth, Torcuata, well, she had been a bit of a rebel: once she went with her sweetheart to the hills; some children, accompanied by an adult, saw her kissing her mustachioed beau on the edge of a cornfield: they exchanged incredibly tongue-y kisses and some quite passionate fondling in diverse places, though never beneath their clothing. In any case the witnesses spread the word, and it was the father who decided that Torcuata would not marry that mustachioed man, but he, who really did love her, persisted for almost four years until he managed to lead her to the altar. What we’re getting at here is that ever since, they’d lived in Morelia and were very happy, though, looking at it with a more dispassionate eye—how certain can we be?, and moreover—how certain can one be of the everlasting good fortune of all four? The fact was that the four sisters didn’t come to Sacramento on a yearly basis, nor did they write their mother a continuous stream of letters, or rather—what about it? invisible happinesses; scant information; no complaints but to tell the honest truth—where? in what intimate terrain? Perhaps they’d rather take pleasure in or suffer their relationships than remain near the harsh nucleus here: right in the marrow of such corrosive decency: ergo: where the fifth daughter, Renata, was stuck, confused, crying her eyes out every night: how much? just a little or how much, really: with her guilt in gradations of regret that by now, the what if, the what if instead, the what if she had strayed from the script … let’s see … and instead of saying to Demetrio what she had said, she had thanked him for the kiss on the back of her hand and his salacious licking, but—honest?! affectionate?! No limits, no disengagement. Until she herself came to the conclusion: the kiss yes, the lick no. A painful assessment, going against the grain, though … The lick, no … Disgusting. Aggressive … In the past few months Doña Luisa and Renata had been harmoniously in contact with their local kin. As word of the amorous split spread like wildfire, there were various conjectures and fabrications, some quite alarming, others inoffensive enough, though most implicated the mother’s unfortunate intervention when with her verbal theatricality she had insulted the outlander, who had done nothing inappropriate: a kiss on the hand, admittedly extended, but to make such a scandal, such an unexpected commotion. Renata, to begin with, was guilty—for making such a nuance manifest? turning it into a capital offense with her violent disengagement and her tears and her flight and the wrath of her mother, who had not had the prudence to manage a situation that in others’ views and judgment meant nothing and, well—why had such an insult risen to her lips? After digging deeply into the matter during those afternoon teas, the arguments always crumbled to the rhythm of the sipping of café con leche and the dunking of sweet rolls, and the conclusion finally had to come: she saddled her mother with the blame, at least for her sudden irrational outburst: her response lacking proportion and instead … It is known that the actions