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going to do now?
    There were many folk from Triana who observed the black woman sitting on the bank, stock-still, with her gaze on the horizon … looking at the river, at Seville, or perhaps lost in her memories or meditating on the uncertain future opening out before her. Some of them passed again an hour later, others after two or even three and four, and the black woman was still there.
    As night fell, Caridad realized she was hungry and thirsty. The last time she had had anything to eat or drink was with the cabin boy, who shared a hard, moldy cake and some water with her. She decided to smoke to cover up her craving, as all the slaves on the tobacco plantation did when waylaid by weariness or hunger. Perhaps that was why the master was generous with the “smoke”: the more they smoked, the less food he had to give them. The tobacco replaced many assets and was even bartered for new slaves. The smell of the cigar attracted two men who were walking along the bank. They asked for a smoke. Caridad obeyed and handed them her cigar. They smoked. The men chatted between themselves, passing the cigar, both standing. Caridad, still seated, asked for it back by extending her arm.
    “You want something in your mouth, darkie?” said one of the men, laughing.
    The other let out a chuckle and pulled on Caridad’s hair to lift her head as the first man lowered his pants.
    Caridad offered no resistance and fellated the man.
    “Looks like she likes it,” the one who had her by the hair said nervously. “You like it, Negress?” he asked as her pushed her head against his friend’s penis.
    Then they both mounted her, one after the other, and left her lying there.
    Caridad readjusted her dress. Where was the rest of her cigar? She hadseen one of them toss it before grabbing her hair. Maybe it hadn’t landed in the water. She brushed through the grasses and rushes, feeling along the ground carefully in case the tip was still burning.… And it was! She grabbed it and, with her belly flat against the ground, right at the water’s edge, she inhaled with all her strength. She sat down again and let her feet go into the water. It was cold, but in that moment she didn’t notice; she didn’t feel anything. Was she supposed to like it? That was what one of them had asked her. How many times had she been asked that same question? The master had asked when she was just fresh off the boat, recently plucked from her homeland. Then she hadn’t even understood what she was being asked by that man who groped her and slobbered before tearing her open. Later, after many more times, after her pregnancy, he replaced her with a new girl, and then it was the overseer and the other slaves who asked her that between their puffing and panting. One day she gave birth again … to Marcelo. The pain she felt that time, when her womb tore after hours of labor, told her that she would never have another child. “Do you like it?” they would ask her on Sundays, at the dance, when some slave took her by the arm out of the hut, there where other couples were fornicating as well. Later they would go back to singing and dancing frenetically, in the hopes that one of their gods would mount them. Sometimes they would leave the quarters again for a repeat. No, she didn’t like it, but she didn’t feel anything anyway; they had gradually robbed her of her feelings, bit by bit, from the first night her master had taken her by force.
    Less than an hour had passed before one of the men returned and interrupted her thoughts.
    “Do you want a job in my workshop?” he asked her, illuminating her with an oil lamp. “I’m a potter.”
    What is a potter?
wondered Caridad, trying to make him out in the darkness. She only wanted …“Will you give me money to cross the bridge?” she inquired.
    The man saw the hesitation on her face. “Come with me,” he ordered.
    That she understood: an order, as when some Negro grabbed her by the arm and took her out