“No, I don't love you anymore. Now I adore you. I'd give my life for a single hair on your head … and for all of you, well, I'd give the life of my whole hometown. And for you to be always faithful … I'd give all the kingdoms and empires in the world. And there's a lot of kingdoms and empires out there, too! If I don't hug and kiss you and eat you alive right now, I miss it more than you, I swear by the cross!” And he held up his crossed fingers, unseen in the pitch blackness. “And you better believe that if I'm still alive tomorrow night, I'm going to, too! And I'm not afraid, neither, because you should see me pushing that sword into the bull, with my hand just as calm and steady … It's that, if you get too stirred up the night before a fight—hey, it may be gypsy superstition—but you run the risk of being gored … and loving you like I do, I can't let that happen, right? No way! … So don't touch me or tempt me, please, in the name of your blessed mama that bore you, because if you touch me I can't be responsible for what happens because I feel flames in my veins right now, and they're flaming your way, and I'm trying to come after them, and I could so easy die on top of you and feel nothing but the desire to stay with you, dead, and stay buried right there, until the end of the world, a million years, our whole lifetimes, and our kids' and grandkids' lifetimes, too, all added together … Santa, my darling Santa!”

Contrary to his usual habit, el Jarameño did not drink coffee in bed the following morning. Instead, he received the breakfast tray from Bruno at the door and served a cup to Santa, who had now become impressed with the gravity of the day and drank her coffee unhappily, propped up on the pillows. Even having just opened her eyes, she was ravishing. Her rebellious black mane cascaded over the pillows, followed by a round shoulder and then a superb hip rising like the principal mountain on the wrinkled landscape of blankets, flanked by many grottos and canyons, and continued by the long, gentle slope of her extended legs. Dozens of trails led away from the human mountain range toward the edges of the bed, though some of them turned under the sheets and led, innocently enough at first, in the direction of the courtesan's warm, velvety brown skin.

The sun, the sun up in the sky—that had bathed the room when el Jarameño opened the wooden shutters of the balcony, invading like repressed waters that suddenly burst a dike and flood a field—flooded over Santa, spraying her with brilliant light and golden motes that floated in the atmosphere, painting her shadow on the wall behind her, also penetrating the tiny gaps in the front of her nightgown and silently kissing her breasts with its astral lips.