Ripoll might have fared ill had he not immediately explained that Anthropopithecus (which no one, not even the curate, could pronounce) was a prehistoric ancestor, something akin to the great-great-grandfather of humankind, because the boarders surrounded him demanding a translation of the offensive word. The prehistoric ancestor more or less completed Ripoll's precipitous decline and fall. Doña Nicasia indicated that his rent was far overdue and required payment. Sordo avoided his gaze, the curate stopped saying hello to him, the group began to mock him to his face, and the maid began to leave his room uncleaned for two or three days at a stretch. Isidoro Gallegos, on the other hand, tried to remain his friend, visiting him in his room to give lessons on how to endure bad luck and derision with proper stoicism.

El Jarameño surprised everybody by defending Ripoll. Attracted and impressed by the engineer's fancy pseudoscientific language, by his bearded and virile countenance, and by his undeniably terrible fortune, the torero calmed the storm, paid doña Nicasia a month's worth of the rent in arrears, and, acting as absolute monarch against the curate's affirmation that Ripoll stank of heresy, el Jarameño lifted the decree of ostracism and tried to restore a bit of the man's former reputation.

“He really knows plenty,” proclaimed the torero. “Can you imagine how many grammar books and universities he's messed with? Look, I stick up for him because I want to. Some afternoon, I'll dedicate a bull to him …”

The matter never went that far, though the amnestied party put aside his rancor and antipathy and showed himself to be undeniably grateful. But, go to the bullring? Him? A man who never attended a bullfight in Barcelona or Madrid?

“No, Jarameño, you'll have to excuse me, but I can't do that. Bullrings make me ill. Seriously. Don't dedicate anything to me there, because you've already done enough for me here. I hate bullfights and, usually, bullfighters—just let me continue to esteem you greatly as a friend and human being …”

That night el Jarameño did not come home for supper, which surprised nobody because, despite the culinary feats of doña Nicasia and the beaming faces with which the boarders normally greeted his arrival, he was not uncommonly absent at that hour. But everyone, even those deeply absorbed in the evening card game, did take notice when the matador's valet and sword bearer, Bruno, stuck his head into the parlor at about ten o'clock.

“The maestro needs a word with you, patrona.”

“Is he sick?” asked doña Nicasia anxiously.

“No way!” Bruno replied, smiling. “He's healthy as he can be, but he's bringing someone with him …”

The card game stopped instantly. Gallegos, who had been about to go out, did not do so, doña Nicasia followed Bruno down the hall to his room, and the card players crowded against the near side of the screen that divided the parlor from the street door and the hall, each of them still holding a handful of cards. Nothing was heard from Ripoll's room, though he was there, with the light on. Apparently el Jarameño had gone directly to Bruno's room, half closed the door, and lit the oil lamp inside, because the light passing through the glass panes of the door finally clarified matters for the curious onlookers in the parlor.